There's no need to pretend

Hector gave me the following to write a story in ten minutes:

Three names: Lucy, Jane, Steve. Location: Golden Gate Bridge. Sitch: Taxi gets held up.

I came up with this: 

"Taxi!”

Steve pulls up to the curb. “Chicks are hot” he thought. “Where to?”

“Oakland.” Steves knows which one is the butch.

“You sure you don’t want to wait? The bridge is going to be pure shit right now.”

“Is this because we’re queer?!” Her voice was piercing.

“No, ma’am, you can put your clit against as many clits as you want. This is because the bridge is going to be pure shit.”

“It’s OK, Jane and I will find a way to pass the time.” The femme’s voice is far more tolerable. They clamor into the cab and Steve pulls away. He’s been driving long enough to know when to make small talk, and when to warn about the fees associated with bodily fluids. This was the latter.

“Any clean-ups cost extra!”
“Then I better not get Lucy too worked up, she’s a squirter.”
“Well, good for Lucy, but bad for my upholstery.”

Ten minutes went by of sloppy lips and the stale scent of fruity wine coolers from the back seat and Steve barely noticed. He had the Da Vinci Code on.

At the last light before the bridge, he notices a scraper pull up. If you aren’t familiar with a scraper, it’s what happens when you put 23” tires in a wheel well made for 17” tires. Usually on a land yacht and usually blaring some kind of rap about weed. Next, Steve notices the gun tapping on his back window. “Heh.”

The girls scream, Steve tries not to be too ecstatic that the girls are getting held up and not him. Jane, the butch, gives him a purse. The kid in a black hoodie jumps back in the scraper and they take off towards the bridge.

“I will give you $200 bucks if you catch up with him.”
“With what wallet?”
Jane pulls a wallet out of her back pocket. She’s totally the butch.

Steve drives towards the bridge in no big rush.
“Hurry the fuck up, why are you going so slow?!”
“The bridge is going to be pure shit.”

And with that, Steve pulls up next to the scraper, which was now sitting in a quarter mile of stopped cars. He sees Jane pop out of the back seat, run up to the scraper, which, of course has the windows down, blaring weed-rap, and unleashes with her entire bottle of pepper spray.

She sits back in the car, with Lucy’s purse and an extra gun.

“You’re right, the bridge is pure shit.”