Murder, Mayhem, and My Morning Commute

• Dead Inside Travel Log, Vol. 1

Next time, I chance it with the portal

There’s something uniquely hellish about being awake at 5 a.m. without coffee. The sun hasn’t even bothered to clock in. Your body is awake, but your soul is still curled up in the fetal position somewhere under a blanket, whispering “five more minutes.” The only thing keeping you tethered to the realm of the living is the promise of caffeine. Unfortunately for me, the nearest source of caffeine was locked behind TSA checkpoints and overpriced airport kiosks. My only hope? A quiet Uber ride.Then she opened her mouth.

“I’ve lived in this city for 35 years… ever since my brother’s granddaughter was murdered.”

That was her hello. Not “Good morning,” not “Where to, honey?” Just murder. Murder before sunrise. I hadn’t even closed the door yet and she had already dropped a crime scene in my lap.

Naturally, I did what any rational, pre-caffeinated reaper would do: nodded politely, fixed my eyes on the dashboard like it was the last lifeboat on the Titanic, and prayed the ride would be short.

But no. This wasn’t just a ride. This was an episode.

Act two of Grandma’s Horror Hour: her abusive marriage. Heavy stuff. Brave of her to share, and part of me respected her survival instinct. But, because life is nothing if not committed to the bit, she casually tossed in the kicker:

Her abusive husband? Later found murdered in her kitchen.

Murder count: two.Coffee count: still zero.

At this point, I stopped checking the time. Airports could wait. Flights could be missed. I was in a front-row seat to the cold open of every true crime podcast ever. Somewhere out there, Keith Morrison was warming up his voice.

And then came act three.

She leaned in slightly — hands gripping the wheel, eyes locked on the road — and delivered the final blow as if she were describing the weather:

“And just a few weeks ago, I was in the city… when I personally witnessed a murder.”

Three murders. One Uber ride. Zero caffeine.

By now, I was clutching my carry-on like a shield, calculating which exit would give me the fastest escape if Grandma decided to complete the set. Who needs morning coffee when your bloodstream is already boiling with sheer survival adrenaline?

When we finally pulled up to the airport curb, I practically fell out of the car like a corpse being exhumed. She smiled sweetly, waved, and chirped:

“Have a safe flight!”

Safe flight? Lady, I just survived three homicide confessions before dawn. The plane is the least of my worries.

Bonus Crime Scene: The Airport

Of course, the horrors didn’t end there. No, the airport had its own brand of violence waiting for me.

First up: TSA. Nothing says “we value your safety” like being barked at to remove your shoes, belt, dignity, and possibly your will to live. Standing barefoot on a sticky floor mat at 5:30 a.m. after an Uber ride full of murder monologues? That’s not security. That’s psychological warfare.

And then the real crime: coffee. Nine dollars for something burnt enough to qualify as cremated remains, served in a cup so thin you could see your obituary through it. I stared into that cup and thought, This is how villains are made.

Closing Thoughts from the Dead Inside Travel Desk

So there you have it. The first installment of Steve’s Dead Inside Travel Log.

One Uber ride, three murders, and one cup of airport coffee that honestly felt like the worst crime of them all. If this is how the series begins, just imagine what fresh horrors await me at baggage claim.

Until next time, fellow mortals — travel safe. Or at least, safer than my driver’s extended family.

Reporting live from the mortal circus,

Steve