Not Sorry

Posted on Wed 29th May, 2019 @ 6:48pm by Carlo Rienzi

317 words; about a 2 minute read

MD-4, 0300

I am so pissed off, I could spit nails. I want to go down to the gym and find a punching bag, the body-sized kind.

So there I was at the pub tonight, cleaning glasses, doing the usual thing. A guy and his girl come in around one in the morning after seeing Phantom, I'd guess from the clothes they were wearing. It's obvious it's a first date, because she doesn't act all lovey-dovey with the guy, just, you know, polite, like she's interested but doesn't know him well.

And then he points out to her one of the pictures of a police dog on my wall. When she turns to look at it, I see him slip something into her drink.

The hell?! In my bar? No. Effing. Way.

So I move over to where they are and start chatting to them. I almost just snatched up her drink and dumped it down the drain. I would've done that if she'd reached for it. But I was so pissed that I cozied up to them and started pointing out other old photographs. Thank God for social dutifulness. While their backs were turned, politely looking to where I pointed, I switched their drinks. They were both drinking Jameson's, too, which made it easier.

Two minutes later, the guy is all sick and dizzy and saying he needs the men's room.

I should've kicked him into the urinal. Instead, I helped him inside, let him upchuck it, and he passed out. I told the Security guy who was sitting at one end of the bar what had happened. He collected the guy and his glass. I volunteered to give him the camera footage.

Yeah, I'll probably get sued over it, but I don't care. I would do it again in a heartbeat.

And the woman? The Security guy asked her out.

 

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