Driving through any city during rush hour is never a terribly good idea, especially when you’re meant to be meeting someone at a set time. The city I question, on this occasion, lived up to the expectations of its fellow cities and became thoroughly gridlocked.
Hans was weaving his way through in a hire car he’d got for the week. He’d been following the signs for the airport for two hours now and he was sure he’d driven past it several times already, but after yesterday’s experience he thought it best to stick to the sign posted route.
Right now, however, that left him stationary, packed in from all sides by other vehicles. Thus it was a little surprising when what could only be described as a drunken tramp ran across the road towards his car, shouting something and finally diving over the bonnet and knocking himself out on the windscreen.
Hans clambered out of the car and stared at the man. He wore several layers of clothing, a tattered woolen hat and a vacant expression. His face, well, was more like hair with a face attached to it, and he had the world’s most ridiculous moustache (well it would have won if such a competition existed). None of this offered any clues as to what the man was trying to tell him, so Hans did what seemed to be the logical thing to him; he put the man slumped across the back seat of the car so he could ask him later, and drove off.