Warning, OUTRAGEOUS is a series of filth, swearing, insanity and gross images. The easily offended (and not so easily) and anyone under about 35 should stop reading right now!
I was queuing at the checkout of my local supermarket the other day when a query by the shopper in front of me caused a somewhat annoying and lengthy delay. The gentleman in question was attempting to buy three cases of lager beer, which he claimed the sign had offered for a mere ten pounds. The till girl politely informed him that the three for ten offer actually referred to three individual packs of four cans and not the three entire cases he was hoping to whisk away in his otherwise sparsely laden trolley, but he was having none of it.
The shopper disagreed vehemently with the young bean-swiper’s assertion, forcing the flustered and badly uneducated girl to summon a supervisor to aisle 43 to further explain the situation. On arrival, the ageing female supervisor did her best to placate the agitated shopper, but he seemed unable or possibly unwilling to grasp the complexities of the store’s clever marketing ploy and began raising his voice in an angry, red-faced manner, drawing attention from the whole shop.
Subsequently, attracted by all the shouting – and realising his brain-challenged colleagues required his assistance – a suited-and-booted floor manager was next to appear on the scene. Utilising his superior technical knowledge and bringing into play his recently acquired one day diploma in customer care skills, this more authoritative employee attempted to iron out the wrangle. Keeping his youthful face as waxy and damp-looking as possible, Keanu, as his name tag proclaimed him, tried to calm the troubled waters of his section, like some chav Henry Kissinger of the retail world, clearly hoping to justify the extra seventy-two pence an hour his employer was lavishing upon him.
The over-heated shopper was not to be persuaded, however, and was visibly shaking with temper. Silencing the three shop staff with wild gesticulations, thick saliva coming to a froth at the corners of his mouth, he began to restate his position even more loudly and vociferously, bellowing about thieving corporations, trade descriptions acts and knowing his f-ing rights. Heart set on having his cheap beer, no amount of explanation was going to sway him.
Finally, now having missed “Sponge Bob Square Pants” on TV and more than a touch exasperated by the hold up, I drew a World War II bayonet from my right sock and proceeded to massacre the till girl, the elderly female supervisor in the middle of her second hot flush since arriving on the scene and the beautifully turned out young manager, Keanu. I saved the deliberately obtuse punter who had been trying to get all that beer at such a knockdown price until last, pushing my bayonet slowly up one of his nostrils until his face became even slacker than it already had been.
At the end of my butchering frenzy and obviously equally peeved by the unnecessary delay to their busy timetables, the other members of the queue warmly applauded my savage intervention and admonished me to go quickly before less sympathetic outsiders came who might not understand the reason for my bloodthirsty deed. From past experience, I knew their doom-laden warnings were born of wisdom and while loath to leave my new-found friends, I thanked them for their support, turned on my heel and fled.
Exiting the shop via the automatic sliding doors, I stood and scanned the car park for my swiftest route to freedom, finally deciding to leave by way of the petrol garage, thus allowing me to pick up a pint of milk and a chunky Kit Kat on my way through. Before making good my escape and hoping to at least get home in time for “Countdown”, however, one last pressing chore demanded my attention. And so, seeking out the work-experience trolley collector by following the sounds of squeaking wheels and tuneless whistling – approaching police sirens still some distance away – I slit the spotty-faced oik’s throat from jug ear to jug ear and bled the fucker to death like a Halal butcher bleeds a goat.
I didn’t put an end to his sad dead-end career because the lad had ever caused me any particular problems, you understand, but simply because I didn’t like the look of the oafish teenage cunt. Or his wanky baseball cap.
Solved his problem acne for him.