He slid a twenty across the vinyl top. "You don't have any smaller bills?" The cashier was a fat man with a red nose and bug eyes connected without neck to his shit stained uniform and name tag, Derin. The background continued to whirl with activity as the employees hurried to meet the ceaseless demand.
"sorry bud, nothin' doin'."
Derin had never taken guff from anybody back on the schoolyard, but sure enough he reached into the register and forfeited the owed allotment and what were some of his last bills. Bill pulled his wallet out and shoved the money in. He filled a cup with rootbeer and spit on the floor. No smoking and the bitch working the milkshake machine saw him spit.
"This ain't a barn we're runnin' sweetie. I'm gettin' paid beans and don't need your help to make my day shit!"
"If this ain't a barn then why do I see so many jackasses in front of me."
The obese nuclear family in the corner of the restraunt felt the tension and half a baby started to cry. Bill was picturing her without her form fitting chinos or awful brown uniform. He liked what he saw. She ruined her milkshake.
"We don't have to fuckin' serve you neither, now get the hell out of here!"
"No way, I paid four dollars fifty for a burger and fries and thats what I'm getting."
"You ain't gettin' shit!"
"Then give me back my fucking money!"
"Get out of hear you fat fuck!"
"Fuck you!" He flung the rootbeer over the counter and into the kitchen as he stormed out to his '91 Prizm. It hit a rack above the grill then splashed rootbeer over 25 lbs of ground beef. Ted, the grill cook, dashed out after him and Derin farted.
A kid who started that week asked what they should do with the spoiled meat.
She glared at him, "What the fuck do we care, flip em'."
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