The following is a true story submitted by a anonymous passenger on a taxi ride they will never forget.

                It was a Saturday night like most others, me and my friends decided to leave Streator for the night, and visit one of Ottawa’s bars. We picked our designated driver and were off to what we thought would be a fun night on the town. Knowing what was to come, I would have just stayed home. Little did I know, In a few hours I would meet a man I would never forget.

                We had a pretty good time hopping from bar to bar, when one got to loud or obnoxious we would move on to the next. The beauty of a Ottawa is that there are more bars than groceries stores, so there is pretty much a drink to be had on every block of the town. It’s been this way as long as I can remember, the names might change, but the people stay the same. We are all just young at heart patrons looking to have a good time, until one day you wake up and realize you are the old barfly who’s life has sneakily slipped away in a quiet town. But that wasn’t us, not tonight, not yet at least. We made memories until the bar closed for the night.

                The years come fast, but 3 a.m. closing time sneaks up you even faster. Before I knew it, I had too much to drink, and the crowd was already dispersing into the down town streets. I hadn’t noticed but for the past couple of hours there were taxis outside scooping up the patrons who wandered out. It was their hunting season, and there was an unspoken rule that you call a cab before close if you want to get a ride. It was a rule I wasn’t aware of, but I had a designated driver, so it didn’t matter. When last call came around, I noticed I was distracted by a loud slightly overweight woman who dressed way below her age, and I had lost my friends.

                It wasn’t long before I found myself out on the desolate street with the woman. I immediately noticed she was much older than older than I had thought, the dim bar light did wonders for her. She was also much louder and more obnoxious without the ambient noise of background chatter. I desperately looked around for my ride, but the streets were completely empty. Despite numerous phone calls and texts, I couldn’t get a hold of anyone I came to town with. No dobut they were well on their way home laughing at me for being left behind. Desperation began to set in as I realized it was a 20 mile walk back to Streator. But the woman standing next to me said there was nothing to worry about. She had a friend, and his name was “Preacher man”.

                I was skeptical to say the least, but I was slightly relieved to hear he worked for a legitimate taxi service in town. Ottawa is too small to rely on uber drivers, and the DUI crowd and walkers rely on one of two companies to cart them around town. I still had reservations as she called him, the nick name certainly didn’t sit right with me, but those feelings would soon turn to dread as a beat up minivan with black smoke pouring from the exhaust pulled up in front of us. At first I though they were here to pick up someone else, but quickly realized the van had taxi written on it’s side. I took a deep breath, and we approached the van. As we got close, the drive rolled down the window, and that moment will forever be burned into my memory.

                The driver was an older man probably in his 50’s. He was dressed in all black. Black Jeans, a black t-shirt, black cowboy hat, and even in 90 degree heat, a black leather jacket. He stared at us with two tiny and beady dark eyes in a perpetual squint. His mouth hang slightly agape, and once he spoke I could see his sharp bright yellow teeth. I was caught off guard by his appearance but I snapped back to reality when his charcoal voice demanded my attention. He spoke to the woman next to me, and despite my better judgement and out of sheer desperation, I entered the back of the taxi with her. I hoped it would be a quick ride back to Streator.

                As soon as I sat down I was hit with a wave of entirely too much cologne. It was so strong it burned my throat and made my eyes tear up. Once I was settled he put his arm on the passenger seat and turned back too look at us. He told us he had someone he had to pick up and drop off on the way, and that it was policy to take care of the customers in town before leaving Ottawa. He told us that despite the fact they are open 24 hours on Friday night, we were lucky to get a cab during closing time. The automatic door closed next to me, and my fate was sealed.

                The woman seemed comfortable with the decidedly suspicious cowboy cabbie, and they were soon talking about some shared experience from a previous ride. I tried my best not to listen, and just focused on the scenery outside the window. But little did I know, he was about to treat us to a sermon. It was a his story, history of sorts. By the way he talked I could tell he told it many times, perhaps even every time he picked up a customer. I had no idea about the wild ride I was about to embark on.

                He jumped straight to the plot of his divine quest, and I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. Moreover, I couldn’t believe I entered a vehicle with this man. He was a self proclaimed preacher, but his beliefs did not follow any organized religion, rather it was of his own making. He clearly had no knowledge of the Christian bible, or any that I had heard of. He spared no time telling us that he was chosen by god himself, who was a horse farmer in Marseilles. I wondered what exactly he was chosen for, but my question would soon be answered. God had directed him to drive a taxi to save people, specifically the strippers from the local clubs.

                At first I thought he was joking, but the tone of his voice convinced me he was clinically insane. He told us he was destined to have 40 wives, and feared “no mortal man” as his fate was already revealed to him. He had no fear of death, because god (the horse farmer) had told him that one day he would be beheaded for his beliefs. I whispered to the woman sitting next to me in a desperate panic and sheer amazement of what I was hearing. She assured me, a little too loudly, that the driver was not drunk and this was normal for him. She confirmed my suspicion that he tells this story to every passenger he picks up.

                Before long we came to a stop at a decrepid looking multi story house with no lights on. It look as if the home had not been lived in for decades, and did not have electricity. A slight panic began to set in as I realized I had no idea where we were. I checked my phone for any missed calls or messages, but there was nothing. My friends were likely already back in Streator passed out at home. But I was more alert than I had ever been in my life. And a moment later the front passenger door swung open, and a large man with a foul smell got in. I should have gotten out there, but before I knew it, we had continued on with our journey.

                The “Preacher Man” and the slob in the front seat talked among themselves for a while. It was pretty obvious he was a regular customer, and was not phased by the lunitc rantings of a mad man. The passenger spoke softly, and often times in gibberish. I couldn’t follow their conversation, so I stayed focus on watching the landmarks out the window and trying to figure out where we were. I was distracted once again as we came to a stop in the middle of the street. The driver rolled down his window and started yelling “Chrissy!” out the window. A moment later a extremely skinny woman with too much makeup walked up to the van. They spoke for a second, and then the automatic doors opened next to us and she climbed into the seats behind us.

                The party seemed to continue long after closing time, as the taxi became louder than the bar was. Chrissy was talking to the girl next to me, who’s name I still did not know, and every once in a while the man in the passenger seat would chime in with some gibberish and they would all laugh. For a second, I thought I was on some reality tv show, and the host would come rescue me from this ridiculous scenario. That moment never came, and soon we were dropping the other two passengers off at another secluded dark house. After they piled out, it was just the woman from the bar and I, and of course, Preacher Man. The sermon started again.

                He told us that god would often send him text messages, and further clarified that Jesus was the horse farmer. Either he was editing his story, or I was having a hard time following is lore. He said he would often pray for God to kill his enemies and those who had done wrong in his eyes. For the first time in a while I recognized where we were. We were driving passed a field that was out of the way from our destination. Apparently this was no accident, as the driver explained that this location was where he was going to bury a body one day. For a moment I was concerned that we were going to stop, but we slowly crept along on our journey.

                I had never been so happy to see route 23 in my life, even as empty as it was. I tried to stay quiet and ignore the lecture the cowboy cabbie was giving. Bits and pieces would catch my ear, something about his destiny, his savior complex, but most of all the delusional rantings of a mad man. I spent most of the ride trying to figure out who would hire such a man to drive a taxi. To my relief, he changed the topic. He went off about his Harley with a v8 engine that was spared by God during a tornado a few years back. The way he tells it, everything was destroyed besides his beloved motorcycle. He then jumped from subject to subject, including a story about an undercover cop who used to drive for the company.

                When we got into town, “Preacher Man” told us he needed to make a quick stop to get smokes. He pulled into a gas station and I used that moment to make my escape. I desperately felt around for the automatic door button and he seemed surprised that I got of the vehicle at the too. He told me that he would only be a second, but I convinced him that I lived nearby, and this was a good place to drop me off. He lit a cigarette and looked me over suspiciously. After a long pause, he told me the ride would be $75, and they only take cash. I was alarmed for a minute, but would have paid any price just to get away from this man. I walked into the station and used their ATM. I noticed the attendant was keeping a close eye on the suspicious cowboy. By the time I got my cash, he had already got his newports and walked back outside.

                When I walked back the woman I was with was in the passenger seat and they had pulled up to the door to meet me. He pulled out a little bank bag from the visor and reached out for the fare. I quickly paid the man and started putting as much distance between us as I could, as quickly as I could. I watched the van depart and drive back toward Ottawa, the loud woman hanging out the window and waving as they went. I had briefly overheard that she was going to stay with him in his trailer that night, but honestly was just glad to be rid of her. I was glad to be rid of both of them.

                I didn’t take a taxi again for a long time, and never again in Ottawa. When I tell my friends this story, they think I was drunk, or making it up. But it’s true, somewhere out there in Ottawa there is an urban cowboy who lives by his own code, religion, and in his own reality. If you dare to speak to him, you might just be included in his lore. Be it one of his mortal enemies, a stripper in need, or one of his 40 wives, there is no good chapter in his “good book”. If you find yourself in Ottawa one late night, after drinking too much, think twice before calling a cab. It might be a long walk home, but surely it is safer. And if you find yourself wondering where all the cowboys have gone, now you know. They are stoned cab drivers, preaching their religion, somewhere in rural Illinois.

                Streator Mysteries is a nonprofit paranormal journalist organization. Our stories are based on independent investigations, anonymous sources, and eye witness accounts, thus should be taken with a grain (or shaker) of salt. For legal reasons we consider ourselves a “parody” news source, but the truth is out there if you are willing to look for it. Streator Mysteries, answering the questions nobody is asking.