Review

Stephen King's Cujo feels like a heavy anchor, struggling under its own weight. The novel unfolds through two parallel threads, both vying for attention. One thread follows the husband's dull life in advertising. The other tells the wife's terrifying encounter with the rabid Cujo. Unfortunately, neither plot brings chills, emotional depth, or character growth to keep readers hooked.

Take the wife's situation. A large part of the story has her and her son trapped in a sweltering car, stalked by Cujo. This scenario could create fear, but it instead drags on and feels tedious. The supporting characters either die or vanish, leaving her bond with her son as the only focus. Sadly, this dynamic turns into a repetitive cycle, offering little relief from the boredom.

Meanwhile, the husband's story feels like an unwelcome addition, awkwardly stitched into the plot to pad the length. Events and characters in this thread add no meaning or excitement. That subplot serves as weak filler, trying to explain the husband's absence without enhancing the overall tale.

 Draft

Winter's harsh grip on the city streets brought out the most colourful characters. They all clamoured for a ride in my taxi. I’d seen strung-out addicts fumbling for their next fix and wannabe celebrities trying to outshine their fading star. Then there were the ladies of the night. Their perfume mixed with desperation hung heavily in the air. I also met conspiracy theorists, their eyes bright with tales of government secrets and alien cover-ups. But it was the worst of the lot that always found their way into my cab, like a magnet to metal.

I had just dropped off a party animal. He was so drunk he could barely stand, wearing a flimsy singlet that showed too much. That’s when I decided to take a break. The main reason wasn’t the growl in my stomach. It was the mess he left in my back seat: empty beer cans, crushed chip packets, and the lingering smell of stale cigarettes. I usually didn’t take breaks while working. My mind was set on the money, and few things could distract me from making more. Food, sleep, and weekends with my kids were the exceptions. For a long time, that was all I needed.

High Street had a hidden gem, Rockin' Kebabs. It’s a quaint, family-run shop that serves the best kebabs in the northern suburbs. I should know; I’ve tried them all. Rockin' Kebabs is unique, mixing eastern cooking with western Hollywood flair. The menu is as baffling as it is fascinating. Still, hardly anyone goes there, which suits me just fine. I like having the place to myself.

I sat next to a life-sized Elvis Presley cutout. Its bright blue jumpsuit stood out in the dim, rundown diner. The nostalgic tunes of Blue Suede Shoes crackled from a broken speaker, hanging crookedly from the ceiling. While I waited for my order, the smell of sizzling meat teased my growling stomach. Soon, a plate arrived with the biggest kebab I had ever seen. The lamb, chicken, lettuce, tomato, and cheese towered high, drizzled with garlic and barbecue sauce. It seemed to dare me to take a bite. I gave in, and the flavours burst in my mouth. I quickly finished my meal while gazing out the window at my trusty silvertop. I thought about the chaos waiting for me inside. The remnants of the party boy lingered. After paying the bill, I drove to a 24/7 car wash. I spent nearly an hour scrubbing away the vomit I hadn't seen until I got here. As a taxi driver, this was part of the job. The constant flow of passengers brought their stories, their messes, and the never-ending hours of cleaning up after them.

I was hanging up the cleaning gear, lost in thought, when my phone buzzed. It was a message from my boss, Paulie. He was a strange character, to say the least. I joked that he’d picked up the quirks of our unusual clients over the years. Until recently, Paulie would call us directly to send out new jobs. He’d address us as "cab drivers" in his usual deadpan tone. But that changed this year. Now, we only got short texts with an address and a time. No names, no destinations, no extra info. This was part of the anonymous service we provided. You can guess the type of people drawn to this secrecy. Creeps, freaks, and crooks loved it. I still wondered how we stayed in business, but the pay was great. We earned more than any regular taxi service, and on top of that, they were tax free rides. No one but Paulie offered drivers deals like that.

I pulled out my phone and looked at the screen. The text message read: 32 Flounders Street, Carlton, 12:30. I sighed deeply; that address was across town. I knew it wouldn't be a quick or easy trip. I'd driven through Carlton many times. Its worn streets and faded buildings felt familiar. It wasn't the safest area for taxi drivers. I’d heard stories of robberies and assaults on drivers who went too far in. But it wasn't the worst place either; some areas were sketchier. Carlton had its share of odd characters, people who appeared and vanished suddenly. That was just life in the neighbourhood. Honestly, you could find weirdos almost anywhere these days. It was just how the city was. Still, I couldn't shake the feeling this trip would be long and tough.

My trusty Honda Accord purred to life, its low rumble mixing with the hum of Melbourne's streets. As I drove through the busy city, I admired its beauty. Melbourne had changed a lot since my youth, but that’s how cities grow. I didn’t romanticise the past or mourn the present; it was just different. The main roads were a mix of colours, with neon signs and tall streetlights lighting up the night. It was a lively scene, filled with the laughter of young women. Their bold fashion made a statement on the clubbing scene. The air buzzed with the city's rhythm, and my Accord and I were just along for the ride.

About an hour later, I arrived at a weathered bungalow. Its tired facade showed signs of Melbourne's unpredictable weather. The once-white walls were now dull. With five minutes to spare, I took a chance to close my eyes. I wasn't exhausted, but I knew the night ahead would be long and tough. I had learned to recharge whenever I could, even for a moment. My eyelids had just closed when a gunshot broke the silence. The loud crack made me flinch. It sounded close, so I ducked down in my cab, waiting for another shot. After a minute or two of tense quiet, I slowly poked my head out, scanning the road. The old asphalt was full of potholes, showing the street's age. Like many Melbourne residential streets, each home had a nature strip. An old, dead, or dying tree stood on every second or third strip. The corner store, with its faded "Coffee Bean" sign, looked like an oasis in the sleepy neighbourhood.

The houses on the street looked almost the same. Each was a sturdy bungalow that represented the classic Australian suburban dream. Every home was well-kept, with bright gardens and lovely front yards full of colours and textures. But one house stood out like a sore thumb - the one I sat in front of. This run-down, crumbling building was nothing like its neighbours. The wood was old and broken, held together by strips of builders' tape. It seemed to be the only thing stopping it from falling apart completely. The garden, once charming, had turned into a jungle. Hedges burst from the picket fence, and huge trees loomed over the roof like guards. It felt like a gentle breeze could bring the whole house down. I wondered about the people who lived there. How could they stay in a home that looked like it needed saving? Did they struggle to make ends meet, putting more urgent needs before their home? Or was it simply neglect, a lack of care that let the house fall into ruin?

I was on high alert, feeling a presence looming over me. The tiny hairs on my neck bristled, sending a shiver down my spine. A car alarm wailed in the distance and a large dog barked nearby, making me jump. I scratched my neck to ease the tension, but my muscles felt locked. Fear had turned me into a statue. Heavy footsteps echoed through the night, growing louder each second. I tore my gaze from the dark bungalow, its lights casting an eerie glow, and focused on the car door. Please hurry up, I thought. I was seconds away from driving off. Then, the back passenger door swung open, and a figure slipped into the seat behind me. My breath caught in my throat as I forced out a greeting, trying to sound calm despite my racing heart.

I stood firm and refused to move. I said, "You'll have to find another car, sir. I'm waiting for someone." I nodded toward the house in front of me. Its windows were like empty eyes staring back. The passenger's response sent a shiver down my spine. He croaked, "Nobody lives in that house anymore." His words felt foreboding, making the hairs on my neck stand on end.

Even though I felt scared, I tried to sound firm. I asked, "Are you the one who called for a cab?" The passenger replied quickly, his voice low and threatening. "Just drive," he said, his tone full of unsettling authority.

I hesitated, unsure of my next move. "Where to?" I asked, stalling for time. The passenger's answer deepened my unease. "Just drive; I'll direct you," he said, his voice echoing through the night like a ghost.

My heart raced as I turned the meter on. I immediately regretted it. A hand pressed down on my shoulder, making me jump. "Turn it off. You won't need it," he said, gripping me tightly. Panic surged through me as I realised I was trapped.

In a last-ditch effort to regain control, I said, "If you won't pay me, then I'm not taking you anywhere." My mysterious passenger was ready for this. He handed me a thick bundle of hundred-dollar notes, worth over a thousand dollars. The gesture felt both generous and intimidating, making me wonder what lay ahead.

"Drive," he said, his voice firm but calm. So, I did, glancing at the rearview mirror to check on my mysterious passenger. We cruised down Flounders Street, with only the engine's hum and the wind's soft whoosh filling the air. The man sat still, his silence unsettling. It wasn't until we hit the busy streets of Carlton that he spoke, giving clear and confident directions. He seemed to know every corner, every street, every restaurant, and café. It felt like he had lived in the city his whole life. His ease in navigating the roads was unnerving, continuing until we left the city limits.

"I'm not supposed to leave the city without telling my boss," I said, unease creeping into my voice.

He handed me another wad of cash. This amount was much larger than the last. I took it, my eyes widening at the sheer sum this stranger was offering. Then I saw something that made my heart race. His hands were stained with blood—lots of it. I glanced at the backseat and saw the man with a silenced pistol. The metal glinted in the moonlight, and for a moment, I thought my time was up.

"Are you trying to get yourself killed?" he asked, his voice low and threatening, the gun aimed right at me.

"No, I swear I didn’t see anything," I stammered, hoping to calm him down.

"Then take the money and drive." I did as he said. My heart raced with every mile we put between us and the city. He directed me onto a long, dusty road. A car waited patiently for him there. The dry earth crunched beneath our tyres as we pulled over. I felt my anxiety spike.

"Are you going to kill me?" I whispered.

"Do I need to?" he replied, sounding distant, as if he was thinking it over.

"No, please, no," I begged, staring at the gun aimed at me.

The passenger opened the door and stepped out. His movements were fluid and deliberate. I stayed frozen, my eyes fixed on him as he walked to his car. I didn’t move as he drove away, a cloud of dust settling behind him. I stayed still until I finished pissing myself, the fear and adrenaline fading away. I looked at the crumpled cash in my hand. Then I turned the car around and drove home to my family, vowing never to take another ride in one of Paulie's cabs.