Summer 1988 • Vol. X No. 3 Fiction |

Hundred Year War

You're not a cabbie," Hickson said, "not an authentic-one-hundred- percent-genuine-made-in-the-USA-guaranteed-washable-Yellow Peril cabbie until . . . You listening, gook face? . . . until you've killed your man." His voice cut through static like a shark fin through water. As Ngo Quang careened up H Street toward New York Avenue, his hand left the steer- ing wheel just long enough to turn the knob a delicate notch to the right. Hickson, though, was one thought ahead of him, and he only talked louder to make up the difference. "You've killed your share anyway, right No Dong? Hey hey NQD, how many kids you killed today? But I'm talking civilians this time, pal. I'm talking bureaucratic pencil-pushing ass-kissing scum, the makers and shakers and fakers of downtown Washington, center of the universe circa 1988. You don't get a briefcase painted on that bumper before the day is out, you one ex-cabbie, dig? I call Immigration Service they heap mad send No Dong home on same leaky

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Normal Experience

By H. E. Francis

You're not a cabbie," Hickson said, "not an authentic-one-hundred- percent-genuine-made-in-the-USA-guaranteed-washable-Yellow Peril cabbie until . . . You listening, gook face? . . . until you've killed your man." His voice […]

Howard an Monroe

By Robert Hiles

You're not a cabbie," Hickson said, "not an authentic-one-hundred- percent-genuine-made-in-the-USA-guaranteed-washable-Yellow Peril cabbie until . . . You listening, gook face? . . . until you've killed your man." His voice […]

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