Big Shotticus Gas Pumpicus

by James MacLaren

This creature bears a passing resemblance to Slobbus Melancholis Rolex.

Parked the lexus at the pumps and all’s well, right?

Wrong.

Apparently the credit card machine out on the pumps has fucked up and informed him that he’s spent thirty dollars when he’s only spent ten or so.

You, in your blissful ignorance, are utterly unaware of any of this as you take care of the store full of people stacking up at your counter.

Enter Big Shotticus.

Taking in the scene, you and a line of a half dozen folks, he attempts to jump the line. But he’s a sneaky bastard, and doesn’t want to incur the wrath of the line standers. So he sorta sidles up to you, hanging out over at the other cash register. The one that’s closed. The one with nobody behind it.

You catch a glimpse of him out of the corner of your eye, size him up for the complete prick that he is, and proceed to ignore the hell out of him, all the while smiling and chatting away with the folks who had the good grace to get in line like they were supposed to.

Big Shotticus is not amused.

Finally, with a breath of expelled air, he waddles over to the line and takes his place at the rear. His corpulent face is already one shade of red darker than it was when he entered the store.

As he stands there, giving every possible body language signal that’s possible to indicate his impatience, you go out of your way to engage each and every customer ahead of him in chitchat, burning up as much time as possible with each and every one of them.

Finally he’s there before you. And he’s got a buddy. Another Big Shotticus. This one’s an accountant in town and is also a complete prick. Arrogant and lacking the most basic social skills.

Big Shotticus Gas Pumpicus informs you of the fuck-up out on the gas pumps, waving the receipt in front of your face. “What are you going to do about it?”

“That’s a management decision, I can’t do anything at all.”

“What the hell do you mean, you’re not going to do something about it? I’m sure as hell not going to pay thirty dollars for gas I never got.” His New York accent only adds to his unpleasantness.

Smiling sweetly, you inform him that you’re not permitted to just hand people money out of the till. It’s a no-no.

His buddy, the accountant, sneers in your direction, looks back at Big Shotticus, rolls his eyes, and gives a little smirk.

Big Shotticus is by now just STEAMING.

He can’t seem to rub any of his pissy mood off upon you, and he can’t get his stupid thirty dollars.

“Why in hell does the manager have to do this?” Rising blood pressure.

Play stupid now, “I don’t know.” Deadpanned.

“Where’s the damn manager?” Face turning a lovely shade of red.

“She’s gone. She’ll be back tomorrow.”

“When?!” Veins starting to show on the neck that supports his ugly mug.

“Regular business hours.”

“What the hell are regular business hours?” he fairly shouts.

Keep playing dumb. “Well I guess that would be Monday through Friday, nine to five.”

By now he’s nearly apoplectic and his accountant buddy is starting to get pissed off too.

“Well goddamnit to hell, I’m gonna get some goddamned satisfaction before this is over!” And he storms out of the store, tossing an “Asshole!” in your direction over his shoulder as he departs.

“Have a nice day.”

Laughter from the common folk standing in the line, shaking their heads over this guy’s high-handed idiocy.

Fuck off, asshole.