NEW YORK CITY
It was a stormy night- the sky was as black as a void, and the rain was crashing down against cars and buildings like machine gun fire. Thunder roared like a thousand lions as the sky erupted in flashes of lightning. "One hell of a violent storm," thought Jack, as he drummed his fingers against the steering wheel of his cab.
On the corner of 54th Street, a man in a hooded sweatshirt stood, impatiently tapping his foot. All he wanted was to get home; he was tired after a hard day at work. He saw Jack's cab from the street and frantically waved his arms in an attempt to hail it down.
The cab pulled up at the corner, and the man rushedly got in. He sat down in the back, exhaling with relief.
"Where you headed to, buddy?" asked Jack, turning to face his passenger.
"I'm looking for this address," said the man in a husky voice, passing him a scrappy piece of paper. Written in a scrawled script, the address belonged to a block of studio flats, in Chelsea. "Can you take me there?"
Jack studied the address. Strange... as far as he was aware, there was no block of flats at that address. "Um, buddy? You sure you got the right address?" He handed the paper back, confused- "I can take you there, for sure, but I'm telling you now, I'm pretty sure there's no-"
Jack suddenly stopped talking. He felt his entire body freeze; he couldn't move a muscle... and now, he could feel something tighten around his neck; yet he could see out the corner of his eye in the mirror that the figure had nothing in his hand. If anything, he was merely pointing at the chair in front of him, his face contorted with rage.
"I'm not one for jokes, 'buddy'," hissed the man. "Now, you're going to take me to those flats. I need to talk to the guy at that address."
"What the hell are you doing?" spluttered Jack, gasping for breath. "I'm telling you, there's nothing there at that address! I'm not joking!"
The man grunted, as the apparent grip on Jack's neck tightened even further. "Last chance," he spat ferociously.
Jack was at a loss for words. Why did this man believe this place really existed? Did he seriously expect him to drop him off in the middle of nowhere? He needed to do something; somehow, he was being choked so hard it hurt to breathe.
"I'll take you there, but I swear to God, sir, there is nothing at those addresses-"
"Enough!" The man yelled in disgust and flicked his wrist. One of the last things Jack saw that night was his own blood, pouring out of a gaping wound across his neck. The man left the cab, slamming the door, leaving the hapless cab driver to die. Jack slowly raised his hand to the door handle, but his murderer held it down, locking him in. "If you're not going to help me," sneered the mysterious figure, watching Jack gasp and choke in futile despair- "I'm going to find someone who can. Thanks for nothing." And with that, he was gone, in the haze of the heavy New York rain.
