The cabbie who slapped his wife lost gas money in a bar. He resents smiles and considers a second round. Microscope religion eases him. Sidecar defendants clutch their purses while he babbles back-to-back guidance from above; taglines, Scriptures, and a flash of sadist tension. He hides stories in the rear view, douses them with shots of fuel and fourteen D.U.I.’s. He merges into a sideways glare, hangovers crusted on faulty ignition. His smoked eyes recollect pavement into a millisecond. He’s got a record of assault and a passage in the glove; two months saw him grinding his teeth at the gear shift, exposure put him in the driver’s seat. He has no drywall to rupture now, no quaking women. He’s a lucid mortician; he believes in destiny, but a phone call is not his fault. Descent into mistakes, a bone was jammed in the wrong socket; a gruesome, popping crunch. He stings from incision of speeding tickets, flashlights cleansing his pock-marks, rivulets of blood in the throat. He fumbles for a wallet and it bursts to reveal its contents: stagnant credit cards, condoms, frightened clients in skirts. His fist opens to show a finger; watch it glow Biblical at the stop lights, then lower to make rhythm with the road. His shaded face tells passengers to hear the crackle of radio fuzz and hear God inside the static. Hear an echo of mischief in the back seat; dried splatters, a palm full of tooth fragments. Hear the deliberation in his words: he fucked up, the police aren’t fair. Listen to taxi sermons permeate upholstery; rude, rowdy rum reminiscence turns into conscious strobe light gestures. Peer into glove compartments, see a Ziploc burn on the girl’s thigh. She has a lighter and a bobby pin, apologetic blowjobs that pivot into stop signs, destination lost, mutilation intact. She’s got the shakes from a boy with addiction to knowledge. Limitless mileage brings union for a moment; she recalls blood on her gums and dysfunctional traffic lights. They illuminate her scorch marks, glow into a threatening instant. Her translucent glasses mirror a failed breathalyser test, lopsided visions of violent pints. Prescribed hormones balance her temptation; danger broods behind the steering wheel and she feels it. She translates highways, perceives the possibilities of distance. He holds the evening hostage, the pilot of a graphic idea.