Subway or the Highway
AUTHOR'S NOTE: This was written after a long day and it was written in the wee hours of the morning. So er, please forgive and incoherence or non-flowing narrative. I don't know why I chose to write in this particular way...oh well call me nuts but what can you do? When life gives you lemons...squirt it back into life's eye. Because life's a bitch for doing that.
Herein lies a tale of retribution most horrid, denunciation most unjust, imprecation most vile and manner most improper.
Let me set the scene: it is a blistering Saturday afternoon and in the sweltering heat an unsuspecting Sandwich Artist kindly offers to help an irate-seeming customer fuming at the counter. The gentle susurration of the other restaurant patrons as they dither are a stark contrast to the berating that the protagonist of our story is about to receive. The angry man seems out of sorts to our hero; he would not have been surprised to learn that the man was in fact quite besotted.
So, our protagonist politely inquires what can be done to help the man, to which the man replies that he received a cold sandwich the previous day. The twist was that he wanted and indeed demanded a sandwich that was warm, or even a temperature bordering the uncomfortable. Having no authority to act upon this infringement on desire, the Sandwich Artist offers to inform a higher power, which would at some future time contact the man and rectify the situation. The man agrees to the terms, but is blatant in his display of discontent. The man accusingly states that our protagonist is merely avoiding the issue, and his vulgar attitude and obvious contempt make it all too clear to our hero that the man in front of him was not ready to reach any sort of compromise.
The pure hatred drips from the man's tongue, and he launches verbal attack after verbal attack on our hapless hero. Threats of unemployment are thrown in the direction of our protagonist even though it was not this particular crafter of sandwiches who served this man. Feeling unfairly victimised, yet unwilling to be impolite to an irate customer, however irritating he was, the Sandwich Artist tries to ignore the ignobility. After a tirade, a veritable diatribe on the invirtues of his situation, the man is finally ready to write down his details so that he may discuss further the situation with someone who could actually act on the matter.
In a brief absence of sensibility, a napkin is offered for the recording of telephone numbers and names (of both the sur and given varieties). Unable to inscribe inebriated, the irate man flings the napkin in the face of the Sandwich Artist. Shocked and infuriated, the Sandwich Artist barely manages to restrain himself long enough to offer paper from the front of the counter. The irate man is also visibly restraining himself, as evidenced by the force with which he proceeds to write; almost breaking the pen in the process.
Finally, as the man leaves as discourteously as he arrived, he utters one last expletive. Something too crude to be reproduced here verbatim, but a literal Latin translation could be futuo capitis.
Had the store been devoid of other customers, the outcome of this saga may have been very different.
Herein lies a tale of retribution most horrid, denunciation most unjust, imprecation most vile and manner most improper.
Let me set the scene: it is a blistering Saturday afternoon and in the sweltering heat an unsuspecting Sandwich Artist kindly offers to help an irate-seeming customer fuming at the counter. The gentle susurration of the other restaurant patrons as they dither are a stark contrast to the berating that the protagonist of our story is about to receive. The angry man seems out of sorts to our hero; he would not have been surprised to learn that the man was in fact quite besotted.
So, our protagonist politely inquires what can be done to help the man, to which the man replies that he received a cold sandwich the previous day. The twist was that he wanted and indeed demanded a sandwich that was warm, or even a temperature bordering the uncomfortable. Having no authority to act upon this infringement on desire, the Sandwich Artist offers to inform a higher power, which would at some future time contact the man and rectify the situation. The man agrees to the terms, but is blatant in his display of discontent. The man accusingly states that our protagonist is merely avoiding the issue, and his vulgar attitude and obvious contempt make it all too clear to our hero that the man in front of him was not ready to reach any sort of compromise.
The pure hatred drips from the man's tongue, and he launches verbal attack after verbal attack on our hapless hero. Threats of unemployment are thrown in the direction of our protagonist even though it was not this particular crafter of sandwiches who served this man. Feeling unfairly victimised, yet unwilling to be impolite to an irate customer, however irritating he was, the Sandwich Artist tries to ignore the ignobility. After a tirade, a veritable diatribe on the invirtues of his situation, the man is finally ready to write down his details so that he may discuss further the situation with someone who could actually act on the matter.
In a brief absence of sensibility, a napkin is offered for the recording of telephone numbers and names (of both the sur and given varieties). Unable to inscribe inebriated, the irate man flings the napkin in the face of the Sandwich Artist. Shocked and infuriated, the Sandwich Artist barely manages to restrain himself long enough to offer paper from the front of the counter. The irate man is also visibly restraining himself, as evidenced by the force with which he proceeds to write; almost breaking the pen in the process.
Finally, as the man leaves as discourteously as he arrived, he utters one last expletive. Something too crude to be reproduced here verbatim, but a literal Latin translation could be futuo capitis.
Had the store been devoid of other customers, the outcome of this saga may have been very different.
ranted by Wayland at
2/18/2007 01:51:00 am
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