My Sweet Black SUV

So, the government gave me a black SUV.

Yeah, just handed me the keys, like, “Congrats, you’re in!”

No paperwork, no fine print—

just a shiny black beast in the driveway,

and now I guess I’m in the club.

What club, you ask?

Good question. I’m still figuring that out.

The thing hums when it’s off.

Like, this subtle, low purr,

as if it’s constantly talking to… who, exactly?

Is the CIA in the glove compartment?

I open it, half-expecting to see a tiny man in a suit with sunglasses,

but nope, just a stack of secret-looking papers.

I don’t read them. Too risky.

Now I’m driving, but it’s like I’m not even steering.

The car just knows where to go.

Left turn? Nope, we’re going straight.

To where? No idea.

The GPS? Useless.

It just flashes, “Trust us.”

Trust who?!

I’ve tried putting in my own destination,

but it reroutes me every time.

Wanted to go to the grocery store?

Now I’m parked outside an abandoned warehouse.

Do I go in?

No, I just sit there,

because the car’s locked the doors.

My phone starts buzzing.

Unknown number, of course.

"How’s the ride?"

Who is this? The dealership? The Pentagon?

Before I can ask, the line clicks dead.

Great. Now I’m part of some shadowy government errand service,

but no one’s sending me a paycheck.

And the weirdest part?

I’m starting to like it.

I mean, the SUV’s got heated seats—

and let’s face it, there’s something cool about pulling up to the mall

in a car that looks like it belongs to secret agents.

But also, am I a secret agent now?

Or just a glorified chauffeur for invisible higher-ups?

The SUV whispers things at night.

Not out loud, but like, in my head.

“Vote this way.”

“Go to the post office, now.”

“Turn on C-SPAN, you’ll enjoy it.”

I’m becoming… them.

Whoever they are.

Last week, I tried to take a road trip,

but every exit led me back to the same government building.

Coincidence?

I think not.

I’m a puppet, strings attached to the steering wheel.

Wave at my neighbors—

yep, they think I’m someone important now.

Joke’s on them. I have no idea what I’m doing.

But the car knows.

The car always knows.

So, if you see me cruising around, windows tinted,

just know I’m not calling the shots anymore.

I’m just the guy in the driver’s seat,

following orders from a purring, all-knowing SUV.