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Gather round, ladies and gents; it's already too late to leave, for now 'tis time for
Taaaaales of the Graaaaaveyaaaaard Shiiiiift!
(Do mind, this is my first post, and my stories are rather short, since, after all, this is graveyard at a dinky little service station, not happy hour at the Ritz.)
Tale the first!
Dramatis personae:
Myself, freakishly tall, freakishly large, funny hair, the works.
The man I dubbed Dudley, barely five and a half feet, almost as wide as he is tall, balding, and grumpy.
Myself, happily running his register: "Will that be all for you, sir? Would you like a bag?"
Dudley: "Nah, I'll carry it out mys-WHAT THE ****!?"
Me: "Is there a problem, sir?"
Dudley, slowly turning into a grape popsicle with rage: "YOU BET YOUR SKINNY WHITE *** THERE'S A PROBLEM! LOOK AT THIS ****ING SIGN!"
Me, utterly confused: "Yes, sir, we have a sale on milk.. One and a half litres for $3.49.. Does that cause you to take umbrage?"
Dudley: "LOOK AT THE ****ING FINE PRINT! YOU'RE CHARGING HOMOSEXUALS TEN CENTS EXTRA FOR THEIR GOD **** ****ING MILK!? I'LL HAVE YOU KNOW MY SON IS GAY AND I SUPPORT HIM 110%, I WILL /NOT/ STAND FOR THIS!"
Me, catching on: "Uh.. No, sir. See. That's for /homogenized/ milk.. See.. They blend the milk fat particles down into such tiny pieces that they won't separate, and that takes time and effort, that's why it costs extra. Personally, I have nothing against gays, and I certainly would not work at a place that practiced such bigotry. And besides, how would we know? Would we ask them to prove it?"
Dudley, walking away shamefaced and leaving some $5 change on the counter: "..Shut up."
Me: "Sweet, lunch money."
Tale the second!
Dramatis Personae
Myself, again, tall, built, cheerful. I think I had a daisy in my hair that day.
Keno Man, sightly shorter, slightly wider than myself. No hair.
Manager. He manages. Sometimes. ..Not usually.
KM, handing me a sheaf of about six or seven Keno tickets, each with numbers carefully and lovingly checked off: "Run these tickets four times each for me."
Me: "Sir, wouldn't it be faster if you simply raised the bet to four dollars on each number, instead of running the same ticket four times?"
KM: "Shut up, kid. They don't pay you to think, they pay you to do whatever the ****ing crap I tell you to do, and I'm telling you to RUN MY GOD **** TICKETS!"
Me, inaudibly under my breath as I turn to the lottery machine: "Yessir, a million tickets coming now sir."
Minutes later, as the lines build to insane lengths, the customers all glaring at me, I finally finish.
KM, digging through his sheaf: "I SAID FOUR ****ING TIMES EACH! FOUR! THIS ONE GOT THREE AND THIS ONE GOT FIVE! I WANT, NO, I ****ING DEMAND THESE FOR FREE, AND I WANT THIS ONE TO GO ONE MORE TIME!"
Manager, sticking his head out from the back: "Okay. You. You have your tickets. Pay. Get out. Now. Shoo."
KM, grabs his change and leaves: "See if I come back here ever God **** again.."
(Note: Back the next day, and the next, and the next.. Every single time, to my register, even when the other is open. I swear he wants me to make a mistake)
Tale the third!
Dramatis Personae
Myself, in my new, ill-fitting uniform.
Moron kid, 16 years of age. Thinks he's black.
MK: "Oy. Register jocky. Fashion reject. Pay me some attention, yo?"
Me, heaving a silent sigh: "Yessir, what can I do for you, sir?"
MK: "You can get me some rummy Prime Times (cigars, for the uneducated), stat, homes."
Me: "Yessir.. ID, sir?"
MK: "What? ID? You don't believe I'm 27? So ****ing wack, I ain't showing you nothing.
Me: "Then I'm afraid these have to go back, sir. My apologies."
MK, digging out his wallet: "Fine, homes, fine. Here."
Me, reading the ID, seeing a 1991 birthdate: "Sir.. This isn't a valid ID."
MK, does, of all things, a Jedi hand wave: "This /be/ a valid ID."
Me, glassy-eyed slightly cross-eyed stare: "This is a valid ID.."
MK: "Really, yo?"
Me: "Crap no. Get out of my freaking store before I call the police, 'homes'."
MK books it.
Me, to coworker: "And that, m'dear, is called a pwnt."
I do hope you enjoyed this, and more comes as it comes! :P
Taaaaales of the Graaaaaveyaaaaard Shiiiiift!
(Do mind, this is my first post, and my stories are rather short, since, after all, this is graveyard at a dinky little service station, not happy hour at the Ritz.)
Tale the first!
Dramatis personae:
Myself, freakishly tall, freakishly large, funny hair, the works.
The man I dubbed Dudley, barely five and a half feet, almost as wide as he is tall, balding, and grumpy.
Myself, happily running his register: "Will that be all for you, sir? Would you like a bag?"
Dudley: "Nah, I'll carry it out mys-WHAT THE ****!?"
Me: "Is there a problem, sir?"
Dudley, slowly turning into a grape popsicle with rage: "YOU BET YOUR SKINNY WHITE *** THERE'S A PROBLEM! LOOK AT THIS ****ING SIGN!"
Me, utterly confused: "Yes, sir, we have a sale on milk.. One and a half litres for $3.49.. Does that cause you to take umbrage?"
Dudley: "LOOK AT THE ****ING FINE PRINT! YOU'RE CHARGING HOMOSEXUALS TEN CENTS EXTRA FOR THEIR GOD **** ****ING MILK!? I'LL HAVE YOU KNOW MY SON IS GAY AND I SUPPORT HIM 110%, I WILL /NOT/ STAND FOR THIS!"
Me, catching on: "Uh.. No, sir. See. That's for /homogenized/ milk.. See.. They blend the milk fat particles down into such tiny pieces that they won't separate, and that takes time and effort, that's why it costs extra. Personally, I have nothing against gays, and I certainly would not work at a place that practiced such bigotry. And besides, how would we know? Would we ask them to prove it?"
Dudley, walking away shamefaced and leaving some $5 change on the counter: "..Shut up."
Me: "Sweet, lunch money."
Tale the second!
Dramatis Personae
Myself, again, tall, built, cheerful. I think I had a daisy in my hair that day.
Keno Man, sightly shorter, slightly wider than myself. No hair.
Manager. He manages. Sometimes. ..Not usually.
KM, handing me a sheaf of about six or seven Keno tickets, each with numbers carefully and lovingly checked off: "Run these tickets four times each for me."
Me: "Sir, wouldn't it be faster if you simply raised the bet to four dollars on each number, instead of running the same ticket four times?"
KM: "Shut up, kid. They don't pay you to think, they pay you to do whatever the ****ing crap I tell you to do, and I'm telling you to RUN MY GOD **** TICKETS!"
Me, inaudibly under my breath as I turn to the lottery machine: "Yessir, a million tickets coming now sir."
Minutes later, as the lines build to insane lengths, the customers all glaring at me, I finally finish.
KM, digging through his sheaf: "I SAID FOUR ****ING TIMES EACH! FOUR! THIS ONE GOT THREE AND THIS ONE GOT FIVE! I WANT, NO, I ****ING DEMAND THESE FOR FREE, AND I WANT THIS ONE TO GO ONE MORE TIME!"
Manager, sticking his head out from the back: "Okay. You. You have your tickets. Pay. Get out. Now. Shoo."
KM, grabs his change and leaves: "See if I come back here ever God **** again.."
(Note: Back the next day, and the next, and the next.. Every single time, to my register, even when the other is open. I swear he wants me to make a mistake)
Tale the third!
Dramatis Personae
Myself, in my new, ill-fitting uniform.
Moron kid, 16 years of age. Thinks he's black.
MK: "Oy. Register jocky. Fashion reject. Pay me some attention, yo?"
Me, heaving a silent sigh: "Yessir, what can I do for you, sir?"
MK: "You can get me some rummy Prime Times (cigars, for the uneducated), stat, homes."
Me: "Yessir.. ID, sir?"
MK: "What? ID? You don't believe I'm 27? So ****ing wack, I ain't showing you nothing.
Me: "Then I'm afraid these have to go back, sir. My apologies."
MK, digging out his wallet: "Fine, homes, fine. Here."
Me, reading the ID, seeing a 1991 birthdate: "Sir.. This isn't a valid ID."
MK, does, of all things, a Jedi hand wave: "This /be/ a valid ID."
Me, glassy-eyed slightly cross-eyed stare: "This is a valid ID.."
MK: "Really, yo?"
Me: "Crap no. Get out of my freaking store before I call the police, 'homes'."
MK books it.
Me, to coworker: "And that, m'dear, is called a pwnt."
I do hope you enjoyed this, and more comes as it comes! :P
Pyrogoeth!
)
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