There’s a reason you prefer to do your own driving.
You have always had a love for cute, quirky classic cars -- not much knowledge for their inner workings, and you’ve never laid on one of those wheely boards and slid under the body to do your own maintenance. It’s a privilege to be able to pay people to do your oil and tire changes, and you’re aware of that, but you’d rather tip generously than subject your back to the nitty gritty of it.
No, you do love your aqua blue convertible whose make and model you sometimes forget. It’s twice as old as you, that much you remember. The forties had big hoods, bulk and curves, and really slender sports cars. The kind of polished wooden steering wheel you would wear racing gloves with. The thing with driving such a car in the 2020s is that it makes you very recognizable, even in a city as big as the L of A, because those who keep an eye on you know what to look for.
That is why, these days, whenever there’s an event or show and your attendance is public knowledge, you have to be more careful. It doesn’t bother you much, because you also like chatting with your drivers, and it helps Dave sleep at night to know nobody is cutting your brakes or planting a car bomb, no matter its probability.
“Banana,” you tell your chauffeur of the night as you slide into the backseat. It’s an additional security measure, just to make sure you’re not getting hoodwinked. Having a password that changes with every staff member in your hire is less than ideal, because you are a forgetful man. Thankfully, they echo back, “Banana, Sir,” and get a chortle out of you. That was the one, then. You’ve had to start saving them on your phone.
All truth told, you do not feel at risk. Your adoptive mother had upwards of 35 years to cause you harm and didn’t do it. Yes, you are consorting with her mortal enemy now, but every hit she has ever put out was on Dave and his family. In a way, you even feel like he might be safer in your presence. In your heart of hearts, you can’t shake the feeling that Betty Crocker would struggle to hurt you in a way that endangered your life.
That is why your guard is well and thoroughly down, and when the rear shelf pops, you don’t hear it over the sound of traffic. When a hand reaches around you and presses a handkerchief over your mouth and nose, your responding struggle is delayed. There’s a chemical stench that you realize too late that you shouldn’t be breathing in. The thought doesn’t have time to form fully before you pass out.
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