After dropping off my last passenger for the night in Manhattan, I headed for the taxi barn. Feeling restless I decided to drop off the cab and head across the Hudson River to Jersey. Overlooking the river was a great all night place. Owned by the Mob, it catered to Latins. I’d have a few rum and cokes and ogle the incredible Puerto Rican broads. I loved the hot music. I loved how those babes moved their tight rumps to the intricate rhythms. But most of all, I loved the odor of pungent sweat dripping from their sizzling Latin bodies.

Cruising down 9th Avenue, I didn’t see any cars on either side of the road. Typical for 1:00 AM in Manhattan. Best time of the entire day. Peace and quiet. No people. No sounds. Nothing.

As I approached 27th Street, a black Caddie zoomed through a red light. Just missed slamming my passenger side by a couple feet.

I slammed my horn and hollered every cuss word I ever learned while fighting in Iraq.

The bastard slammed his brakes. You coulda heard the tires screeching for a mile.

He backed up in a way that only a Hollywood stunt driver coulda done. Put that damn Caddie right next to my taxi.

“What did you call me?” a woman’s voice said from the driver’s window.

I couldn’t see her face in the dark. But the fact that it was a woman made me even madder.

I repeated my cuss words.

“Is that something good or bad?” the voice asked.

“Get outta the car, and I’ll show you,” I screamed, grabbing the tire iron I kept for self-defense. I opened my door to confront her. Her car was so close, I coughed up a wad of phlegm and spit toward the voice.

“Ummm. You got me right in the mouth. How delicious. Are all your body fluids so scrumptious?”

“What the hell are you talking about? Cut the bull crap and step outside. I got a nice surprise for you.” I raised the tire iron to flatten her skull the moment she stepped out. But she didn’t move. I tried to make out her face, but it was too dark.

“I think you’re cute,” the voice said. “Otherwise, you’d be dead by now. I’m going to give you something to hold your wonderful body fluid. Fill it and I’ll let you go.” An arm extended a small cup.

Her idiotic words completely disarmed me.

“You want me to spit into a cup? For you to drink? Phew, you are one sick bastard.” Then it struck me: who said I had to fill it with spit?

“OK,” I said. “I’ll fill your stupid cup.” I turned away, opened my fly, and let loose into the cup. As I unloaded my bladder, I made sounds in my throat as if I were coughing up half a lung and spitting it into the cup.

The best part about this was that I was being treated for venereal disease.

Extending the cup, I told her to drink it immediately, that it was best while steaming hot.

I jumped into my cab, and slammed the gas pedal. I laughed all the way to the barn.

A week later, I went to see a priest. “Father, help me. The Devil’s after me.”

“He’s after us all,” the padre said. “He wants everybody’s soul. Remember what the Scriptures say: ‘resist the Devil and he will flee from you.’ Are you resisting him?”

“With all my might. But he...well, it’s not a he, it’s a she. She shows up every night when my shift’s over. When I’m heading to the taxi barn, her car cuts me off and blocks my way. And every time, she just misses slamming into me. She hands me a cup. Asks me to fill it with one of my vital juices.”

“What do you mean by vital juices?”

“She wants me to spit into the cup.”

“And do you?”

“No. I pee into it. I’m ashamed to say this, but I caught a sexually transmitted disease. It happened one night when I was drunk. But the thing is, she drinks whatever I put into the cup. Every time I do it I feel like I’m getting revenge.”

“No need to explain further, my son. Take this bottle of holy water. Next time she stops you, pour it into the cup. One swig of that, and she’ll never block your taxi again.”


“Yes. She’s known as The Juicer. This is one of the worst listed in the Book of Exorcisms. Has she asked you to ejaculate into the cup?”

“No, Father.”

“Good. But unless you dispel her, she soon will. And she’ll use your seed to commit the most unspeakable blasphemies in demonic rituals.”

That night, when the Caddie cut me off, I poured the blessed water into the cup. I heard her gulping.

I bet her screams could be heard for miles.

Next day, I read in the paper that the cops rushed to the scene where a woman was heard screaming, as if she was being massacred. But they didn’t find anybody.

The next night, I made it all the way to the barn without interference. What a relief! To celebrate the removal of the unholy entity, I headed to Jersey to watch the Puerto Rican women dance their asses off.

One of them was so hot, I found myself breaking into a sweat. When I ordered another cold beer to cool down, a gorgeous coffee-and-cream broad slid into the bar stool next to me.

“Hi, Handsome,” she said. “Would you get me something to drink?”

“Sure. What’ll you have?”

“Some of your luscious fluids,” she said, handing me a cup.


Copyright: © 2010 Michael A. Kechula

Michael A. Kechula is a retired tech writer. His stories have been published by 128 magazines and 36 anthologies. He’s won first place in 10 contests and placed in 8 others. He’s authored three books of flash fiction, micro-fiction, and short stories: The Area 51 Option and 70 More Speculative Fiction Tales; A Full Deck of Zombies--61 Speculative Fiction Tales; I Never Kissed Judy Garland and Other Tales of Romance. eBook versions available at and Paperbacks available at

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