I stood there, as I do 8 hours a day for 5 days a week, patiently waiting for the conveyor belt to bring me yet another motley gob of merchandise that yet another unappreciative and rude douchebag wished to purchase.
With all the personality of a robot, I dutifully greeted the consumer and asked if he had found everything he was looking for. I surely didn’t care, and no doubt the look on my face confirmed this to be true.
The dim-witted doofus replied that he hadn’t, but not to worry about it because I didn’t look like I could help him anyway. I ignored his juvenile jibe, and began to scan his merchandise.
The transaction was going routinely, beep upon beep upon increasingly annoying beep, until I scanned a cordless drill. The drill had scanned at $89.99, yet the redneck prince before me insisted that there was a sign where he had picked the drill up marked $49.99.
As a “lowly and incompetent” cashier, I am only vested with the authority to override a price up to $10. I advised the overweight sack full of stupid in front of me that I needed to secure a manager’s approval in order to sell him his precious drill for $40 off. Captain Overalls huffed and puffed and blew his rank breath into my face while rudely complaining about the customer service at this particular retail joint.
I bit my tongue, as I always nobly do, and advised Lord Lotsa-Lard that a manager was on the way. I discreetly pressed a series of keys on my keyboard that would alert a manager that assistance was needed at my register. It always made me feel like a spy when I did that. Like I was sending a covert message of the utmost importance to the higher brass Yeah, not really…
After waiting a handful of moments a manager finally came to my rescue. She asked what she could do for Captain Combover and he fed her the same line of horse manure that he had fed me.
The manager asked Mr. Poopypants if he would mind showing her where he found the drill. He childishly pissed and moaned about it, but acquiesced to her request. A collective groan escaped everyone trapped in line behind this self-righteous douche.
My respite from the epitome of white trash lasted all of two minutes. My manager arrived before the conniving customer and advised me that the $49.99 sign was for another product, and that if “that asshole” wanted the drill he would be paying the scanned price.
When the redneck prince finally made it back to the register, out of breath and wheezing, he demanded to see a different manager, one that “knows her ass from a hole in the ground.”
My manager used her walkie-talkie to summon a manager further up the managerial pecking order. While she did so, Lord Lotsa Lard released a stream of profanity so insanely foul and so disgustingly vile that even I was offended, and that’s no easy task. My manager tried to explain to this douche that another member of management was en route, and that if he didn’t stop dropping f-bombs like the Allies on D-day she would be unable to assist him any longer and he would be asked to leave the store. Guess which ending I was hoping for?
The verbal onslaught continued unabated. My manager asked him to leave, yet he refused. As this scene played out in front of me, I felt something stirring within. A fiery anger gradually began to burn somewhere deep within me. This imbecile had invoked my wrath. I can normally contain my emotions while at work, but this asshole’s oral assault had unearthed a repressed anger rooted deep within me.
Suddenly, years of repressed anger and stress were unleashed on this unsuspecting tool. I raised the drill high above my head and prepared to strike. Everything seemed to move in slow motion from that point forward.
My manager had noticed in her peripheral vision that I was poised to strike, but was at too great a distance to physically stop me. She screamed “no” aloud, but because everything was in slow motion it sounded more like a low-pitched, guttural roar than any coherent word.
The drill held high above my head, I violently struck down with all my strength, anger, and stress combined into one mighty blow. The drill struck the leviathan douchekite directly on the top if his skull. There was a dull thud when the drill hit, the sound possibly muffled by the box’s cardboard packing the thick layer of fat the seemed to envelope his entire body. Or perhaps it was a combination of the two.
The vile creature immediately ceased to talk. He bemusedly turned and looked at me, then his eyes rolled up into his head and he keeled over, unconscious.
I stood frozen in place, shocked at what I’d just done. Time sped back up. Slowly, a round of applause broke out in the line at my register. Soon, every customer at the front of the store was clapping.
My adrenaline high had just begun to subside when my manager yanked me by the arm and dragged me towards the back of the store while asking “what the fuck” was wrong with me.
I was of course immediately fired, but I’ve found a new purpose in life. I will fight for those who cannot stand up for themselves. I will protect those who must let themselves be walked over in the name of collecting a paycheck. I will patrol the local retail stores and restaurants in search of public servant mistreatment and right any wrongs I happen upon. Those who would prey upon a soul doing the best it can do to serve you to the best of its ability beware!
Oh, yes. I will fight. The days of consumer tyranny are over.