Part One

This job sucks. How many years have I worked here now? Nine years? I’m still making a barely livable wage. I should have joined a job with a union. Rather, we here should for a union.
Car Salesmen Local .343
Re-fucking-diculous. Who is that buzzing? Ah. The valued customer. Harold? No. Hank? Something with an “H”. Definitely an “H”.
“What year is this?” He asks, pointing at some model of car or another. I hardly pay attention to these shmucks anymore. Every day the same-ol’-same-ol’. They come, the look, they leave, wasting my sitting around time. I look at him, trying to convey my anger through the most subtle eyebrow movements and narrowing of the eyes. He stares back with the stupid eyes of a cow. Fucking Harvey. Whatever.
“I’m pretty sure it’s an ’04.” It’s a lie. I have no idea what year this is. It could be a model-t for all I care.
“Hey now, I said I wanted an ’05. Why would you waste my time with this?” Hal has been like this the whole time: angry, blunt, loud, stupid, fat. He probably jacks off to that weird Japanese shit. God how I hate him.
“Yes, sir, sorry.” I say without looking at him. I stare instead at the car, intense and unmoving. The car stares back. A contest begins. I stare, the car stares back. The car wins when I break away to follow Henry down through the lot to whatever sporty piece of shit he has picked out this time. I silently pray for a roc to come screaming out of the sky and pick this waste of flesh up and carry him away. Then I could go inside and stare into space without getting yelled at by Boss.
Fuck. It’s some monstrous SUV. Why would someone waste their time with these hunks of ass when gas is 3 bucks a gallon? But good ol’ Herbert coos like a father over a new son, running his fat hands over the hood, pressing his piggy nose against the window and admiring the interior. “What year is this?” He asks.
“What? Oh. Its an-”
“I said what year is this one!”
“’05. Gets stellar mileage, it’ll run longer than you.” I say. He laughs at my witticism, not knowing that I just cursed him to die tomorrow. I pray my curse will work. Then I smile back at him, thinking of the heresy I have just committed.
“How much?” He asks, looking at me and ignoring the Day-Glo price on the window.
“32 grand.” I reply. I laugh to myself, at good old Harvey. Once Man was a mighty warrior, and now he is reduced to buying over-priced cars and sitting around jacking off to Jap porno while people like me sit around and wish a thousand deaths on them.
“25.” He says, giving me a stare that I’m sure he thinks is intimidating.
“32 grand.” Why should I bend to this prick? The window says 32 grand. That’s the price.
“24.” He says, frowning slightly.
And that is it. The last straw. 27 years of hatred and angst against my fellow man bursts forth from my lips.
“Listen, prick, it says “32000” because that’s the fucking price. Do you go to McSuckass to order your shitty super-sized heart attacks and try to bargain? No. The menu says five bucks, and you pay the five. But you come here, and you think corporate America will bend to your will? ‘I am consumer, hear me roar!’ Egads. People like you are the reason we are hated in every other country around the world. And why the fuck even argue when you’re going to buy this ugly piece of pig-shit? You’re gonna pay the money in gas anyway, you stupid fuck. Either pay the 32000 or go find a nice train track to lay your goddamned head on.”
For a moment, Hugh is confused. Then he gets angry. “Listen to me…”
I stop listening.
I start walking.
He grabs my shirt.
I turned around and nailed him in his little, piggy eyes. My fist feels dirty afterwards. He falls on his fat ass, bouncing a little. His cell phone falls out of his pocket and breaks. He looks up at me in blind anger. I turn and walk away. I got in my car, and started to drive away. As I did, I looked up and saw ol’ Hector storming off to the main office.
Whatever. I never liked this job anyway.