Tourist Trap

 If a customer doesn’t complain for the whole journey, I let them live. 

“Are you trying to rip me off, mate? This is taking much longer than you said it would,” the suit grumbled from the backseat, scarcely looking up from his phone. I turned off the fare meter. I wouldn’t need it anymore. 

 “You said you wanted to see the countryside,” I smiled. There were few features on this forgotten passage of highway. Only the rolls in the hills and the grass and the furtive hamlet that steadily grew closer over the better course of an hour. The townsfolk paid me well to bring people out this way. Especially on grey days like this one. 

 He groaned with relief once he got out, stretching his legs against the curb, and looked about with his arms folded at the thatched houses. 

“Is this it?” he asked.

 I dumped his suitcases on the pavement and hastily slammed the door. There is no way to explain a village where the locals turn cannibal during rainfall in a manner that can be believed. 

 “Sorry for the disappointment, sir. No charge,” I said, pulling away, and left him holding his umbrella.