The first thing he notices about the man is his bald head. It’s not just bald in the way that so many men are. It’s completely bald, and shiny, like it gets waxed regularly. Nobody shaves their entire head, and they certainly don’t keep it in a permanent state of shine.

The man looks up at the driver as he approaches. His front collar is open wide, exposing some hairless blubber of the upper chest and neck. The oddly colored suit isn’t as clean as it looked from several yards away. The driver notices a thick ring of grime around his collar. It makes him squirm just to look at it, and he reflexively brings a hand to his own neck: damp from sweat, but nowhere near the magnitude of revolting as this man’s. The latter lunges forward a thick, leathery hand.

“Ah. The chauffeur!” The man booms in a surprising bass. Surprising because he comes up only to the hitchhiker’s shoulder, who himself can be no taller than five eight.

The voice is followed up with a staccato chuckle. He thinks himself funny, exposing what at first glance could be very dull gold teeth, but turn out to be rotting enamels. The driver continues to smell only the musk from the maroon carpet, but can easily imagine how badly this man’s breath must reek. Freckled on the inside of his lower lip are what the driver hopes to be bits of cigar. The fat lip curls out like a salted slug and is just as wet.

“Look, m’juss lookin fer a quick hand a two….”

“Don’t worry about it my friend. We’ll set you up reeeeeeal nice.” Out of nowhere, the man flicks him a cigar. The driver inspects the tip. It is chewed and flayed like someone has already gotten at it. Not just somebody, but a teething puppy, from the looks of it.

“Nah thanks. I don…”

“Ah, come on. Live a little.” The pink suited man already has his lighter out and is flicking it in the air, at nothing in particular. The driver purses his lips while his jaws click. He thinks how this man’s whole overly-pushy, constantly-interrupting act is going to get old real soon.
The hitchhiker is giving him an intent stare, as if the driver is on the brink of committing a disastrous diplomatic gaffe. Without thinking further, the driver brings the cigar to his lips. It is wet. He wants to spit it out, spit it at this disgusting gentleman who is reaching a flame to his mouth. He lights it with a disgusting smile.