Hey everyone. I know it's been a while, and I'm sorry for that, but I'm finally delivering on at least one part of that continuation that you've been asking for. Read on for more adventures, more misadventures, more personalities, and most importantly, those moments where you find yourself doubting whether you're reading fictional stories, or actual occurrences. If there's anything I want to stress in this mini-series I'm doing, it's that all of these stories are true, except all of it never happened in real-life (Hint: that disclaimer ;]).
Once again, I'd like to apologize for the lack of updating. The way I'm writing all this, I have to set aside a huge chunk of time for an update. Example : as of the last hour-and-a-half I've been writing, I'm about 90% finished with Gay's story. Wracking my brain to perfect wordings, voices, and then presenting it all in a nice package takes a lot of work and concentration.
There are also other setbacks, as I learned the hard way five minutes ago.
"What happened five minutes ago, Josh?! Tell me now, I'm so scared!!", my biggest fan cried.
You know how I said I was just about 90% finished with Gay's story? I was trying to finish it on the original page, and ran out of room (which I didn't know existed), so I cut it from that page and started this one. As I was creating this one, the fonts kept fucking up, so I made what I realize now was a fatal mistake, and copied/pasted a period in the proper font, so any further typing would conform to it.
I wound up losing about 300 words, which sucked, but I'm not gonna give up on this.
Update: Five hours later, here's a new continuation. Much, much, more than I intended to write, but there's a lot of new stuff, including: an expanded-upon scene that can be equated with purple acid trip into a brutal alternate reality, and my first experience with the emotion of HORROR. Enjoy.
The Gay Incident, Part II (v1.5)
Several grunts later, Gay looks like a middle-aged male ballerina, standing on his tip-toes as he tempts fate trying to heft the new box of Dr. Schmepper syrup to the 6'-tall top shelf of the syrup racks.
As I see this, my mind's eye is flooded with visions of his gruesome demise:
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
His once-youthful back muscles are a thing of the past, and though it's a struggle to use them for even simple tasks, he believes he has one left in him. Gay is a single inch from securing the box into place, and a single inch from setting the right example for the young man he hopes to guide to success. But right at the last millimeter, his confidence, drive, and passion are cast aside as his own back gives up on him.
The box falls back onto Gay, sliding through his arms, and toward his sternum, threatening to knock the wind out of him. His back may have failed, but his legs still work, and he knows he doesn't need his back as much, now that the box is below his head. Gay instinctively decides to regain control using the power of his thighs. His instincts are the next thing to fail. As Gay catches the Schmepper, the sudden impact of the box and a full shifting of weight makes him stagger backward a few steps toward the ice machine.
Josh, who had recently refilled the restaurants ice, hadn't noticed the errant pieces of solidified water that had accidentally been strewn about during his duties. In Gay's recoil backward, he steps onto a hard and slippery cube: normally, it would be easy to crush with a shoe, but his awkward step and center of balance are enough to cancel out crushing force, and any slip resistance his shoes offer.
Gay is now airborne and in symphony with the soda, yelling out in curse. The lack of grace makes this look like a backflip gone wrong. In his peripherals, he notices that Josh kid diving for him, but he's too late. Fifty pounds of syrup and cardboard slam onto his face at the exact moment the back of his head collides with the hard tile. The combination of force cracks his skull. A movie-esque last exhale is heard. This is about to happen...
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
...Or so I thought. Thankfully, it never did. Gay was able to properly place the box, avoiding the bad thoughts I had about it. I quickly dismissed them, as it was entirely possible that the long work day had put me in a mood that made me doubt his abilities. Now that I think about it, though, it was most likely foreshadowing, or a sort of ill-omen about to come to fruition, just not in the way I expected it. Because, you see, this was not Gay's only test.
After a fitting, and well-expected breather, Gay was now to proceed to the next step of this soda process. It's at this point where Gay was given a choice, one that is most-often given to people defusing WMDs in action movies. There were two nozzles hanging on the side of this godly tier of the soda rack. He was to choose which one was the proper connection; the one that would ensure the good doctor would check up on his caffeine addicts once more to inject their taste buds with all twenty-one of his flavors. Was it the green one, or was it the red one?
I just want to say: If that soda was an explosive device, I would be dead right now.
I watched in slow-motion as Gay grabbed the green nozzle.
Clarification: When I said slow-motion, I meant he had mysteriously slow actions. These had a meaning to them that I didn't know about until after this incident; it meant Gay was hammered off Jager. Now that I have this knowledge, I detect these kinds of movements every day.
Anyways, Gay grabs the nozzle, and attempts to create a connection between the restaurant's taps, and the Shmepper. Almost immediately, a gush of brown syrup began to cascade down onto the floor, Gay, the liquor closet, and every other bag of soda - there's about fourteen of them.
A strange electrical signal fires off in my brain at the sight of the mess and lack of progress. I don't recognize it.
Gay swears. "Ah fuck. Why in the hell is it doin' dat?"
My mouth swings ajar as I watch him look at the nozzle, and then, once again, try to attach it. The idly hanging red nozzle became background object in the presence of the ongoing insanity. This time, after pushing the nozzle in, he attempts to screw it on as fast as possible. This time, it was a hearty helping of syrup, enough for at least twenty pancakes, made possible by the extra time spent attempting to screw it on.
That same strange electrical signal fires off in my brain at the sight of the mess and lack of progress. I recognize it, and my curiosity of its meaning stabs me in the back.
The feeling was of foreboding, dread, and fear coming true. That second, I discovered: it was horror. It was the first time I'd ever felt horror.
Let's do a stream of consciousness defining this horror:
Fucked-up shit is happening.
Fucked-up shit is getting worse.
My boss is creating fucked-up shit, and not stopping.
Bosses don't clean up fucked-up shit.
I clean up fucked-up shit.
My boss defends himself out loud, while still looking upon the nozzle, "I don't know why its doin' dat! I been changing soda for twendy years, and I have never seen it do dat." Reality throws itself out the window as Gay starts attempt #3, and this time it's a waterfall.
My hands put themselves on my head. I wanted to yell as loudly as possible at my boss to stop. I mouthed "WHY?" and pleaded to his back.
My boss recognizes his mistake. "Stupid shit." he mutters as he connects the red hose to the bag.
"Sorry boud dat, kiddo. You're gonna want to go ged a mop. We godda ged dis cleaned up or else fruit flies are gonna come in here."
"And a rag.", I say, knowingly.
"Nah, you don' need a rag. Just grab da mop."
I grab the mop/rag, and when I return, Gay has disappeared.
Fifteen minutes into the cleaning, Belinda, the bartendress comes in. She doesn't see me crouching with my rag, wiping away the caramel-like spots in places no man has cared (or had) to clean before. I'm unintentionally hidden behind the miscellaneous boxes, but she hears me.
"Who's there?"
"Me. Hey.", I sigh as I stand upright into her line-of-sight.
"Whatcha' doin' back there?", she questions, while picking up a large box of empty bottles Gay previously yelled at her for keeping.
"Just cleaning up Dr. Shmepper. 'Gay chose poorly.'"
Death is still lingering in my mind as I reminisce of a past Indiama Jones scene involving wrong choices.
"Musta' been that second triple-shot of Jager."
"OH! Yeah. Musta'.", I declare, as return to preventing fruit fly colonies.
Why do I avoid Gay?
I finished work at 8:50. I left Hell at 9:50.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
WHEW! That was a long one. I got carried away a bit. I know today was only the finisher of Gay's story/bio, but I do intend to start dishing out coworker bio's soon. Way sooner than this time. Thanks.
And uhh... stay away from Gay. ;)
No comments:
Post a Comment