3...

The cab sped away from the curb with a squeal, the smell of burned break pads and scorched transmission lingering on the air. The driver turned his head to ask “where to” in a confusing accent.
“Upper Haight,” Frank said.
The cabby pulled the car over to the curb with such fierce speed that Frank was thrown against the door.
“Are you aware, smart guy, that I cannot make a left on Van Ness?”
Not really wanting to press the point that there were actually a number of places to turn left on Van Ness, Frank said, “Dude, then make a right, a right, and a right.”
Frank rubbed the elbow he had banged on the window crank dealy. The cabby mumbled something incoherently and began driving once again. He turned up his radio, which was playing some sort of rave party disco, very loudly. As he squealed around three right turns, the driver began to sing along with the music. Frank thought he might be singing about feeding cheese to a dog, and then there was something about licking feet.
Frank began to think that the driver was faking his accent. That disturbed him more than dog/cheese lyrics.