I Drove Hannible Lecter’s Sister

me, with Hannible’s sister, Shelly

My friend Right Angle Al, who drove call girls for three months for a lollipop escort agency, meeting a total of five or six mild call girls, responded to my statement in “Wonderland” about driving those body-selling lunatics being a scary job:

No such thing as scary times driving a “ho”. Not getting paid was a scarier thought than being in your car sitting in the dark. As long as the car keys wuz in your hand and the windows rolled up…what’s so damn scary? How bout ‘Gypsy’ trying to procure wine from some 7-11 merchant at 4:00 am? That too is scarier. Speaking of driving….any news from Danette?

To which I, having driven more than a hundred of these creatures over the course of five years, responded:

Maybe you weren’t in the biz long enough to run in to the scary ones, like the ones with needletracks in their arms, the psychotics, the drug addled who suddenly decide to dig their finglenails in your neck at 70 miles per hour, the ones who try to get you busted so they don’t have to pay the driver fee, the ones with “Hooker” tattoed on their forehead when you pull up to the Four Seasons or the Peninsula, the ones who get you beat up or shot at by the customer, the ones carrying large amounts of drugs on them to sell to the customers, the ones who are too stupid to know what to say to the cops who have just pulled you over in a ritzy neighborhood at four in the morning, the ones being stalked by their boyfriends, the ones who insist of snorting, smoking or huffing their drugs in your car with a HPD on your bumper . . .

Maybe you didn’t drive Hannible Lecter’s sister, but I did. I drove the whole family tree.

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