Uhm, pardon me. Would you mind terribly getting off of my head?
SHUT-UP PSYCHO!
It's just that you are currently kneeling on my head and there is a jagged little piece of metal digging into my face.
Serves you right, sicko!
I'm just letting you know that this might look bad, when it's caught on camera. Especially if I'm bleeding.
His weight shifts as he looks around.
What camera? Who has a camera?
It's 2014. The better question is, who doesn't have a camera? Yours is in your pocket, currently digging into my back.
Ah, iPhones. Good point.
Also, my loving progeny should be directly to your starboard witnessing this whole fiasco.
Your who is on my what?
My family. On your right. Watching.
He shifts his weight a little so I can get off of the botttlecap, and turns to someone over his shoulder,
Are you sure we got the right guy? This doesn't seem like an murderous rage-monster.
A second, equally meat-headish voice answers.
This is the guy she pointed out.
OK mister, you just lay there until the cops show up. And then they're going to arrest you for assaulting our clerk.
The police? That seems a tad extreme.
Extreme?! You can't threaten to kill somebody and get away with it.
What? Sounds like somebody is stretching the truth a smidgen.
Confused silence. Whichever neanderthal is currently assisting gravity, lumbers off of me.
Sir. I'm going to help you stand up. Why don't you tell me your version of the story.
Two wanna-be jocks in their shmedium SECURITY t-shirts help me to my feet and then position themselves on either side of me, arms crossed high on their chests, clearly signaling both are acolytes of Patrick Swayze from Road House. It's hard to say which one is more vacant and henchmen-muscle-bad-guy-movie-tough. Their belts scream with, they-won't-let-me-carry-a-gun-overcompensation. Flashlights, zip ties and walkie talkies, fight for belt space with tazers, pepper spray, and other tazers. Half gloves and metrosexual, too-tight jeans complete the outfit.
Thank you for helping me up. Here is what happened. I was in your store with my family. After careful deliberation, I had selected the items that I desired to acquire. I proceeded to the checkout line with my family and my intended purchases, and the young lady who was ringing up my groceries commented on how cute my four year old was. I agreed with her assessment. Then she asked me if I was his Dad or his Grandpa. Taken aback, I bristled at her faux pas, paid my bill, bid her a curt farewell, egressed your store and was about to enter my mode of conveyance, when you forcefully and ever so rudely, accosted me.
I'm not sure everything you just said is real words, but that isn't the story that we heard.
Oh? Please regale me with her account.
What?
Tell me what she said.
She said you threatened to eat her head. And kill her family. A lot.
Does that really sound like something I would say?
We don't really know you.
You know her. Is she trustworthy?
Yes. Absolutely. Except for when the Methadone clinic loses it's funding. Or when she calles in with the Mexican flu, every Monday. Or that time she forgot to pay for that television in her purse.
Do tell.
One simian looks at the other.
Dude this seems kinda sketchy. I think maybe she set us up.
Totally. Let him go, and let's go tell the boss that Angela is trippin' again.
Besides, this old graybeard grandpa dude doesn't look threatening at all.
I'M NOT THAT OLD, YOU RIDICULOUS APES! I AM GOING TO AXE MURDER YOU! I AM GOING TO KILL YOUR RELATIVES! IMMEDIATE AND EXTENDED! I'LL DISMEMBER YOU AND ALL YOUR FACEBOOK FRIENDS. I'M GOING TO DIG UP YOUR FOREFATHERS AND CREATE A POTION THAT IMBUES THEM WITH NEW LIFE, JUST SO I CAN RE-KILL THEM ! I WILL EAT YOUR STUPID FACES, YOU DROOLING REALITY TV REJECTS! I WILL RIP YOUR HEARTS FROM YOUR BODIES BEFORE YOUR NEVER-USED BRAINS ENCASED IN THEIR POINTY SKULLS AND DOUCHEY FAUX-HAWKS HITS THE GROUND! OLD?! DOES THIS FEEL OLD TO YOU?! HOW ABOUT THAT?! OLD THIS, BIATCH!
Surprise is on my side and I administer a good beating, but I ultimately get overpowered by 550 pounds of angry and pride-damaged, steroid-enhanced-my-best-years-are-behind-me-but-I-have-six-credit-hours-at-the-local-community-college-in-criminal-justice-jock, and one thing repeats in my head over and over;
I really need to shave off this f*cking beard!
I'm just letting you know that this might look bad, when it's caught on camera. Especially if I'm bleeding.
His weight shifts as he looks around.
What camera? Who has a camera?
It's 2014. The better question is, who doesn't have a camera? Yours is in your pocket, currently digging into my back.
Ah, iPhones. Good point.
Also, my loving progeny should be directly to your starboard witnessing this whole fiasco.
Your who is on my what?
My family. On your right. Watching.
He shifts his weight a little so I can get off of the botttlecap, and turns to someone over his shoulder,
Are you sure we got the right guy? This doesn't seem like an murderous rage-monster.
A second, equally meat-headish voice answers.
This is the guy she pointed out.
OK mister, you just lay there until the cops show up. And then they're going to arrest you for assaulting our clerk.
The police? That seems a tad extreme.
Extreme?! You can't threaten to kill somebody and get away with it.
What? Sounds like somebody is stretching the truth a smidgen.
Confused silence. Whichever neanderthal is currently assisting gravity, lumbers off of me.
Sir. I'm going to help you stand up. Why don't you tell me your version of the story.
Two wanna-be jocks in their shmedium SECURITY t-shirts help me to my feet and then position themselves on either side of me, arms crossed high on their chests, clearly signaling both are acolytes of Patrick Swayze from Road House. It's hard to say which one is more vacant and henchmen-muscle-bad-guy-movie-tough. Their belts scream with, they-won't-let-me-carry-a-gun-overcompensation. Flashlights, zip ties and walkie talkies, fight for belt space with tazers, pepper spray, and other tazers. Half gloves and metrosexual, too-tight jeans complete the outfit.
Thank you for helping me up. Here is what happened. I was in your store with my family. After careful deliberation, I had selected the items that I desired to acquire. I proceeded to the checkout line with my family and my intended purchases, and the young lady who was ringing up my groceries commented on how cute my four year old was. I agreed with her assessment. Then she asked me if I was his Dad or his Grandpa. Taken aback, I bristled at her faux pas, paid my bill, bid her a curt farewell, egressed your store and was about to enter my mode of conveyance, when you forcefully and ever so rudely, accosted me.
I'm not sure everything you just said is real words, but that isn't the story that we heard.
Oh? Please regale me with her account.
What?
Tell me what she said.
She said you threatened to eat her head. And kill her family. A lot.
Does that really sound like something I would say?
We don't really know you.
You know her. Is she trustworthy?
Yes. Absolutely. Except for when the Methadone clinic loses it's funding. Or when she calles in with the Mexican flu, every Monday. Or that time she forgot to pay for that television in her purse.
Do tell.
One simian looks at the other.
Dude this seems kinda sketchy. I think maybe she set us up.
Totally. Let him go, and let's go tell the boss that Angela is trippin' again.
Besides, this old graybeard grandpa dude doesn't look threatening at all.
Surprise is on my side and I administer a good beating, but I ultimately get overpowered by 550 pounds of angry and pride-damaged, steroid-enhanced-my-best-years-are-behind-me-but-I-have-six-credit-hours-at-the-local-community-college-in-criminal-justice-jock, and one thing repeats in my head over and over;
I really need to shave off this f*cking beard!
