Touch the shelves and you die.
There are a few customers who make me want to declare myself in such a fashion. Cuss-tumors if you will. The worst, for obvious reasons, are the regulars. Sure, there are those pestilent poltroons who will wander in, incite me to vengeful irritation, and then leave to pollute other stores in their quest toward being garroted with a string of anal beads in some dark alley. But it is an exquisitely disquieting sensation to recognize the face coming in the door and know there is a mess for you to clean up that has not happened yet. Hurricane Punter is headed toward the unprotected
There is a sawed off Latino man who hits this store on almost a daily basis. On the plus-side, he likes the store and spends his money here every time he happens in. We like money. Ultimately, it is our raison d'etre. Your libido pays my rent. How-fucking-ever, the little bastard cannot seem to ever select a movie for his previewing pleasure without totally trashing the entire gods bedamned section. Thank you. I am ever so happy to be spending my time picking up after you, because after all, we have no other customers whatsoever. Nobody else in the whole bloody world might be coming in behind you and inconvenienced that you've left all the neatly displayed movies in a shambles. Add in the fact he will frequently leave the arcade room he visits in such a state that I thank my lucky stars the owner has a man on staff to clean, and I find myself doing a fast assessment of where the line of "worth it to keep him as a customer" lays.
Then there is a man with a strong Russian accent who comes in from time to time. People blocks away were probably aware of the toy he was interested in buying on those occasions. The man cannot seem to converse in tones below that needed to be understood at a shuttle launch. On the launch pad. Without ear protection. That is of itself quite bad enough. The cayenne oil on the steel wool condom though is that he will invariably ask for assistance in selection that he will reject out of hand. I'm already trying to get your bellowing ass out of my store as quickly as I can, and then you decide to waste my time and attention on top of it? The only mitigating factor preventing me from kicking his dictatorial arse to the curb is that he drops at least a hundred bucks each time. Yeah. I'm a mercenary bastard.
Oh well. You play the game, you take your chances.
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