*MOD EDIT - Link to original story http://www.customerssuck.com/board/s...560#post192560
Revenge.
They say it's a dish best served cold. In my case, it was a cup.
You see, while I spent the next few months talking to my coworkers, supervisors, and even the GM about ways to get even, I grew more and more frustrated. Not because of the woman, but because it appeared to me that she would, ultimately, get away with it, seeing as how nothing I could think of to do with her was legal.
(And everything I thought she should do to herself was physically impossible.)
So, I gave up.
Until, one night, a few months later, that I saw her again.
Maybe she thought I didn't work there anymore, that enough time had passed since the ice cream caper. Maybe she thought I had forgotten.
You see, I didn't recognize her voice over the drive thru speaker. I didn't recognize her from the attitude she gave me about making sure her order was right, as last time she was there, we screwed it up. I didn't even recognize her by her car as it came around to my window.
No, I recognized her from the fingers (or lack thereof) that were missing from the hand with the money in it. As I followed the hand with my eyes, up the arm, and to the coke bottle glasses of the solitary individual in that car, I recognized her.
But she didn't recognize me.
Maybe it's because I had changed my shirt, who knows.
At that point, I looked over her order. No ice cream. Damn. Strike plan A.
Lets see, Big mac meal.
How the hell can I mess with that??? Add sprinkles?? She'd write it off as sesame seeds.
As I turned around to make her drink (with WAAAAAAY too much ice, and a speck of coke in it) I began to giggle. An evil giggle. I giggled so hard I had to turn away from the window. When I had composed myself enough, I put my plan into motion. I swung the window open, and went to hand her the drink.
There I am, all but thrusting a 20 oz, slippery plastic/paper cup at a woman with 2 fingers on the hand that's reaching for the cup. And I can't bring myself to do it. I can't just dump it in her lap. I'll fall over laughing. So I try to hand it off. To...the...two....fingered....hand.
Needless to say, the drink starts to fall.
I try to catch it. Catch turns into "swing like your trying for a homer".
Lid flies off. Coke and ice fly over her, my arm, her seat, down her blouse, and, of course, in her lap.
I'm shocked for a minute. Until she looks at me, really, really looks at me, and recognizes me.
Then she screams "BASTARD!!!" squeals tires, and leaves me standing at the window, arm still outstretched, in a cloud of exhaust.
I didn't mean to do it.
Honest.
But I'm glad as hell it happened.
She deserved it.
Revenge.
They say it's a dish best served cold. In my case, it was a cup.
You see, while I spent the next few months talking to my coworkers, supervisors, and even the GM about ways to get even, I grew more and more frustrated. Not because of the woman, but because it appeared to me that she would, ultimately, get away with it, seeing as how nothing I could think of to do with her was legal.
(And everything I thought she should do to herself was physically impossible.)
So, I gave up.
Until, one night, a few months later, that I saw her again.
Maybe she thought I didn't work there anymore, that enough time had passed since the ice cream caper. Maybe she thought I had forgotten.
You see, I didn't recognize her voice over the drive thru speaker. I didn't recognize her from the attitude she gave me about making sure her order was right, as last time she was there, we screwed it up. I didn't even recognize her by her car as it came around to my window.
No, I recognized her from the fingers (or lack thereof) that were missing from the hand with the money in it. As I followed the hand with my eyes, up the arm, and to the coke bottle glasses of the solitary individual in that car, I recognized her.
But she didn't recognize me.
Maybe it's because I had changed my shirt, who knows.
At that point, I looked over her order. No ice cream. Damn. Strike plan A.
Lets see, Big mac meal.
How the hell can I mess with that??? Add sprinkles?? She'd write it off as sesame seeds.
As I turned around to make her drink (with WAAAAAAY too much ice, and a speck of coke in it) I began to giggle. An evil giggle. I giggled so hard I had to turn away from the window. When I had composed myself enough, I put my plan into motion. I swung the window open, and went to hand her the drink.
There I am, all but thrusting a 20 oz, slippery plastic/paper cup at a woman with 2 fingers on the hand that's reaching for the cup. And I can't bring myself to do it. I can't just dump it in her lap. I'll fall over laughing. So I try to hand it off. To...the...two....fingered....hand.
Needless to say, the drink starts to fall.
I try to catch it. Catch turns into "swing like your trying for a homer".
Lid flies off. Coke and ice fly over her, my arm, her seat, down her blouse, and, of course, in her lap.
I'm shocked for a minute. Until she looks at me, really, really looks at me, and recognizes me.
Then she screams "BASTARD!!!" squeals tires, and leaves me standing at the window, arm still outstretched, in a cloud of exhaust.
I didn't mean to do it.
Honest.
But I'm glad as hell it happened.
She deserved it.
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