One of Springfield's Finest?

A couple of days ago, a really rotten person caused a really huge stink in the pet store where I work.

If I could find adjectives to describe The Really Rotten Person in glorious detail, you'd need several days to read this rant.

The Really Rotten Person did some interesting things. He asked the price of a saltwater lion fish. No big deal, you say, stifling a yawn. Well, the price was clearly marked on the tag reading "Black Voltan Lion Fish, $39.99."

Which tag, may I mention, he tucked behind another tag.

The assistant manager, who was his chosen victim that night (and she was indeed his chosen victim -- he's done this before at two of our other stores) told him she believed it was forty dollars, but to go to the register and double check.

The Really Rotten Person did so. The silly little twit associate at the register gave him the first "lion fish" that came up. A fresh-water lion fish.

$12.99.

Quite a difference.

This is where The Really Rotten Person showed his true -- and loudly tattoo'ed -- colors.

He threatened our assistant manager. He told her he was a cop, and that he would make her life miserable if she didn't sell him the fish at the "quoted" price. He threatened her at length, repeatedly telling her that he is a cop, and would make her whole family's lives miserable.

She refused to sell him the fish at the drastically-lower price. He said he'd have her job. She said, "Fine."

The next day, he was back. Our store manager backed up his assistant manager, since, after all, she'd told him $40.00 to begin with. And The Really Rotten Person insisted on calling the office.

The Really Rotten Person must have been separated at birth from his Really Rotten Brother. Because our new, Wal-Martian district manager forced us to sell the fucking son of a bitch the fucking fish at the fucking bargain-basement price, despite the fact that forcing us to bend over and spread 'em for this fucking son of a bitch lying bastard not only made our managers look like complete idiots, it reinforced the fucking son of a bitch's belief that he can come into our store and fuck us over any goddamn time he wants to, because our own fucking upper management will hand him the goddamn tube of KY Jelly.

Why did I title this rant, "One of Springfield's Finest?"

Because, mes amis, if this fucking son of a bitch really is a cop, he's a cop who should be castrated. He's a cop who, like so many of the cops in our fair city of Springfield, Missouri, has decided he can use his "copness" to browbeat and harrass the people he's supposed to protect. From fucking son of a bitch bullies. Like himself.

I think the whole concept of our Wal-Martian district manager deserves a rant all its own, don't you?

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