be psychic and drive.

I think it’s been more than scientifically proven that looks can’t really kill. Of course there’s the attempt in ’98 by one “Marcus”, who stared at his wife “Melissa” (the names have been enclosed in quotation marks to protect the actual characters of this episode, Marcus Whittaker and Melissa Shoemaker; because it will make it more of a bitch to type which should stop me from repeating the feat often) for 8 long months non-stop, after being advised to ‘try everything in your power’ by his attorney in the midst of a bitter custody suit on grounds of irreconcilable differences, most important of all being her ‘refusing to keep the toilet seat up’.

And of course there was “Cyclops-to-himself,-fucking-half-wit-git-to-others” “Morrison”, who convinced himself (and perhaps his imaginary friend “Moosie”, though this latter was ultimately non-committal in his exclusive exposé conducted afterwards) that he was instrumental in the deaths of the hundreds of individuals who passed his office portal and his supposed ‘phased-plasma rifle in the forty watt range’-equivalent bionic peepers. When it was pointed out to him that he worked in a fucking morgue, and so people who were rolled into his parlour were already dead before they passed his eyes, he protested to his straitjacket-bearing custodians that they were being myopic and irrelevant. Why were they, he mused, concerned with what happened before they encountered him? What’s important is that them victims were terminally knackered after he’d laid his eyes on them.

However, these examples aside, what looks can do, in our sophisticated time and age with our breakthroughs in the fields of science, technology and pastry decoration, is to stop automobiles. Just the other day I was witness to such a phenomenon. And so here was a matron sitting next to me in this bus shelter, and along comes a bus which she was presumably waiting for, for she muttered to herself and unfolded to her full height at the vehicle’s advance. Then, with the sheer force of her willpower and megawatt squint alone, brought to bear on the poor semi-visible driver who surely would’ve been admonished following the resulting complaint letter had he been less alert, the fate suffered by many others before him thus far; she brought the bus to a shrieking halt. She then sashays up the pin-point-accurately-stopped automobile as if precision braking was owed her, and indignantly waltzed to a seat without paying the fare, pinching the bus driver’s butt for the token sexual harassment to heighten his discomfort in his seat, his job, his mortgage of doom, his oppressive wife, all in all, his miserable life; along the way.

I suppose sticking a hand out for public transport is considered passé these days. In fact, taxi drivers nowadays operate by intuition alone, instinct telling them that people who DON’T establish eye contact with them are the ones who need their services the most. I mean, they find you the best when you're skulking and/or making out in an alleyway, than if you were right out on the curb dislocating your shoulder flailing your hand every way about. I can just see it now: the day will come when public transport service providers will feel slighted and refuse to stop for people who wave earnestly at them, and you’ll have to pointedly ignore them in order for you to get them to stop. It’ll be a prerequisite for bus and taxi drivers to possess psychic abilities, and the public transport dance will see them drivers forcibly dragging screaming, protesting, flailing, but satisfied; passengers into their respective vehicles.