I’m scanning a customer’s groceries. It’s a sale weekend, and some items are coming in at weird, random percentages cheaper than the shelf price.

Customer: “Wait, stop! How much are those checking out at?!”

Me: “Uh, those are… they’re $6.67.”

Customer: “That’s awfully close to $6.66!”

Me: “Haha, I guess.”

Customer: “On the shelf, they were $7.67!”

Me: “Then I guess… It’s a good thing?!”

Customer: “How is it a good thing! It’s bringing me closer to The Devil! Change the price!”

Me: “Only a manager can do that, sir.”

Customer: “Then get one!”

I call my supervisor over, and the predicament is explained to him. I’m amazed he was able to keep a straight face.

Supervisor: “I’ll be happy to adjust them back to the shelf price for you, sir.”

He does so, and because the customer is buying five of the items, his total goes up by five dollars.

Customer: “Wait, stop! Why did it go up?”

Supervisor: “$6.67 to $7.67 is an increase of a dollar.”

Customer: *Squinting.* “Oh. Well… can you put it back?”

Supervisor: “And risk putting you into contact with The Devil? I wouldn’t dream of it, sir! Will that be cash or card?”

Customer: “…”

The customer pays and sullenly walks out. I’m not sure what price he was reading to get him so numerically confused, but I’m glad he survived his test of faith!

Related:
A Price For The Devil To Pay, Part 10
A Price For The Devil To Pay, Part 9
A Price For The Devil To Pay, Part 8
A Price For The Devil To Pay, Part 7
A Price For The Devil To Pay, Part 6

My girlfriend and I are both visibly trans, we also both often wear pride stuff, and I have some rainbow stickers on my car. We used to work at the gas station right by our house, so we know a ton of the locals from there, including most of the Domino’s drivers.

We were sitting on the porch when a car turned the corner, and as it passed our house, the driver leaned out the window and yelled “F*GS!” clear as day. I wish I had misheard him, but it was unmistakable.

I immediately jumped out of my seat and started screaming back:

Me: “Did you just call me a f*g, motherf***er?!”

He didn’t even look back towards us; he just ignored me. He pulled into the driveway two houses down and dropped off a pizza box. I was still yelling; he was still ignoring me. When he left, he went the opposite way so he wouldn’t have to pass us.

I was shaking with rage, so I took a few minutes to calm down, and we decided to go ask the neighbors about the guy. I didn’t know the lady who answered the door, but I’m friendly with her granddaughter. We apologized for interrupting their dinner and told her the driver had shouted homophobic slurs at us, and we wanted to know where they ordered from. Domino’s. Thanks!

Then we called Domino’s and said we just got a delivery to [Neighbors’ Address], and the driver was so nice, what was his name? Brandon? Great, tell him we said thank you!

Then I made an official complaint on the contact us form on the Domino’s website. I may have been a little dramatic about how this man obviously knows where I live and has made me feel unsafe at my own home.

Then I called the store back and asked for a manager. Told her what happened, and she got her boss on the line. They both sounded appropriately horrified and were very kind and apologetic. The big boss said Brandon was still out on a delivery, but that he would be reprimanded and sent home as soon as he returned. He assured me that he would be written up and suspended.

I think he handled it perfectly, and I was very grateful.

Me: “We order from you guys all the time, and we’ve never had an issue, and I’m sure you wouldn’t want your employees committing hate crimes on the clock.”

So, Brandon, enjoy your time off and watch your mouth!

Related:
A Hot Slice Of Justice, Part 13
A Hot Slice Of Justice, Part 12
A Hot Slice Of Justice, Part 11
A Hot Slice Of Justice, Part 10
A Hot Slice Of Justice, Part 9

Shortly after I moved to the Netherlands, I decided to practice my Dutch by joining a volunteer organization. In my neighbourhood, there was a library which had switched from being managed by the municipality to being a volunteer-supported structure, sort of a book crossing spot: anyone could pick or drop a book, no need to bring it back, and so on. We were there just to explain to patrons how it worked and to put books back on the shelves.

Even though my Dutch was still kind of broken, most of the patrons would praise my attempt at practicing and improving it. Until she came in. 

She comes in on a Saturday afternoon, when I am normally the only one manning the place. She goes to a book rack and starts shuffling among the books, looking for something. I approach her and, in Dutch, offer my help. She starts speaking fast and almost not opening her lips, resulting in me not getting a single word of what she is saying.

To my “sorry?” she repeats again the same string of muttered and unintelligible sounds, to which I say, this time in English:

Me: “I am sorry, but my Dutch is not so good. Can you say that in English?”

She goes full banshee mode, shouting in English:

Patron: “You should not be here if you don’t speak Dutch! You’re wasting my time!”

Unnoticed by me, [Senior Volunteer] had just entered the place, just in time to hear my conversation with her. He goes to her, holds her arm, and, while guiding her to the exit, he tells her, in Dutch, which I can understand:

Senior Volunteer: “You are totally right, but unfortunately [OP] is the only one who volunteers here on Saturday, so if he cannot be here because his Dutch is not up to your expectations, it means that this place is closed as of now until the next volunteer is available on Monday. Goodbye.”

And in saying so pushes her out of the glass door, locking it behind her.

While she is staring at us behind the glass, processing what just happened, [Senior Volunteer] looks at me and says:

Senior Volunteer: “You did nothing wrong, and complaining about your Dutch is very rich coming from someone who only speaks [Local Dialect]. I couldn’t understand either what she was muttering! We are volunteers here; we don’t have to put up with such people. You can have the rest of the afternoon free and keep this place closed.”

I work in a BBQ restaurant as the pitmaster, so I run the smokers and handle all raw meat preparation. I have to get there by 5 or 6 AM, depending on the day, in order to have food ready to open the restaurant at 11 AM.

The General Manager decided she was spending too much on labor and needed to cut my hours. As such, she told me at around 2 PM on a Thursday the following:

General Manager: “I need you to clock out by 1 PM every day, no matter what.”

I asked for it in writing and got it.

So, the next day, I went to the Head Chef when I got there and said that the General Manager said I had to be out by 1 PM no matter what, and showed him the signed note.

I set an alarm on my phone and got to work.

I got through all the prep for the next day and was starting on the cleaning when my alarm went off. Now the pit area looked awful. The walls had some smoke stains that come off pretty easily with degreaser, but build up over time, the cooler floor had some blood on it that needed to be cleaned up before it spoiled and started smelling bad, my table had some seasoning left on it from where I seasoned the pork for the overnight load, the walls still had bits of skin, gristle, etc stuck to them, the trash can was full.

I told the head chef:

Me: “Well, it’s 1 PM, and I have to go.”

He looked in the pit and said:

Head Chef: “Yep… This is what I expected…”

But he let me clock out and go.

This goes on for about a week, with the pit looking worse and worse each day. Then the District Manager comes in on my day off… The Head Chef told me that the District Manager immediately started on the General Manager for the pit, looking awful, and how the pitmaster needed to stay until the pit was clean no matter what.

So I got it in writing and am now currently working until about 2:30 PM every day, doing the full cleaning I was doing before again…

A mom and her son, maybe around four or five years old, are looking at some Disney-themed tote bags we have near the counter. The boy keeps pointing at one of his favorite characters, but the mom nods her head. 

I think nothing else of it, until the mom and her son have walked around the store, and come back when it looks like I’ve gone, when in fact, I’ve just bent down to tie my shoelaces.

Customer: *To her kid.* “Just go and take one. They won’t say no to a cute little kid.”

As soon as she says that, I stand up and whip the bag out of the kid’s hand, shocking both of them.

Me: “Stealing’s not cute.”

The boy starts crying, and the mom drags him out, glaring at me. I hope that taught both of them a lesson.