Worst day ever, pt 2
I feel I should rewrite that last entry since I couldn't keep a thought straight for more than three seconds when I wrote it, but, eh. Let's just continue.
When we left our heroes, it was nearing closing time. The only reason they could still serve the customers was, one: the weird-ass chef helped out by washing out glasses best he could, and two: they told each customer to keep the glass and bring it back if they wanted something more to drink.
They managed to hold out, and finally, closing time. Last order dealt with, Filthy started counting up teh till. Shortly later, Granen interupted her. "Hey, let's go outside and have a smoke." Oh yes, please.
While they were standing outside - Filthy being worried as hell because she knew she'd have to get up at seven am to hunt down someone who could fix the damned dishwasher - Nisse, The Boss, finally decided to show up. Filthy didn't know if she should strangle him, or kiss him because this meant she could dump the responsibility back on his scrawny-ass shoulders.
Well then, as the drunken head honcho started figuring out who to call in the morning, our three heroes went back to doing all the things they had to do; counting up the till, chasing people out and cleaning up.
Granen decided to leave around two, followed shortly after by the weird-ass chef. Nisse bummed around for a while and drank some beer before leaving as well. At three am, Gunwald and Filthy were finally done. At this point, Filthy had been working for thirteen hours.
Man, were our two remaining heroes hurting. Filthy had trouble walking since her knees and hips had started locking up, and Gunwald had trouble walking because he apparently had a baaad chafe. Location? Groin. Ouch.
As Nisse had said that they could drink for free that night, the two sat around for a while, philosophing over litterature ("You can't go from Kafka to The Hitchiker's guide to the galaxy, or from Dostojevskij to Terry Pratchett. It just doesn't work."), the FRA-law, and just breaking down and discussing the day.
Filthy finally got home at five am. Bed. Woke up at eight due to nausea and horrible stomach cramps. Last thought before finally going back to sleep at nine: "Please, don't let there be a way for this day to suck even worse. I can't handle any more."
When we left our heroes, it was nearing closing time. The only reason they could still serve the customers was, one: the weird-ass chef helped out by washing out glasses best he could, and two: they told each customer to keep the glass and bring it back if they wanted something more to drink.
They managed to hold out, and finally, closing time. Last order dealt with, Filthy started counting up teh till. Shortly later, Granen interupted her. "Hey, let's go outside and have a smoke." Oh yes, please.
While they were standing outside - Filthy being worried as hell because she knew she'd have to get up at seven am to hunt down someone who could fix the damned dishwasher - Nisse, The Boss, finally decided to show up. Filthy didn't know if she should strangle him, or kiss him because this meant she could dump the responsibility back on his scrawny-ass shoulders.
Well then, as the drunken head honcho started figuring out who to call in the morning, our three heroes went back to doing all the things they had to do; counting up the till, chasing people out and cleaning up.
Granen decided to leave around two, followed shortly after by the weird-ass chef. Nisse bummed around for a while and drank some beer before leaving as well. At three am, Gunwald and Filthy were finally done. At this point, Filthy had been working for thirteen hours.
Man, were our two remaining heroes hurting. Filthy had trouble walking since her knees and hips had started locking up, and Gunwald had trouble walking because he apparently had a baaad chafe. Location? Groin. Ouch.
As Nisse had said that they could drink for free that night, the two sat around for a while, philosophing over litterature ("You can't go from Kafka to The Hitchiker's guide to the galaxy, or from Dostojevskij to Terry Pratchett. It just doesn't work."), the FRA-law, and just breaking down and discussing the day.
Filthy finally got home at five am. Bed. Woke up at eight due to nausea and horrible stomach cramps. Last thought before finally going back to sleep at nine: "Please, don't let there be a way for this day to suck even worse. I can't handle any more."