There's 2 things that rub me the wrong way. 1. Most people. 2. Junkies. Now, i hear you saying, "but, a junkie is a person". Wrong. A junkie is just a giant piece of shit disguised as a human being.
Working at an Independent Record Store is badass and fairly low on the "dangerous places to work" scale, however twice in the nearly 4 years i've been at this job, i've literally feared for my life.
The first was when a junkie wandered in demanding i pay him for some totally fucked cd's that he wanted to trade in. When i told him that i couldn't accept them in the condition they were in he produced a syringe and threatened to "fuck me up", i grabbed the closest thing to a weapon i could find near me which happened to be some blunt scissors and braced myself for the shit to hit the fan. This guy, sorry, piece of shit ended up just picking up a bin on the street, threw it at a wall and wandered off in his junkie sweat to hopefully O'D.
The second time was when i was handed this note in the picture by a junkie who could have easily been Yngwie Malmsteen's twin brother minus the glorious locks of flowing hair.
This guy, sorry, piece of shit, came in to the store dressed only in a leather vest and leather pants convinced the album i was playing at the time was by a band called Deicide. It wasn't. He was adamant it was, so i again told him it wasn't. He calmly proceeded to grill me on said band and asked if I liked them. I told him i didn't. Wrong answer. He then calmly grabbed that flyer you see and wrote that lovely note on it all the while this dude seemed relaxed as fuck. Incorrect. He then hurled the pen at me, shoved this note in my chest and started screaming "666 I am the Messiah, this place is fucked" over and over at the top of his lungs for at least a minute, called me a C*%t and left. Needles to say i was left pretty shaken wondering if what the fuck just happened, actually happened.
I honestly wonder why i leave the house sometimes, although life is nothing if not an adventure.
Dan aka Chinaski
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