The Order of Things

By: RDV


There was a loud skip, then a thud, then a crash. Mr. Cunanan vigorously turned his steering wheel to the left to avoid it but in the whirl of things unfortunately got caught. No sooner than he realized it than his brand new Picanto was lurched to a stop at the muddy sideway. It was relatively dark already. The thoroughfare was illumined only by the meager headlights of motorist cars. Mr. Cunanan uttered a loud curse, cranked himself out of his damaged vehicle and moved forward the culprit. It was a jeepney driver. As usual.


The driver had nothing on but a tank top and shaggy pair of shorts. Mr. Cunanan glared at him, quantifying him. the driver looked as though he had been kicked out of third grade schooling. Mr. Cunanan asked him what the hell he was doing, with no restraint. The driver spat back, disrespectfully as he drove. By the way the cars were positioned after the crash, it could easily be told that luck was on Mr. Cunanan’s side had the cops arrived. He would not even attempt to explain what happened, the picture of the two vehicles in collision would suffice. It was not even a collision, it was allision. And there was nothing the damned jeepney driver could do to keep anything out of evidence. He was fucking dead. The die is cast.


So curses, the likes of which hadn’t reached both their ears in a long time flew. They swore at each other as though they both reserved their profanities exclusively for each. The scene of the accident alone caused trauma, what more of these two well-built guys launching at each other? The passengers of the jeep, one after another, jumped out, not wanting to take any part of this. At one point, Mr. Cunanan screeched at what must have been a comment by the driver that attacked his sensibility. He roared, made a motion to move away and went to his car as if to search for something. In the next minute he could be heard throwing not only invectives, but a threat to gun the driver. I will shoot you, he threatened. The driver backed away as Mr. Cunanan rummaged through his glove compartment. At this state, it was pretty difficult to determine the lies from the truth. His face was full of anger, hate, impossible to quell.


In fear, the driver pled. He said there should be a negotiation. For a moment, Mr. Cunanan considered this. He massaged his chin; he always did that when waiting for his mind to settle on something. But drivers who drive like that deserve nothing but the fires of hell. This one should be dead, who endangered not only the image of Cunanan but the lives of his passengers. Then as if to answer the driver’s prayers, the police came. One of the passengers probably summoned them. At any rate, the interrogation began.


Now since the driver was one of those people who couldn’t be trusted to do the unexpected, he lied, being a piece of trash and a lowlife. He had far more talents than was suitable for him; he was good at acting the victim’s role, at making up stuff, at lying. He told all sorts of lies contrary to the blatant evidence, including which his previous records of reckless driving on account of several complaints filed by his passengers. In the hope of getting washed clean of his sins, he pointed a finger on Cunanan. Yes, it was the bloody elite’s fault. There was now no other witness to counter this, everything would be fine.


Cunanan stayed silent. He had a knack for keeping calm in situations like this. It would be implausible if the police took in even a word of what the bastard said. It would be. In his abstract rumination, there came to him the basic answer to all this. He opened his mouth after a long interim and told the police that they should get rid of the driver now. He pulled out his pistol, threatened to blow out the knave’s brain if the police tarried longer.


With one look at each other, clearly operating their common sense, the two policemen handcuffed the driver amidst the latter’s curses. In a while, the doldrums was over and Mr. Cunanan was left in silence.