The Customer is Always Wrong... Right.

So, as freaky as Friday gets, Mondays are becoming the new Fridays, which used to be Wednesdays, and were Thursdays before that. We're not quite sure what day it was before the invention of time, like, you know, more than 30 years ago.

So, ol' Herr Starr ain't feeling the best today. Bad cold make Starr grumpy sumbitch. So the last thing I needed was an uppity asshole trying to tell me how to do my job.

Imagine if you will... It's raining outside when a grey-suited business-type man prances into the store, huffing and puffing and shaking water freakin' everywhere. Whilst he's dripping everywhere and trying to slick his greasy hair back into place, he stumbles up to the counter, and seeing me on my own, proceeds to ask me (in a gravelly geeky voice) "Excuse me, do you have the 300 Annual?"

I stare at him for a few seconds, giving him the usual half-lidded stare.

"Do you mean", I say, "the 300 hardcover?"

"No, no", he insists, "Frank Miller drew it as an Annual years ago and then released it after that into like, a collected edition" he says, sagely nodding at his idiotic incorrectness.

I sigh, and decide to correct him. I don't know why, and I really should know better, but I do it anyway. It's like sticking your testicles into a Shine-O-Ball-O. You know you shouldn't do it, but the fascination is there. So, I very levelly say "No, it's a hardcover. It's only available in a hardcover format. You can't get it any other way".

Nup. Gray-Suit ain't buying it. "Look," he says, "I've done my research. It was an Annual."

I sigh again. Fine. It's an Annual. It can be the freakin' Shroud of Turin. I just want this to end.

"So, do you have a copy?" he quips, still dripping like a sweaty shark with slowly expanding body odour, not unlike a fetid swamp in the middle of summer... on Mercury.

Now, this is the point where, in the back of my head, i start rubbing my hands. Nothing feels better than correcting an inane, self-important twit who's seen a film and all of a sudden wants everything connected to it - now. Right now.

"I'm sorry mate", I say, with every ounce of false apology I can muster, "we're out of stock".

He stares at me for a full five seconds, before he stammers on. I could've read 'War and Peace' in the interim. "What do you mean you're out of stock? How can you be out of stock of the most popular book in the world?"

I pause. "I'm sorry, we don't stock the Bible".

While he stares at me somewhat dumbfoundedly, I continue. "And about, oh, several thousand other people have come in, purchased the 300 hardcover, and that's why we're out of stock". I didn't bother telling him it's also out of print. He may not know what this incredibly technical term may mean.

"We should have some more by the end of the week," continue. "Maybe."

He finally smiles a little, thinking he's in, and his worries are over. "Okay, can I have a copy set aside for me, and I'll come and pick it up?" Smiling, I say "No, I'm afraid we can't do that. We don't hold books. Just come on past and we'll see what we can do."

At this time, he just sorta half-smiled (slimed) and stammered again. "Uh, okay, yeah, I'll try that. Thanks. Yeah". He turns to leave, and before he hits the door to finally leave the store and possibly my life, he turns around and says "Are you sure you'll have copies this weekend?"

Help me Obi-Jeebus Kenobi. You're my only hope.

Freaky Friday.

What I don't understand is the whole concept of Fridays, being consistently the day where Freaks come out to infest. It seems that something changes in the air and the total freakdom begins to become really evident, and like a tapeworm, it cannot be denied due to it's insufferable irritation. It may seem disgusting to use that analogy but I am disgusted by them, so it all fits.

Some of these sub-species parade outside the store, wanting attention by acting like they are having multiple body spasms. Usually accompanied by malaise babble incoherently themed on the merits of them NOT being nerds because they are not in the shop. I don’t know what dancing like that achieves in regards to their goal, all I know is that they look like they need epileptic prevention medication, a counsellor to help them quit crack and for my wish for air to stop traveling into their lungs to come true.

But what really gets me is that they always come inside anyway.

One of them, was a tall blonde girl with a barely there dress that due to her raising her arms and jerking her shoulders she looked like she was suffering from some sort of dementia. The fact that she was singing loudly and off key, cemented the theory.

"Is it really quiet in here? Cuz I can't hear anything! Put your hands up! Put your hands up!" She says rather loudly while putting one manicured hand up to her headphones.
I quietly wondered if she was retarded.

Her body then began to quirk and convulse, like her skin had become an alien baby that wanted to rupture through the cheap black material she was wearing. Her friends, mortified, told her to stop, while quickly scanning for the "hot" emo "guys" with low hung jeans, who usually hanged around, greasily reading the Johnny the Homicidal comics. Fortunately for them (and us) they were not around, probably at home crying to the latest My Chemical Romance album while spending Mummy's money on Ice. That didn't stop the bitch from singing though.

"Put your hands up if you want her drop dead on the spot" Herr muttered.
Bullseye laughs and puts his hands up like an eager child who knew the right answer.
Laughing at his response I wasn't able to pick up the phone when it rang, not that I needed to, Bullseye is a little Pavlov with the phone, and he answered instead.

"Hello?" Bullseye answers. Apparently silence.
"Yes, can I help you?" He persists.
"Are you the owner of the store?" The lady answers.
"No the owner of the store isn't here, may I ask what's it regarding?"
"It's about your telecommunication needs, and what we can offer you."
"Well I can tell you, straight off the bat, that the owner will not be interested"
"When will he be in?"
"Sometime next week"
"Well I'll call on Monday, when you are not working". She hangs up.

Bullseye dropped the phone back on the receiver.
"Ha! I work on Monday's!" He yells at noone in particular.
"Guess the joke's on her huh?" I reply dryly.

I began to retell the story about when one time this high on drugs or perhaps drunk, or insane. I just can't tell anymore, guy came into the store and preceeded to walk a straight line from the front to the back 0f the store, claiming just how cool Superman was. At the top of his lungs. After that giggle, Karma decided to piss me off. I pick up the phone that time.

"Is my order shipped out yet?" said a nervous voice over the phone line.
"When did you place it?" I absentmindedly replied.
"Wednesday"
"Then it should've shipped today. All the mail was sent out a couple of hours ago."
"So I will be getting it in a few minutes?"
A pause.
"No you have to give it time to get to your house...it will surely get there after the weekend"
"Oh...." the dissapointment in his voice made me so depressed...that I seethe inwardly.

What is wrong with these people? You'd think they truly believed we employ the Flash to do our postal service. Either that or they are fucking morons. After today I am afraid to really ask myself that question, I know I'd be right either way.

Pink Tie Strikes Twice

I haven't finished with the Suited up guy with the pink tie. There is more. I just couldn't write the rest because Ming came into the store all dodgy like, and I needed to secure an hour extra on my work shedule. He tried to set up a fight between me and Herr Starr, claiming it was Herr who decided to close earlier midweek. I lost an hour and I needed to corner him and make sure he didn't cheat me.

Sometimes working at the store is like dealing with the Black market and all the shifty people within. I mean, there are days where I wake up and feel for my kidneys. Just to make sure they are still there. My soul being there is always questioned...you get the drift.

So after the Suit with the pink tie and his friend who had fluffy hair but a greasy smile had stopped talking to me, they really didn't have much of a choice, once someone stares at you with contempt, conversation somewhat dwindles. I slowly walk to the counter.

Rubbing my face in my hands I hear this voice:
"Excuse me, do you have any of those violent sexual comics?"
He is not talking to me, right? I look around, hoping one of my co-workers will pick up the slack. Everyone grins and they don't say a word.
Bastards.

"No sir, we are a family store" I drool out.
"What are they called when they come from Japan?" Pink Tie asks.
"Hentai?"I say in a low voice. And when I was about to open my mouth to tell him that he has to go somewhere else, preferably under a rock as it is dropped from a very high place to oblitirate his pathetic existance, I stupidly make eye contact.

"HENTAI! THAT'S IT!" He yells out.
The 17 odd people in the store turn to look.
"Where can you get it? Can you get it in?" He says in a hushed voice, raised eyebrow leaning towards me.
"No...we are a family store...." I take a deep sigh, my face so red you could probably throw me in front of a bull and it would have been a sweet death at that moment.
"Know where I can get it?" He grins at me.

Oh ew. Ew.

Fucking ew.

Unfathomable

Sometimes you do get the stupid questions. Sometimes you are prepared and you deal with it. No biggie.
But the other day I was organising the Dark Horse Japanese manga section when this man in a business suit stops me.
"Excuse me, can you recommend a title for me?" He says adjusting his pink silk tie.
"Sure, what genre are you looking for?" I stop and give him my best fake smile. Well at least he doesn't smell like a compost heap, I inwardly sigh.
"Anything from Ancient Modern Japan?"
I open my mouth to rudely say "What?" but luckly I manage to stop myself.
"Well...I am unsure what you mean..." I rectify and say out loud.
He rubs his hands heavily on his chin and mouth while scanning the manga titles.
"Anything that has blood and violence, really heavy stuff set in Modern Japan, but I heard that the Samurai stories are the best in that genre right?"
I frown. Were you dropped as a child?
"What about.." I grab a random title from behind me, and quickly glance at the title. "Old Boy? It it set in modern Japan, a story about betrayal and revenge and it's so violent it comes sealed." I smile my best "You are a complete asswipe get the fuck away from me" smile. Surely that will be all.
"Oh...these look pretty good. I'll grab the first two volumes."
"Awesome" I sigh, then quickly give him another smile.
"So...do you have any more of these stories?" he says conversationally.
"You mean Manga?" I say, ready with a copy of Crying Freeman in my hand.
"Well...anymore of these comic stories? with pictures?" he replies.
"You mean, comics?"
"Yeah, comics."
I stare at him, openly and with utter disbelief.

I never saw it coming.

I Want To Go Back In Time And Kill Frank Miller's Mother

Maybe if I did, people would stop telling me how good the '300' movie and graphic novel is. Because obviously, I didn't know that ten years ago when I first purchased the bloody thing. And obviously, I also didn't realise it in the interim between the book being published, and the film being released.

Because that's what we do in a comic book store. Not realise things so that you can tell us instead, oh wise nerd with small nether regions and questionable body odour.

I almost leaped over the counter and choked a customer with his own butt fat today because he wouldn't stop talking about '300'. Guess what? I don't want to hear your 20-minute diatribe that connects your great-grandfather on your mother's side to King Leonidas' third cousin's slave girl twice removed. Really. I can do without. And no, you can't have the '300' action figures. Or the '300' bath sponge. Or the '300' bumper sticker that says "Madness? This is a Mazdaaaaaaaaa!". They've sold out you loud and obnoxious latecomer. Next time, don't let half a million people beat you to the punch. And yelling at me puts that crap further out of your reach and my caring.

And the next person that asks me for a copy of Captain America #25 will discover what it's like to eat their own elbow. He's dead. Get over it. He'll be back in a year and no one will care.

Feel the love.

Godfather Archilles

Sometimes you really do not know what to expect at work that day. It's that feeling of sheer terror at the naked face of geekdom that gets up out of bed each morning. Trust me.

I was behind the counter when this man walks in, let's say that he looked like the Greek lovechild of Charlie Chaplin and Grouchu Marx. The best part was that he was wearing a jacket that may as well have been made of slow burning hemp. He smelt so strongly of weed, that the giant joint peeking out of his top pocket could not be denied.
This man looks around, crazingly piling bobble head toys from the Looney Tune collection. Suddendly, and after I had stopped what I was doing and openly staring at him in horror. That he burst out with:

"Where is the Biiird?"
I cock my head with a puzzled expression.
"You know, the biiiird, the bird from the show. You HAVE EVERYTHING ELSE but where is the biiiird?"
"I'm sorry, what bird?"
"The one that the cat takes, and puts him in sandwich."
"Oh you mean Tweety!"
"Yes...THE BIIIIIIIRD"
"Oh we don't have that one, it sold out a long time ago. Sorry."
"BUT YOU HAVE EVERYTHING ELSE....WHY NOT THE BIIIIIIIRD?"
"I'm sorry.."
"Ok..I take all these" He says waving at the 20 odd bobble-head figures and assorted crap.
"I want you to take this to Joes. The smoke shop not even a block from here, Half a block. Tell him Archilles sent you."
"What?"
"What's the problem? You take this to Joe. I paid, you deliver to smoke shop down the road."
"Ok, but you know that once this stuff leaves the store, I'm not responsible."
"You give to Joe, I know Joe. No problem. You think there is a problem?"
"No..."
I stare at him withb upmost contempt. And mumbling to myself I start writing "ARCHILLES" on a piece of paper...
"How do you spell it Herr?"
"Are you seriously going to take it over there?" He said with this tone of saying goodbye to an old friend who is going to war...but sighing he spells it out for me.
"Well, I have to, don't I?" I said angrily taking this huge white plastic sack down the Street.
I get to the Joe Smokes Shop and I walk in the dingy badly lit space.
"Are you Joe?" I ask the tall, arms across chest burly hairy man before me.
Joe nodded.
"Do you know Archilles?"
"Yeah" he said without a trace of suspicion in his voice.
"He sent there here for you. He'll be coming back later to collect them."
"Ok."
"You're definetly Joe?"
"Yeah I am, No problem, you think there is a problem?"
"No.."

I walk out shaking my head.
I then suddendly remembered that Archilles had also bought two sets of Speedy Gonzales toys.

What.....the......fuck......?