Orange Disorder

I’ve made a glaring error. It was cheaper to get an Uber at this time of day but I should have learned from my week of scams and poor judgement.

It was of little consolation that I was able to make the call to book the thing in the first place. My mobile provider had seemingly and somewhat astonishingly employed a known hacker and given him access to subscriber’s details and data. Maybe both, I don’t know. It’s not working now anyway.

Oh and the apartment I’ve been staying in has a kitchen but I’m not allowed to cook in it. Not even for a €1000 a week.

I’m reduced to reading the news on a good old fashioned newspaper as we bump along the road to my show at what seems like breakneck speed. This guy’s in a hurry and oblivious to speed limits. How I long for the good old Hackney cab from last night.  He drove beautifully and talked non stop, spending most of the journey looking into the rear view mirror at me; probably to see if I was awake.

My current driver seemingly thinks he’s in a roller disco and constantly asks me if I dig Michael Jackson. Wherever he is I don’t want to join him or dig him but my requests to slow down get lost somewhere between Billie Jean and Thriller and my head hitting the roof.

I glance at my paper at the traffic lights in a rare stationary moment when I’m not fearing for my life. Seems the Protestant Orange Order aren’t keen on the words Rest in Peace on grave stones. They reckon the Romans had a scam going back then in getting Catholics to pay for the notion of a good death and encouraged prayers for the dead. The Orangemen are more black and white and believe you go straight to Heaven or Hell – no Purgatory for them.

We arrive at the gig, just in time.  I consider working the Orange story in with the Trump crackdown on opioids into my act. Surely that orange man will go straight to Hell.


© Ash Cheyne 2017

Daily Word Prompt Challenge – Glaring



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