Dirty Old Man: In the style of Behind the Counter

You asked for it … you know you wanted it ... now you got it.

It’s one of the rare Friday nights that I work – because we all know that I can’t get enough of the House of Wal – and I’ve yet to find a man wealthy enough to keep me in the style to which I could become accustomed.

I’m alone at Customer Service – of course – trying not to think about how much my feet hurt. I’m sorting through a cart of returns and cataloguing the stuff that’s been stolen and already hating the fact that Christmas carols are playing on the speakers.

Suddenly Customer Service is mobbed with people. Old people. Young people. WOACAs. Tall people. Short people. Skinny people. Fat people. I think I even saw some Canadians. Not too much in the way of white trash though.

They are obviously all together, because they have the same T-shirt on, but I can’t quite make out the connection. Orange and white T-shirts don’t ring a bell with me for anything other than Tennessee football – and somehow, I don’t think that’s it for this group that is wandering around in the bowels of Florida.

ME: “Can I help ya’ll?”
THEM: “Yeah. We want to return these posts.”
ME: “Fence posts? We don’t sell fence posts.”
THEM: “No. Your stories.” Oh. You mean the ones I wrote? The ones you didn’t write? The ones you didn’t create? The ones you didn’t put out there?
ME: “What’s wrong with them?”
THEM: “We don’t like them.” Cause nobody like nothing they get for free.

ME: “Oh.”
THEM: “Yeah.”
ME: “What specifically was wrong with them?” Other than the fact that no one likes change?
THEM: “Did you really intend to regurgitate this same story all week long, but in a different style each time?” Yep. That’s pretty much what I said I was going to do. Yeah. One story, five times.

ME: Speechless. Realizing at this point that I have never misjudged something so badly in all my life. My first boyfriend. My second girlfriend. Any decision. Ever. In the entire history of time. This ranks right up there with Little Bighorn or the decision to invade Russia in the winter.

THEM: “Well, when we first started reading, you were kinda funny. We liked you then. The first few posts were fine. But the last ones in our RSS reader really sucked. They sucked hard. They sucked like a Lewinsky-bot. We want to return them. We didn’t hardly read them. They have the html tags on them and everything.”
ME: “But see, you did read them. I can’t give you money back on something you already read.” And you read it for free. Didn’t even click on my ads now did you?

THEM: “The posts didn’t look good – especially that Jane Austen mess. And don’t get us started on Gabriel Garcia Marquez and that priestess wench. We want some cash back. Right now.”
ME: “Well, do you got a receipt.”
THEM: “Naw man. We read it online. Books are so like last century.”
ME: “Well, you can’t have cash back without a receipt.”
THEM: “No. That is not acceptable. These posts were NOT ACCEPTABLE. It crashed my browser and I DEMAND MY CASH BACK!”

ME: “Look. Ya'll got them for free. On the Internet. And you don’t have a receipt.” Why are you complaining? If you hated it, wait a week. It changes, like the weather.
THEM: “I demand to speak with an editor immediately.”
ME: “I write it. I edit it. And you’re going to have to deal with it.”
THEM: “I still want a refund. And some free hosting for my trouble.”

ME: “Like I said. It was free. I can’t refund something you got for free.” This isn’t Wal-Mart. I’m not a spineless jellyfish of a manager. You can and will be getting the big N-O as an answer.
THEM: “Do you realize how long I’ve been reading here?”
ME: “And?” I realize you care. You care enough about me to leave hateful troll comments imploring me to stop even though I was clearer than glass about the fact that this was a five-day experiment.

THEM: “If you won’t refund these crappy posts, I’m going to take you off my RSS feed.”
ME: “Thank you for your feedback. Would you like a comment card?” When you’re done, drop them in that round can with the plastic Hefty bag inside. Please. Yes. Do take me off your RSS. If you're reading me on RSS, you’re not giving me ad impressions. And if you really dislike my writing enough to leave me a venomous comment, I’m not so sure I want you around anyway.
THEM: “This is stupid. If you want to keep your readers, stop it.” Don't drink too much of that there haterade now!
ME: “Thank you for your feedback, would you also like a comment card?”

THEM: “But we’re important. We are your readers. We demand to be heard.”
ME: “That’s right. I’m listening. I’ll never do anything like this again.” I SWEAR BY THE MANY ARMS OF SHIVA THAT I WILL NEVER DO ANOTHER TRIBUTE POST AS LONG AS I AM ALIVE. McDonald’s could take a lesson from me. Stick to what you know.

THEM: “I'll be back next week when things have hopefully gotten back to normal.”
ME: “You do that.”
THEM: “So we’re cool then? Can we get back to normal now?”
ME: “I guess so.”
THEM: “Good. But let that be a warning. Don’t stray from the path again.”
ME: “I can't deny the fact that you hate me, right now, you hate me.”

Regular posting resumes Sunday or Monday. And we have another guest post this week. Thank you for all your comments, emails and diatribes. Even if you hated it. ☺

Dirty Old Man: In the style of Hollywood

Here's the story: This old man came up to Customer Service. He had a pack of pinochle cards. He wanted regular playing cards. I told him the regular cards were out on Register 15 - about 20 feet away and within sight of Customer Service. His answer? "That's too far to walk." So I had to go get the cards and bring them back to Customer Service for this contrary old fart.

Now, here's the story as told by famous movie quotes. Every quote has the word “help” in it. I thought this was fitting, because my standard greeting is “Can I help you?”
Previously: Jane Austen | Old Testament | Gabriel Garcia Marquez
Previously: Stephen King | What's going on this week

Light. Camera. Action.

WORKER: "Pardon me...but I couldn't help noticing you noticing me..." About Last Night - 1986 CAN I HELP YOU?

MAN RETURNING CARDS: “Hi! My name is Brad Majors, and this is my fiancée, Janet Weiss. I wonder if you could help us. You see, our car broke down a few miles up the road... do you have a phone we might use?” Rocky Horror Picture Show, The - 1975 I NEED HELP

WORKER: "The world is full of complainers. But the fact is, nothing comes with a guarantee. I don't care if you're the Pope of Rome, President of the United States or Man of the Year, something can all go wrong. But go ahead, complain, tell your problems to your neighbor, ask for help and watch him fly. Now in Russia, they got it all mapped out so that everyone pulls for everyone else. That's the theory anyway. But what I know about is Texas, and down here... you're on your own." Blood Simple - 1984 WHAT DO YOU WANT?

CARD MAN: "Help me, Obi-Wan Kenobi. You're my only hope.” Star Wars: Episode IV - A New Hope - 1977 I GOT SOME STUFF HERE!

WORKER: "I'd love to help you man, but I ain't seen nothing since I stepped on that landmine in Vietkong back in '72. It was rough, very painful." Trading Places - 1983 DO YOU WANT TO RETURN IT?

CARD MAN: "Oh! Come and see the violence inherent in the system! Help! Help! I'm being repressed!" Monty Python and the Holy Grail - 1975 I GOT THE WRONG THING.

WORKER: "They're going for the biggest stash in the city. Where? You're the detective. Detect. Give me some help. Look where the men in blue hang out." McQ - 1974 GO TO REGISTER 15 AND LOOK FOR IT!

CARD MAN: "What more do you want of us??! We came all this way, no thanks to you. We did it on our own, no help from you! We didn't ask you to fight for us, but dammit, don't fight against us!! Leave us alone! How many more sacrifices?! How much more blood?! How many more lives?! Belle wasn't enough! Acres wasn't! And now this girl! Then take me!! [pause] You can make it, keep going!! Rogo!! Get them through!!!" The Poseidon Adventure - 1972 I DON'T WANT TO GO. I WALKED A LONG WAY. DO IT FOR ME!

WORKER: "The tortoise lays on its back, its belly baking in the hot sun beating its legs trying to turn itself over but it can't, not without your help, but you're not helping." Blade Runner - 1982 YOU WALKED IN HERE. CAN’T YOU WALK 15 MORE FEET?

CARD MAN: "I can't help it. It's in my nature." The Crying Game - 1992 AIN'T GONNA DO IT

WORKER: "Come on, God knows we have a game, its not like any of this helps anyway." A League of Their Own - 1992 WELL WHAT THE HELL DO YOU WANT ME TO DO

CARD MAN: "Do you know what I tell an alcoholic who wants me to help them? First, stop drinking." Skin Deep - 1989 OLD PEOPLE DESERVE RESPECT

WORKER: "It's even better when you help." To Have and Have Not - 1944 OLD PEOPLE SUCK HARDER

CARD MAN: "Don't just stand there! Do something! Help. Police. Murder." Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory - 1971 I WANT IT. GO GET IT. NOW. OR I’M GOING TO GET A MANAGER UP IN HERE.

WORKER: "I can't keep you here any longer... God has blessed us so much that I can't afford to feed you anymore. Couldn't you have your balls cut off? It's not as simple as that Nigel... God knows all... He would see through such a cheap trick. What we do to ourselves, we do to Him. You could have them pulled off in an accident. No... no... children... I know you're trying to help but believe me, my mind's made up. I've given this long and careful thought, and it's medical experiments for the lot of you." Monty Python's The Meaning of Life - 1983 I WALKED 26 STEPS TO REGISTER 15 AND PICKED UP A PACK OF PLAYING CARDS.

CARD MAN: "You know, not many girls today would give their panties to help a geek in contemporary society." Sixteen Candles - 1984 SEE, THAT WASN'T SO HARD NOW WAS IT?

WORKER: "We don't need your damn charity. Ponyboy, I wasn't trying to give you charity. I only wanted to help." The Outsiders - 1983 YOU GO TO HELL. YOU GO TO HELL AND DIE

CARD MAN: "I know, I know, you're workin' for Little Bo Peep, she's lost her sheep and you're gonna help her find em'." Who Framed Roger Rabbit - 1988 IS THAT ALL? I BEEN HERE ALL DAY

WORKER: "I did your job. Now help me do mine." Force 10 from Navarone - 19778 SIGN THE REFUND SLIP YOU OLD CUSS

CARD MAN: "Would you believe me if I told you this whole thing is an accident? I do believe you. That's what I want everybody to believe. Trouble is, it doesn't look like an accident and you're not here to tell me about it... I need you to help me here." Thelma & Louise - 1991 THAT’S RIGHT. GET IT. GET IT. GET IT. I WILL OFFER INSINCERE THANKS.

WORKER: "After all, what's a life, anyway? We're born, we live a little while, we die... By helping you, perhaps I was trying to lift up my life a trifle. Heavens knows anyone's life can stand a little of that." Charlotte's Web - 1973 UH HUH. YOU TREAT ME BAD OLD MAN AND IT DON'T MATTER TO YOU!

WORKER: "Help, I hate this job." After Hours - 1985 WAL-MART SUCKS.

Much credit goes to moviequotes.com. Your source for quotes on the go!

Previously: Jane Austen | Old Testament | Gabriel Garcia Marquez | Stephen King

Dirty Old Man: In the style of Stephen King

Here's the story: This old man came up to Customer Service. He had a pack of pinochle cards. He wanted regular playing cards. I told him the regular cards were out on Register 15 - about 20 feet away and within sight of Customer Service. His answer? "That's too far to walk." So I had to go get the cards and bring them back to Customer Service for this contrary old fart.

Now, here's the story as if written by Stephen King.
Previously: Jane Austen | Old Testament | Gabriel Garcia Marquez | What's going on

The last thin rays of the feeble winter sunlight shone off the gleaming glass doors of the suburban mega-store. The black asphalt parking lot seemed to stretch on for miles.

George Wilson shuddered, pulled the edges of his leather bomber jacket closer and tried not to think how the thousands of rows of straight lines of painted parking spaces resembled teeth in the mouth of a giant parking lot monster – and how far he was going to have to walk right down the middle of those rows of teeth to reach the doors.

“Nothing to do but start walking,” he thought.

“MISTER, HEY MISTER, LOOK OUT.” George could hear the screaming somewhere behind him. He broke from his reverie and looked back just in time to lunge to the side and avoid a whole line of shopping carts that had broken free of their machine and taken off, as if with a mind of their own, across the lot toward him. CRASH

Someone with a black Honda Accord was going to be very unhappy very soon.

“Hey, are you OK Mister? Them carts get loose sometimes. We tie a rope around them but sometimes it comes loose.”

“I’m fine. I’m fine. I just need to return something.”

“OK then. I’m real sorry Mister.”

George considered his narrow escape, gritted his teeth and continued walking.

Upon reaching the entrance, George was struck by how monolithic the building was, how it dominated the landscape around it, how it seemed to exert an inexorable pull on the shoppers to enter the maw of the sliding doors and spend, spend, spend.

Slide, chop, slide. Slide, chop, slide. Slide, chop, slide. Slide, chop, slide. Slide, chop, slide. George watched in fascination as the automatic doors slid open, then closed. Open. Closed. Three of them side by side by side – like the triple heads of hell hound Cerberus – devouring the livelihoods of all those who dared enter.

“Nothing to do but keep going,” he thought.

Once inside the triple doors, George saw that it was yet a few more yards to the actual entrance, where a blue-smock-clad worker stood guard over the store, murmuring to the oncoming swarm, tagging the people coming in and verifying the paper of the few able to scrape together the cripplingly penurious fees required to exit the mega-store.

It’s like the gullet on a creature from the deepest hells, George thought, you pass through the mouth and slide down right through to the stomach.

CLANG CLANG CLANG CLANG. George nearly jumped out of his skin at the sound of yet more carts coming into the store. The sound brought to mind the gnashing of teeth, or the grinding of jaws of some inhuman monster of the dark gnawing the bones of the unwary.

“Nothing to do but keep going,” he thought.

George lurches forward, drawing his jacket tighter about him. The blue-smocked worker begins to speak and George decides to strike first, before any destructive spell can be cast. “I JUST WANT TO RETURN THIS.”

The worker looks taken aback, but nods and shoots a sticker from her gun onto the pack of playing cards in George’s hand and points toward the Customer Service counter further down the store.

Taking a deep breath, George steps onto the shiny white tile surface and into the cacophony of aural, visual and olfactory pollution that is a suburban mega-store.

The assault on his senses was deafening in every way.

The bright florescent lights shone down from above, from points perched somewhere in the cavernous ceiling and only slightly less strong beams splashed back up again from below, reflected off the shining white floor.

The noise threatened to deafen him. A thousand beeps from dozens of cash registers. Shrieks from babies, screams from wronged customers, cries of hapless employees and the endless drone of buggies sliding across the floor combined to dull the senses and cloud the mind.

“Nothing to do but keep going,” he thought.

George jerked himself forward with effort, lunging toward the Customer Service counter. It was a predictable chaos. A double wedge of buggies sat like stone gargoyles guarding (or confining, George wondered) a single harried clerk.

There was a rogue’s gallery of customers with a white elephant selection of merchandise waiting for a return. Dead rosebushes. A watermelon. A live chicken.

One of the buggies standing guard reared up on its back two wheels and edged closer to the chicken, causing the crone with the chicken to deliver a hard smack with her staff.

George wondered if he had slipped past sanity into a waking dream. Surely he had not seen a live chicken nearly be devoured by a shopping cart – only to be fought off by a witch.

He shook his head and looked again. There was an old woman in a cornflower-blue pants suit holding a cane and white sweater folded over one arm. George could see that she had craft supplies, likely skeins of wool – in her shopping bag.

The line edged forward. George could hear the clerk talking to customers now. “Return or exchange?” “Sign here. PLEASE HELP ME! DELIVER THIS MESSAGE TO SOMEONE OUT ON THE FLOOR.”

George looked up, but a middle-aged woman returning some shoes was only signing her return receipt. It must be the ventilators causing George to hear things. “That’s it,” George thought. “I bet a place like this has huge air ducts. I’m just hearing the pipes rattling.”

The line inched forward. The man at the counter was arguing about returning a pack of pinochle cards. Although old, he appeared to George’s eyes to be perfectly healthy. He wasn’t in a wheelchair and had obviously walked from the parking lot to the store and into Customer Service without the aid of so much as a cane.

The clerk was becoming visibly frustrated. “Sir, I can’t go out and look for you a new pack of cards just because you want me to. There are many other people in line. It isn’t fair to make them wait because you don’t want to walk thirty feet over to Register 15 to get a new pack.”

The old man was resolute. “I’m not moving. I’m old and I’m tired.”

In his eagerness to hear the unfolding drama, George did not notice store employees adding more carts to the dozens already lining the walls of the Customer Service bay. The harried clerk finally snapped in his argument with the crotchety old man, slapped his hands down on the counter and said, “Look. You’re just going to have to wait. I’ve got to call someone to come help me out. I can’t make all these people wait because you’re old and stupid.”

Inwardly, George cheered. He saw the clerk pick up the telephone to dial for assistance and then saw a look of sheer terror mask the features of the clerk’s face. George turned and saw only three more employees adding yet more carts to the area surrounding Customer Service.

Carts now surrounded customers on all sides. Anyone wanting to return something had to pick their way through shopping buggies with all the care taken by soldiers picking their way through a minefield.

George thought this was rather careless and inconsiderate of the employees, but realized this was a low-wage, low-training dumping ground for the least well able to function of society’s wage slaves. He renewed his resolve never to shop here again after returning the items in his hand.

The line edged forward. A young mother with a toddler in an infant stroller and shopping bags hung off the handles rolled up to the counter. “I’d like to return my daughter, please.”

The harried clerk nodded unhappily.

George recoils in shock and shakes his head sure that he’s heard wrong. He looks again sees only that the woman has taken the child out of its stroller because it is crying and sat it on the counter. She is fishing for something in a shopping bag. “That must be her return,” thought George. “I really need to get my ears checked.”

The child began to howl louder. The screams covered up the sounds of the grinding of wheels as the buggies in the area began to push closer, trying to completely encircle the area around Customer Service.

Customers in the main store area were completely oblivious. SCAN. BAG. SCREAM. THAT RANG UP WRONG. SCAN. BAG. DISCOUNT. COUPON. SCREAM. YOU’RE DOING IT WRONG. SCAN. BAG. SCREAM. YOU SQUASHED MY BREAD. SCAN. BAG. SCREAM. I WANT A MANAGER.

George swept his gaze side to side. The entire Customer Service bay was a mass of buggies. It seemed like half the merchandise of the store was here instead of on the shelves.

Were the buggies edging closer? George didn’t want to believe it, but he didn’t remember that rusty cart with the wonky wheel from five minutes ago. It must be the heat. These big box stores never have good heating systems he told himself.

Up ahead, George could hear the clerk asking “Ma’am, do you have a receipt for this baby?” George dug his finger into ears in an effort to clear a non-existent blockage, desperate to believe that he simply didn’t hear the word “outfit” on the edge of that sentence. The child was starting to calm down now, although the mother seemed to be getting more emotional.

“We just can’t afford it,” George heard her tell the clerk. “We work all day and still can’t afford another one. Can I return the stroller and the diapers too?”

“If you have a receipt,” George heard the clerk say begrudgingly.

George thought to himself, “I hope I’m never that poor that I have to return baby clothes.

“Ma’am. This receipt is from last July. The return period on babies is 15 days. You’ve had little Carrie here for eight months. I’m sorry, but we can’t take her back.”

“WHAT DO YOU MEAN YOU WON’T TAKE HER BACK. I’VE GOT A RECEIPT. SHE’S IN GOOD CONDITION. YOU WILL TAKE HER BACK. I WANT A MANAGER RIGHT NOW.”

The clerk leaned over the counter. “Ma’am. Seriously. You need to calm down. Bad things will happen.”

“I’M NOT GOING TO CALM DOWN. I WANT MY MONEY BACK FOR THIS SHITTY BABY THAT SHITS ALL THE DAMN TIME AND DOESN’T EVEN TALK YET AND YOU’RE GOING TO GIVE IT TO ME.”

George couldn’t believe he was hearing this. He looked straight ahead, transfixed by the scene that was playing out. Then he heard a cluck-cluck. It was a chicken. The old woman in front of him really DID have a chicken.

She was talking to George. “Dearie. Dearie. I say dearie. You need to pay more attention. We need to back up. There’s about to be a scene here. Can’t you see the buggy-horde getting ready to attack? Dearie? You don’t’ look so well.”

The buggy-horde. It was real. It was very real. What was once a pack of purchase conveyances was now a metal mass of grinding wheels and razor-sharp teeth transformed instantly into a living, breathing killing machine.

“But …” George sputtered. “But what about …”

“Come dearie. We’ll go over to the café and have a coffee. The old man and the mother are history. Once they start to make a scene they’re a goner. There’s nothing you can do. Those are the rules of the returns at the House of the Wahl. Satan is a manager. Hitler works in grocery. Now. Can you hold my chicken? I need to clear a path through the buggy-horde.”

Wordlessly George reached out to grab the chicken’s feet. The old woman brandished her cane with the skill of a hockey pro, sweeping a path through the ravenous metal creatures.

Behind him, George began to hear screams. First a loud wail from the mother, then a high, thin scream from the old man with the pinochle cards. The screams continued for a while, then nothing.

The next thing George heard was the tired, oh-so-tired voice of the clerk “Maintenance to Customer Service with a blow torch and a mop. Maintenance to Customer Service with a blow torch and a mop.”

Welcome to the House of the Wahl. Do you have your receipt?

Dirty Old Man: In the style of Gabriel Garcia Marquez

Here's the story: This old man came up to Customer Service. He had a pack of pinochle cards. He wanted regular playing cards. I told him the regular cards were out on Register 15 - about 20 feet away and within sight of Customer Service. His answer? "That's too far to walk." So I had to go get the cards and bring them back to Customer Service for this contrary old fart.

Now, here's the story as if imagined by Spanish surrealist Gabriel Garcia Marquez.
Previously: Jane Austen | Old Testament | What's going on

An abuelo of the familia Contraria shambled up to the bargaining station perched high in the trees over the Amazon basin. The light shone off the beads of the abacus used to tally the figures; water droplets glistened on the flowers of the vines tangled in the trees. Customers clutching their leaf-wrapped purchases lined the footbridge leading to the station like a swarm of ants marching toward the downed carcass of a warthog deep in the rainforest.

A gigantic ebon Amazon clad only in a skirt of receipt papers and a necklace of register keys and obviously deep in grip of a mystic herb moved abacus beads seemingly at random, issuing pronouncements at whim, "Refund," "Credit," "Denied."

The line edged forward slowly, ever slower, seeming to spiral forever in the neverwhere between space, time, infinity and the dream-state of a golden flower unfolding its petals to the welcoming sun.

A tribal chieftain clutching a pack of bark etched with mystical markings and burned with insignia the meaning of which was and is remains unknowable to the modern man gave a deep sigh as he placed one foot in front of the other and moved at last forward onto the steps that meant he was next in line for service.

The ebon Amazon rattled her necklace of register keys, shook out her hair, which when unfurled from its bounds, would surely reach to her feet, and glared at the man who dared her wrath, the lines and the fury of the jungle to return sacred prayer cards.

“You, you, you. I have seen you in my dreams. You poison the jungle. You destroy the trees. You pluck the flowers and consume the resources. Why, why, why. Tell me why I should even deign to hear your worthless words?”

“My princess of the trees, I have seen the light. A great supernova of being and believing came to me in the stillness of the dawn and a heady reckoning lasted all the night and into the midday. These prayers are not the ones for me. I need special prayer cards, prepared by a priestess of the old blood.”

“One tree over, two stations down. Seek and you shall find. The visions are a message from the forest. The violet light of the dawn, the azure auroras of the morning, the red haze of the sun’s rays, these are warnings that you must heed. Take note and mend your ways and cast not back into sin. A new day is breaking. A new time is upon us.”

“Wench of the trees. I shall prune your branches like the winter frost. I am a chief in my own right and ruler of half the basin. I SHALL NOT WALK ANY FARTHER.”

The ebon Amazon began to glower. A furious rage was building.

She made an effort to contain the power that was the heart of her dark soul. The entire forest would suffer if she let loose the fury that sat barely leashed within her.

If she were to but give in to the powers coursing through her soul, generations would tell the tale of the Ebon Goddess and the Fury that Went Uncontained.

The Chieftain continued none the wiser. “Respect thine elders, wench. Fetch my goods for me and bring them back to me.”

The fury built. The sky darkened. The masses fled. The footbridge to the trading station began to rattle and planks began to fly.

Still the chieftain continued. “Have you no respect for me? I walked many miles through the treetops here today. I can go no further. I demand the service due to me, for the simple fact is that I am old and believe that this entitles me to something for simply surviving.”

The Amazon’s resistance, built over many years of deflecting the worst of what her customers could throw at her, crumbled. The walls of reality split. And split again.

The sky turned as black as night. Then yellow. Then red. Then finally day became night and day again and the clouds turned a horrid putrid green.
The keys on the Amazon’s necklace, which had been clicking ceaselessly as if a million insects were locked in a battle to produce cacophony of noise worthy of a band of demons, stopped abruptly. The wind, which had been blowing furiously, as if a hundred giants were blowing out a hundred birthday cakes all at once, ceased to move. The treetops had been swaying as if locked in a soulful tango of fiery love; they fell still, as if locked in an embrace. But there was no love here. There was only hatred.

The Chieftain finally stopped his noisome squawking and realized that he was alone at the trading station. And the sky was green. And the Amazon was a sight to behold.

Her hair had come unbundled and was arrayed behind her head as if in a corona of the rays of a rising sun. Her eyes had lost their color and now a glittered with the light of thousand ingots of gold burning in the furnaces of hell and pulsed with the fury that only the scorned, the scorned, the scorned will ever know.

Lightnings crackled along the braids of the Amazon’s hair. Her face was a sable mask that contained within the deepest hurts, the unknown sorrow of a thousand years of shopkeepers. She leaned over her abacus and turned the awesome hurricane of her rage unabated on the chief.

The forest stood still. There was not a sound. Not one tiny fly moved a single wing for mile. The trees themselves held their leaves close, for fear the fury would fall upon them. Flowers held their petals fast. The worms in their burrows held tight. The waters of the rivers stopped, as if suspended in time.

The Chieftain dared speak. “I …”

The single word was his last.

The sky was rent with a tear so wide it seemed a seam was ripped in the very fabric of time. A source-less nimbus of flame appeared at the feet of the unworthy chieftain and began to burn. With the light of a thousand suns and with the anger of a thousand harried shopgirls, it burned.

In no time at all, the chieftain was but a pile of charred ash.

The wind began to blow.

The flowers on the vines strung along for miles unfurled their mighty blossoms. The sun’s rays shined down in beneficent harmony and joyous love upon the Amazon. The creatures of the rainforest returned to their labors, their loves and their lives. The customers of the trading post took their places in line.

A passing breeze blew away the remains of the chieftain.
Puff. He was gone.

The Amazon straightened her skirt, her necklace of clacking key and righted her abacus.

She gave a broad smile to the next customer and called “How can I help you?"

Dirty Old Man: In the style of the Old Testament

So nobody liked Jane Austen. Seventy-four percent of poll respondents (92 of the 124 voters) hated it. Would it have been any better if I said "In the style of a Harlequin Romance?" Moving on.

Here's the story: This old man came up to Customer Service. He had a pack of pinochle cards. He wanted regular playing cards. I told him the regular cards were out on Register 15 - about 20 feet away and within sight of Customer Service. His answer? "That's too far to walk." So I had to go get the cards and bring them back to Customer Service for this contrary old fart.

Now, here's the story as written in the style of the Old Testament. (what's going on this week)

IN THE BEGINNING ...... Sam Walton saw that Wal-Mart was good. He created the florescent lighting. He created the hard tile floors. He created the Chinese laborers to create the poisonous merchandise. He created the Tire, the Lube and the Express. Finally, he created Man, for without man (and woman), the cash registers could not ring and bring bountiful tithes into the great and glorious temples that were the House of the Wal.

And unto Sam Walton was born Wal-Mart #1.

And Wal-Mart #1 lived for many years and begat Wal-Mart #2.

Wal-Mart was fruitful and multiplied.

Wal-Mart #2903 begat Sam's Club #1, which fed Egypt, Syria and Nubia throughout the lean years of the plague.

Wal-Mart was faithful to the teaching of their lord Sam. Once, during the battle of Piggly-Wiggly, Sam Walton prayed "My lord, I beg of you, lower thine prices so that we may continue to discount yet another day." The Lord of Low Prices complied and the Wal-Mart warriors slaughtered a host of cashiers from the retailer-states of Piggly-Wiggly, Freds and Kmart.

Wal-Mart was fruitful and multiplied.

Wal-Mart #3906 begat the Wal-Mart Supercenter, which in turn begat poisoned meat, shoddy Chinese goods and poor customer service to the masses.

The setting? Jerusalem, specifically a trading post in a marketplace in Old City.


MAN RETURNING CARDS: “And it be told thee, and thou hast heard [of it], and enquired diligently, and, behold, [it be] true, [and] the thing certain, [that] such abomination is wrought in the Wal-Mart.” Deuteronomy 17:14 I NEED HELP

WORKER: "Have all the gifts of healing? do all speak with tongues? do all interpret?" 1 Corinthians 12:30 WHAT DO YOU WANT?

CARD MAN: "I have therefore brought an oblation for the Lord, what every man hath gotten, of jewels of gold, chains, and bracelets, rings, earrings, and tablets, to make an atonement for our souls before the Lord." Numbers 31:50 I GOT SOME STUFF HERE!

WORKER: "Then let him count the years of the sale thereof, and restore the overplus unto the man to whom he sold it; that he may return unto his possession." Leviticus 25:27 DO YOU WANT TO RETURN IT?

CARD MAN: "Behold, I cry out of wrong, but I am not heard: I cry aloud, but [there is] no judgment." Job 19:7 I GOT THE WRONG THING.

WORKER: "Then shalt thou enquire, and make search, and ask diligently; and, behold, [if it be] truth, [and] the thing certain, [that] such abomination is wrought among you;" Deuteronomy 13:14 GO TO REGISTER 15 AND LOOK FOR IT!

CARD MAN: "I beseech thee, O Clerk, remember now how I have walked before thee in truth and with a perfect heart, and have done [that which is] good in thy sight." 2 Kings, 20:3 I DON'T WANT TO GO. I WALKED A LONG WAY. DO IT FOR ME!

WORKER: "And your strength shall be spent in vain: for your land shall not yield her increase, neither shall the trees of the land yield their fruits." Leviticus 26:20 YOU WALKED IN HERE. CAN’T YOU WALK 15 MORE FEET?

CARD MAN: "That the aged men be sober, grave, temperate, sound in faith, in charity, in patience." Letters to Titus 2:2 OLD PEOPLE DESERVE RESPECT

WORKER: "Great men are not [always] wise: neither do the aged understand judgment." Job 32:9 OLD PEOPLE SUCK HARDER

CARD MAN: "And it shall be unto you for a fringe, that ye may look upon it, and remember all the commandments of the Lord, and do them; and that ye seek not after your own heart and your own eyes, after which ye use to go a whoring:" Numbers 15:39 I WANT IT. GO GET IT. NOW. OR I’M GOING TO GET A MANAGER UP IN HERE.

WORKER: "So Moses brought Israel from the Red sea, and they went out into the wilderness of Shur; and they went three days in the wilderness, and found no water." Exodus 15:22 I WALKED 26 STEPS TO REGISTER 15 AND PICKED UP A PACK OF PLAYING CARDS.

CARD MAN: "Therefore I will give thanks unto thee, O Lord, among the heathen, and I will sing praises unto thy name." 2 Samuel 22:50 THAT’S RIGHT. GET IT. GET IT. GET IT. I WILL OFFER INSINCERE THANKS.

WORKER: "But even after that we had suffered before, and were shamefully entreated, as ye know, at Philippi, we were bold in our God to speak unto you the gospel of God with much contention." 1 Thessalonians 2:2 UH HUH. YOU TREAT ME BAD OLD MAN AND IT DON'T MATTER TO YOU!

CARD MAN: "And he stayed yet other seven days; and sent forth the dove; which returned not again unto him any more." Genesis 8:12 IS THAT ALL? I BEEN HERE ALL DAY

WORKER: "And the Lord said unto Moses, Write thou these words: for after the tenor of these words I have made a covenant with thee and with Israel." Exodus 34:27 SIGN THE REFUND SLIP YOU OLD CUSS

CARD MAN: "But bade them farewell, saying, I must by all means keep this feast that cometh in Jerusalem: but I will return again unto you, if God will. And he sailed from Ephesus." Acts 18:21 I’M GOING TO LEAVE NOW.

WORKER: "And if he smite him with an instrument of iron, so that he die, he [is] a murderer: the murderer shall surely be put to death." Numbers 35:15 I FEEL SOME SMITING COMING ON!

Much credit goes to biblelookup.com. Your source for verses on the go!

Yesterday's post, the much-maligned Jane Austen.

Dirty Old Man: In the style of Jane Austen

Here's the story: This old man came up to Customer Service. He had a pack of pinochle cards. He wanted regular playing cards. I told him the regular cards were out on Register 15 - about 20 feet away and within sight of Customer Service. His answer? "That's too far to walk." So I had to go get the cards and bring them back to Customer Service for this contrary old fart.

Now, here's the story as written in the style of Jane Austen.

Springtime in England used to smell of clover, of sunshine, of apples and roses and meadows and poesies. Springtime in England is the season of love - young love, puppy love, of men and boys and wenches and lasses and lovebirds and long country lanes - the love that makes women curl their toes and moan and men plead for a merciful Father who art in Heaven.

Springtime in dear old Blighty is not the province of busty shopgirls and gleaming mega-marts with floors of polished ecru stone.

Couponita with her dark brown hair struggled to remain attached to this mortal world. To care, to feel, to do, to be, to exist - it was all swiftly becoming an exercise of the utmost futility for her. The unceasing noise impeded on her love-shattered psyche only slightly as she moved as an automaton to a place at her register.

The lusty, skin-tingling memories of a month's worth of passionate midnight encounters and stolen kissable moments spent locked in an embrace with her married lover came crashing unbidden into her head. She lovingly fingers the colorful wooden beads strung along each section of her carefully tended coarse black hair and remembered ...

"My sweetest love, my darling cocoa princess, the burning fire in my loins blazes hot for you. ... Every day, every second we are apart is a ruination upon my heart. ... I cannot but look at you that I feel the furnace of my heart begin to fire. .... Tonight we must part .... my wife, she returns from gay Paree." Then only blackness, falling, despair ...

A sour old Yankee bumping his gnarled and polished wooden cane along the slick white tiles jerked the moody lass back to attention. The recycled air of the store hung low with the sour breath of the unwashed masses; the air was rent with the grasshopper hum of machinery and the shrill din of registers clanging ...

The saddened shopgirl curtsied deeply at the gentleman's approach. Despite her not-so-trifling troubles in the intrigues of romance, she cared deeply for her three-shillings-a-week job. The trifling few pennies made way plain to pay for incidentals such as those would be found necessary by a dashing young lass seeking lasting love, to wit rubbers of sheepskin and limitless supplies of raspberry lip gloss.

"Can I beg of your assistance lass? Purchased unknowingly did I these cards of gaming without the august knowledge that they were of the type commonly used to play that most dastardly French game - pinochle."

"Surely a fine gentleman such as yourself, who patronizes our shop daily, must have retained his bill of lading for the goods in question. We must have the properly authorized and notarized bills of lading to offer you a speedy refund and send the aforementioned product back to our suppliers back in the Rue Dauphine."

"My good lass, how sweetly simple you make the entire complicated process sound. But whilst my feelings of woe and unhappiness with the product are matched only by my general outlook on the sad betidings of life on this mortal coil, my only desire is to gain through means fair or foul a mere replacement for the mundane objects which my merry friends and I while way the afternoon at games of chance and merriment."

"My good sir, my fine old English gentleman, the objects of your heart's fondest desiring, the playing cards that you seek, they make their home not on Victoria Grove but merely a few short steps away at the register named in honor of the God-King of all France Louis Quince - Register 15."

A bellow of rage that resembles the sounds of a mad bull being boiled alive splits the air of the shop. Timid mothers seeking on the makings of Sunday dinner rush madly to cover the delicate ears of their toddling youngsters, least the foul-mouthed vitriol poison their delicate minds and blast the tiny bones of their ears into dust.

"This is a poor excuse for service that you dare trade to offer me. Loyal customers that such am I should never be asked to retrieve my own goods from your filthy, dirty and disgusting stocks like a common Irish peasant. I am old and infirm."

"My service with the British army during the conquest of the heathen savages of the boiling hot Raj is legendary. Meant to serve the lowly commoners are, for they are placed on that station in the wheel of life by the gods of the heavens above, who are surely not unfeeling to their lot in life."

"You, serving girl that you are, are meant to be the dog to this master, and I will not fetch and carry for you."

"Good sir, behind you stands yet more fine folk needing assistance for their own problems of dire and dread state. Can you in good conscience not force recognizance of the simple truth that those gentry have rights equal and unassailable as your own to service? Can this poor lass of a child in mine own good conscience leave mine appointed post for so little as a reason as to save such a fine gentleman as yourself a mere few steps?

“Wench, recognize thy betters,” roared the Yankee, stilling the massed crowds and drawing stares of utmost pity for the poor, pitiable, tired and bedraggled English lass left to deal with such a surly and unruly, bitter and unrepentant, disreputable and sour old wretch of an excuse for a human being.

The girl sighed deeply inward, to her toes, nay, to the very depths of her despairing soul, drawing strength from the thoughts of the stolen kisses, the memory of the burning touch of her lover’s flame-tinged fingers making circles along the knobs in her spine and caressing the mounds on her breasts. She took a step, then another and another and yet another from behind her register. “If I may but serve you my liege,” she shot sarcastically and in an evil glare. “I will return in good order and in a short time with the right and proper merchandise as such is required by such a fine old gentleman such as yourself.”

She lurches over to the display as if existing in the state of a perpetual walking, waking dream, unable to see, to hear, to feel or to bear the pain of living life. Snatching the proper merchandise to make this horrid creature leave her sight, her sound, her very life, she runs as if for her life back to her appointed post as if the very hounds of hell were nipping her heels and causing the rips in her stockings and sniffing the soles of her feet.

“Are these the goods in question to complete the requirements of your much discussed and previously maligned gaming experience, my taunting, teasing, nefarious, black-hearted soul of a gentleman?”

Ledgers. Inkpots. Scribbles. Paper. String. Packages.

Later that night …..

“Couponita?”

“Oh my love, I knew you would come. I knew you would not desert my lonely heart’s ship upon the storm-tossed seas of fate, to be tossed like tiny craft left adrift in a hurricane of emotion. Take me my Lord, take me ….