The Hospitality Diaries. Chapter 2.
Posted By Jason – 27.07.2012
My first food industry job was at KF fucking C. It was a miserable job for more reasons than are psychologically safe to recall, so I’ll give you the quick tour beginning (and ending) with Gary.
Gary was the manager. He was in his late forties, over six-feet tall, and sported the fluffy ‘just washed’ hairstyle popular with a lot of arseholes around that time. Gary was a fucker, and he had the worst breath of anyone I ever met. When he opened his mouth a loathsome mist of vomit, semen, and baked human shit rent the air. It was ‘look-away’ breath, meaning it actually caused you to involuntarily look away when he spoke. Like most halitosis sufferers (inflictors), Gary was oblivious to his problem, and he read the looking away thing as insubordination. Consequently everyone was always in trouble, especially me. Gary didn’t like me at all. It might have been because I was frequently late, or because I was one of the weaker workers on the team, but mostly I think it was because I hated Gary’s putrid, black guts and there was no way in hell I could disguise it. He was a complete and utter (and you know I wouldn’t use this word unless it was absolutely necessary) cunt. My god, I hated Gary. I still do. When I started the job he was okay, but the more he wilted me with his gruesome breath, and the more I saw him deliberately brush his crotch against the arses of the girls, the more I wanted him to die. Gary sensed this and eventually fired me. It was the first and only time I’ve been fired, and, boy, did I go out with a bang.
I turned up to work ten minutes late and noticed there was one too many dudes stripping the burgundy colored offal from the never-ending pile of chicken parts (Incidentally, the chicken came in big garbage bags and had been cut into its different segments with an electric saw. The edges of sawn bone were razor sharp, and you’d cut your hands to ribbons while de-offaling the bastards). I looked at the schedule to see if I’d come in on the wrong night. Lo and behold, my name had disappeared from the roster. I walked into Gary’s office and demanded an explanation.
‘It’s not working out’ farted Gary’s mouth. ‘I’m sorry but we’re going to have to let you go, Jason.’ Let you go.
I said ‘cool’ and marched back to the change room to do what I had wanted to do since my first day. Pants, shirt, belt, nametag and visor all went into the toilet and I flushed and flushed until it was sure it was well and truly fucked.
‘Fuck you, Gary’ I said, and turned to leave. As luck would have it, Gary was standing right behind me. I’d been caught in the act. I pushed past him and he grabbed me by my t-shirt. ‘You can clean that up now.’ He said. I told him he better take his hands off me or I’d press charges. He said he would press charges against me for damaging company property. I told him I’d report him for sexual abuse. He tried his hardest to look dumb and said, ‘what sexual abuse?’ He let me go then, and I let him have it. ‘I’ve seen you, Gary, and I know what you’re doing, we all do. You think the girls don’t talk about it? You think they don’t notice you rubbing up against them, you sick bastard?’ Gary’s face went bright red and he began stalking back to his office. I called after him.
‘I’m going to blow the whistle on you, Gary, you big ugly Sasquatch! You’re going down!’
He stopped, turned, and stormed back. He raised his fist and made to strike me with it, but I was too fast. With one hand I deflected the clumsy blow, and with the other I delivered a powerful palm-strike under his chin, sending his skull back and snapping his spinal cord. Gary lay on the floor twitching and gurgling, his head bent back at a nightmarish angle. The staff gathered round and we watched him in silence. Then Naomi Pitts squatted over him and drenched him with hot piss.
Next week: I used to polish glasses in a French restaurant!
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