I’m not even a land person. Driving a bus isn’t what destiny intended. A war canoe, that’s what. Like my grandfather and all the way back to my grandfather’s grandfather. Sail bellied full, outrigger flying over the sea, drips spraying like blood from a severed neck.
The harsh cry of my men behind me, weapons ready, as we prepare to land.
Another craft slips alongside—an enemy taxi. My warrior blood sings as I pull my gun. Driver, pow! Passengers, pow! pow! pow! This route is my route, my people’s route.