Hell Hath No Fury Like a Short Sighted Chinese Guy in a SupermarketSubmitted by JoeyG at 2007-01-17 04:22:53 EST
Rating: 1.93 on 72 ratings (72 reviews) (Review this item) (V)
I’m not sure what the minimum requirements for security guards are these days, but they can’t exactly be what you would call ‘stringent’.
My local supermarket is the latest in a long line of places, who think that by just having some retired pensioner walk around the shop in a uniform, that this will deter the most hardened criminals from operating on their premises.
When I first saw the new security guard patrolling the frozen food section, I had to look around to see if there was a T.V crew filming a new series of Dad’s Army. Walking the aisles, in his navy blue uniform, was a small Chinese guy, who appeared to be in his late seventies. He had grey, wispy hair, and glasses so thick they could have been bullet-proof. He looked like a cross between Mahatma Ghandi and Mr Magoo.
He could barely speak a word of English, and he was always having the piss taken out of him buy groups of kids.
“Hey, four eyes, nice outfit.”
“Ah, frank you!”
He had absolutely no sense of security about him at all. He was 5’ 2” tall, and his frame was further compounded by the fact that he had legs that were two sizes too small for him, and his arms dangled down next to his knees. The result was that he had the figure of an underfed orang-utan. He had an unnatural stoop, and walked around with a limping gait which hindered his right leg.
But he certainly took pride in his role. Every day, his uniform was clean, and ironed, with crisp, sharp creases in the legs. His shoes were polished like fine silverware, and his name badge was at a perfect right angle with his lapel. He would dutifully patrol the aisles, and surreptitiously follow the groups of children around the store.
As usual, the kids would mock him. They would pretend to pick up items, and stick them in their coats, or occasionally shout out things like “THIEF!” and make him come running from the other side of the shop.
Despite all the shit he had to put up with, he really did seem to enjoy his job, especially as he was in control of THE BLACK BOOK.
When I was a kid, my Mum always told me that if I was naughty in the supermarket, or I took things without paying for them, then I would end up in THE BLACK BOOK. I had no idea what THE BLACK BOOK was, but it scared the hell out of me. When I got a bit older, I thought she must have been making it up. But far from being an urban legend, I soon found out the truth behind THE BLACK BOOK. It contained the names and photos of all the people who had been banned from the store.
Whenever someone came in through the doors, Mr Magoo would pull the black book from his pocket, and study the contents of its pages. Then, he would consider the face of the new arrival, stroking his invisible beard in deep contemplation. Only when he was absolutely satisfied would he nod approvingly and return the book to his pocket.
Once or twice I worried about what would happen to the doddery old bastard if anything ever did kick off. If someone tried to do a runner with a crusty loaf, or one of the faces from THE BLACK BOOK showed up, then Mr Magoo would be royally fucked. It wouldn’t be hard to pick him up and snap him like a breadstick.
A few weeks ago, I got ill. Not just cough and sneeze type ill, but truly ‘fucked up and think you’re about to die’ type ill. I was vomiting up everything that passed my lips, and my intestines felt like loops of ice in my stomach. Even my diarrhoea seemed frozen, so that every time I erupted forth a thick, curdled spray of effluent from my rectal passage, it felt like I was giving birth to a chocolate McFlurry ice cream.
I had a feverish headache banging away at my temples, and my doctor couldn’t fit me in for 2 days, so I decided to go to the pharmacy in the supermarket, and dose myself up with the strongest non-prescription painkillers available. I would also need to stock up on toilet roll, Lucozade and some high fibre breakfast cereal, in order to get things a bit more solidified in my colonic regions.
I was in the queue, waiting to pay for said items, when all hell broke loose.
Three men, who appeared to be in their early twenties, entered the shop, clearly drunk and swearing at the top of their voices. They gave of a distinct impression of ‘I’m here to cause some shit, motherfucker’.
I knew something was wrong immediately.
Mr Magoo had reached for THE BLACK BOOK, and had obviously recognised the faces. His usual look of calm was replaced with the expression of someone who had just been kicked in the bollocks whilst holding an electric fence.
One of the new arrivals was clearly the leader of the group. He had a backwards baseball cap, sophisticated Kappa tracksuit bottoms with poppers up the side, and a witty t-shirt bearing the logo ‘Hard Bastards Inc.’ His oversized Doc Martins clumped loudly on the vinyl floor as he stomped through the fresh produce aisle towards the alcohol section at the back.
Subtlety was obviously not Hard Bastard’s strongest attribute. Without a care in the world, he picked up a bottle of Southern Comfort, and shoved it under his t-shirt, before turning round and making a bee-line for the exit.
That’s when Mr Magoo let loose.
From the pit of his stomach, he let forth with a war cry that would have made the Zulus proud.
In an instant, his limp and stoop had gone, and he leapt over the frozen food chillers in a single bound. Quick as a flash, he had positioned himself between the door and the offending hoodlums.
“Where you go with dat?” He asked in his thick, oriental accent.
“With what, old man?” replied Hard Bastard.
“You took dat bottle. And you in black book! You should no be here!”
“What’cha gonna do about it, Hong Kong? Throw me out!?” as he uttered this last sentence, he looked at his two fellow goons, who brayed a laugh of approval at Hard Bastard’s intellectual humour.
“Put dat bottle back and you get out. Get out now!”
“How can I get out now, if I have to put the bottle back, old timer?” Once again, his moronic companions chortled like hyenas on helium.
“You wind me up. Put bottle down. Get out!”
“Just try and stop me, you slant eyed motherfucker……” Hard Bastard stepped forward, and shoved Mr Magoo on the shoulder. Before he could take his hand away, Mr Magoo had seized his wrist, and in one fluid motion, spun him around, so his arm was wrenched up behind his back.
“Argh!! Let go of me, you old bastard!”
Hard Bastard’s first accomplice lunged forward as if to try and free his leader. Mr Magoo saw him coming with plenty of time. He threw Hard Bastard to the floor, and grabbed the oncoming oaf by one arm, and threw him high over his shoulder and onto the hard floor, where he landed with a sickening thud. He tried to get up, but the Chink let fly with a vicious chop to the back of his neck, looking like a malevolent Mr Miyagi.
By this time, Hard Bastard had got back to his feet, and had pulled out the bottle that he was hiding. He held it high above his head, and ran forward, clearly intent on smashing it over the head of the unlikely obstacle that was before him.
Once again, Mr Magoo was on the ball. He sidestepped at the last moment, and as Hard Bastard went sailing by with the excess momentum, he raised his leg and kicked him squarely in the bollocks.
As the wind left his body, Hard Bastard hit the deck, and smashed open the bottle against the floor. It was two down, and one to go.
The last of the group had backed off, and after seeing what had happened to his pals, was now quivering on the floor between a pile of Brussels sprouts and a sack of King Edward potatoes.
“Please……please, don’t hurt me……..” At this point, the kid jumped up, and started to run towards the back of the store, maybe hoping to double back down a different aisle in a desperate break for freedom. He had made it as far as the sliced bread stand, when Mr Magoo, picked up a can of baked beans, and hurled it, with all the panachê of a pro baseball pitcher.
The tin sailed through the air, before connecting solidly with the back of goon #3’s head. He fell face first to the floor with an agonising clunk.
With that one taken care of, he turned his attention back to Hard Bastard, who was still on the floor, clutching at his testicles. With a good fifteen metre run up, Mr Magoo dived onto him, and sunk his teeth into his bare arm.
The resulting scream of pain echoed around the store, which was now at a standstill, in light of the entertainment.
After releasing his teeth, he flung his head backwards, and then brought it crashing down onto the bridge of Hard Bastard’s nose.
By this point, the manager of the store was on the scene.
“What the fuck!?!? Get off of him, you can’t do that!”
Mr Magoo looked up, his face covered in blood that wasn’t his.
“What? What I do? He try steal from you!”
“I know, but you can’t do that! You can’t go biting people, not in my store! We’ll get sued!”
“What Sue got do with it?” He said, looking towards the girl at the checkout.
“Not Sue, ‘sued’! Jesus Christ, what is your problem?!”
“Dese people,” he said, motioning to the floored shoplifters. “Dese people my problem. I solution!” He grinned a broad grin, before stamping down hard on the groin of Hard Bastard, who screamed with his last ounce of breath.
“Get out of my store!” shouted the manager.
“Yes!” said Mr Magoo at the prostrate figures. “Get out dis store!”
“Not them, you! Get out!”
For the first time, Mr Magoo looked remorseful.
“I solly…… did not mean dis harm…”
Mr Magoo shuffled silently out towards the exit.
He had his own problems now.
And I had mine.
In all the excitement, I had forgotten that I really needed a shit. And now, my bowels were looser than the flaps of a granny’s twat.
A little bit of Kung Fu fighting – It’s the ultimate constipation killer.
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