DISCLAIMER: Yeah, so obviously, this story is entirely fictitious, it’s strictly not suitable for anyone under 18 and absolutely none of the people, events or anything else described are intended to bear even the most fleeting resemblance to real life.

That’s right. Believe it or not, my friends, this is not the goddamn History Channel and you are not watching a documentary.

You’re cruising the L.A. streets when the call comes through.

It’s late. So late it’s early, in fact. And the chances of anyone really wanting a luxury Uber pickup gets slimmer and slimmer as the clock ticks on. Celebrities have their own cars, or their own drivers. They don’t walk the streets at night. And they sure as shit don’t book their own Ubers.

But you’ve been out since 9pm and only have two lousy trips to show for it, which means about $30 after expenses, which means a very uncomfortable conversation with the landlord tomorrow.

So. You’re still cruising. Hoping some drunken heiress stumbles out of a club at 2am and needs driving all the way back to San Francisco before Daddy wakes up.

(This has actually happened more than once.)

It’s just turned 2:14AM when your phone starts buzzing and flashing in the dashboard mount.

PICKUP: Emma, 18 min.

Weird.