Idle Speculation

The bus driver is going to kill us. Behind his mirrored sunglasses are two dilated pupils framed by sore, throbbing veins. He hasn't slept in eleven days. He is kept alive by a steady stream of double espressos and non-prescription allergy medications. He smiles while the crazy lady goes on and on about her brand new kitty, but he's not listening. All he hears is a sold-out Fenway Park, drunk with rage, shouting in unison: “The pain stops now! The pain stops now!”