A café-bar in my city has a backgammon evening each week, and I visit sometimes. I had heard another player refer to someone with a name that translates to English as “Mr. Furious”, but I did not pay much attention.

One evening, I arrived, set up my board hoping another player would turn up soon, and ordered a beer. A few minutes later, another player entered. I didn’t recognize him, but I nodded over to him because he was carrying a backgammon board. He came over, and we said hello and introduced ourselves. I suggested a seven-point friendly match for starters, and he agreed. He was happy with my checkers, dice, board, and so on, even complimenting me on them. A very nice guy.

We started playing, and it was clear he was a good player. However, I noticed he was becoming tense. He was gripping his dice cup strongly, he made a sharp sigh when the dice went against him, and sometimes he rolled the dice so frantically that they bounced off the playing area and he would have to roll again.

In one game, he was very far ahead, and I had almost no chance. But then, I rolled a joker. In backgammon, a “joker” is a dice roll that is much more favourable than other rolls. With more luck, I won that game, and I tried to engage in small talk, but he didn’t reply. He finished his beer and put his glass back on the table heavily. I started to get nervous.

In the next game, I rolled another joker, and I immediately apologized, and again he did not reply. I sensed he was extremely angry and was worried about how he would react — especially when he picked up his empty glass. I thought he might glass me, but he simply had forgotten he had finished his beer. But he put it down so heavily I thought it might break.

Even when the dice were not being unkind, he still seemed angry. He continued to roll his dice heavily, and once he had to roll four times until his dice would stay within the board.

Sometimes when a player is angry with the dice, they become paranoid and play irrationally (called “steaming”). Strangely, he continued to play rationally, even though he was very, very angry by now. I was behind again in a later game, but then I rolled another joker (I was by then praying that I would not) and managed to squeeze a win in that game and the whole match. I did not say anything and was ready to move quickly in case he started throwing things around or even hitting me. However, he immediately left the café-bar without a word.

By then, other regulars had arrived, and I asked them if that had been “Mr. Furious”. They said yes and told me several players just refused to play him. I got another beer and drank it quickly as I did not feel like playing another match that night, I was so shaken up. I said goodnight to everyone and dived down the metro.

I work in a college bar right off campus. Our day shifts are a mix of college kids and professors grabbing food on their lunch breaks and one specific vagabond “townie” most everyone in our little city recognizes. He usually comes in, takes his time with a $2 beer, and plays pool, darts, or some of the other games we have. One game he always dumps a few dollars into is a “Keymaster” game, which works a lot like a claw game in an arcade but has more “grown-up” prizes like Amazon gift cards, iPads, or cash. 

One, he comes up to me at the bar.

Townie: “I think that Keymaster game is rigged. I never win on that thing.”

Me: “Well, my guess is that it kind of is. It’s not going to give out the prizes until it’s made a certain amount of money. We don’t own the machine; I’m just guessing that’s how those things turn a profit.”

Townie: *A little annoyed* “If you’re telling me that game is rigged, I’m telling you I’m gonna come in here one day with a brick, bust it open, and take my prizes!”

I laugh it off. Again, he is a little rough around the edges, but he’s always around and never problematic. I joke about it with our owner and a few coworkers that day. 

Cut to a week later. It’s my day off, and I’m just hanging at home when I get a call from the owner. That’s never a good sign. Is he calling me in on my day off? Did I mess something up while closing last night? I pick up the phone, fully prepared to be told bad news, and the owner is cracking up laughing.

Owner: “He did it!” *Laughs* “He actually f****** did it!” *Laughs some more*

Me: “Who did what?!”

Owner: *In between more laughs* “[Townie] actually threw a brick through the Keymaster machine! Cops are coming up here. Would you mind swinging in and telling them what he told you last week?”

Me: “Holy s***! Yeah, no problem! I’ll be right in!”

Needless to say, [Townie] was caught. Maybe the biggest crime was the fact that he broke the glass, grabbed the small amount that he could, and left behind several hundred dollars’ worth of other prizes including cash, an iPad, and a $250 Delta gift card. I watched the surveillance video with the police and the owner, and it was well worth being called in for that on a day off!

Moral of the story: don’t confess to a crime in advance!

I work in a sports bar. It’s 2017, and it’s a Sunday night at around 7:00 pm. Everyone is incredibly busy. The phone rings and rings… and rings… and rings…

The hostess picks up the phone, and the caller asks for a manager. [Manager] takes the phone and introduces himself, covering his other ear because the place is loud as h***.

There is a pause. [Manager] rolls his eyes and sort of smiles.

Manager: “Um…”

There’s another short pause, and then [Manager] starts full-blown laughing directly into the phone.

Manager: “You’re calling a sports bar in Boston in the middle of the Patriots Super Bowl game to request a manager and ask if we’re hiring? No, dude, we are not hiring.”

Part of me feels bad for the guy for getting laughed off the phone, but bro… come on. I kind of wonder if the guy ever found a job.

I’m getting ready to start my shift. As I’m heading inside, a haggard-looking couple is sitting on the patio and the lady turns to me.

Customer: “Hey, I just wanted to let you know, if you can learn the animal language, you can learn anything.”

Me: “Umm… okay… Thanks for that.”

I just walk inside and clock in.

Me: “So, it’s gonna be one of those nights…”

The general manager later informed me that this couple comes in on a semi-regular basis while pretty strung out and that he’s cutting them off.

Related:
When You Start Each Customer Interaction With “Please Be Normal, Please Be Normal…”

I worked at this dive bar in Vilnius that opened at 8:00 pm and closed in the wee hours of the morning, usually when public transport started running. It was quite a werewolf’s haunt past midnight. The types of shenanigans that went on there could fill a book, but this one was about an early opening because it was cleaning day. (It’s a dive, so no surprise the hygiene standards were low.)

There were some locals sitting at the bar. They were a thuggy-looking bunch, but they were always polite, and one of them nearly always beat me at chess, so we called them our “Elite thugs”. They wouldn’t drink much; they just liked hanging around from time to time. Later, some “tourist” — our name for people who come to check the bar out once and then never return — popped in and the evening continued. He sat at the bar and seemed friendly enough so we had various conversations, with him doing most of the talking.

Not long after that, one of the regulars showed up and joined us at the bar. He was a young guy (but legal, no worries), and he mostly kept to himself as he was not much of a drinker. The problems started when the “tourist” and the young guy got to talking, and after a few minutes, the conversation went downhill.

Tourist: “Yeah, I like this place. A real f****** bar. Not like those f** joints they have nowadays.”

Young Guy: “What’s wrong with f**s?”

The tourist looked like he’d been slapped with a wet rag.

Tourist: “You’re not a f**, are you?”

Young Guy: “Um… I’m gay, yeah.”

The tourist went ballistic. He started cussing at guy, hurling expletives, and listing an entire adult website’s worth of intimate homosexual acts. I’ll never know how these people know so much about this stuff.

I piped in.

Me: “Listen, bud, I’ve known this guy for a year, and I’ve heard more about homosexual sex s*** from you in thirty seconds than I’ve ever heard from him in a year I’ve known him. How about you go for a smoke and never come back, huh?”

That didn’t stop there, as the tourist started ripping at me with all the expletives in his — admittedly — quite expansive dictionary. The elites clearly got sick of this moron and soon chimed in. All four of ’em.

Elites: “You have a problem with [Young Guy]?

Tourist: “But he’s a f**!”

Elites: “We know he’s a f**. He’s our f**. We know him. We don’t know you!“

The tourist looked at me like I was supposed to stand up for him or something. Too dense.

Me: “It’s about time for that smoke, pal.”

After looking around one more time, the tourist cursed under his breath and darted out of the bar. We ask people to pay in advance, of course, so no problem there.

The young guy and I thanked the elite thugs for a timely intervention.

Me: “Beer, gents?”

Elites: “Nah. Peace and quiet are good enough. What a p***k.”

Thankfully, the tourist stayed “tourist” and never showed his face again. He probably went to some other joint to complain about f**s; the guy seemed like a pro at that stuff.