Punk and Skinhead Novels Box Set by Blakeston Marcus

Author:Blakeston, Marcus [Blakeston, Marcus]
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Publisher: RetroActive
Published: 2014-05-31T16:00:00+00:00

3

“What time do you call this?”

That’s my boss, Mr fucking Blunt, the rhyming slang manager of the burger joint I work at. Sarcastic bastard, he knows full well what time it is, it’s ten past nine. So I’m a bit late, big fucking deal. Better late than not turn up at all, yeah? I could’ve easily took another day off sick, Mr Cunt wouldn’t be able to do fuck all about it.

But instead of being grateful I’ve dragged my arse into work he’d rather moan about me being late. It’s not like I haven’t got a good excuse either. My mum didn’t come home last night, and my dad was frantic this morning. Said he’s worried sick about her, but more likely he’s wondering who’s going to do the shopping, cooking and cleaning for him.

“Sorry Mr Blunt, it won’t happen again.”

“Yes well, young lady, you see that it doesn’t. There’s four million people who would do anything to have your job, and don’t you forget that.”

As if he would ever let me. Everyone else I was at school with is on what they laughingly call training schemes now, doing jobs just as shitty as mine, except they don’t even get paid for it. Thank fuck for the anti-obesity lobby that got fast food joints excluded from that particular scheme, yeah?

Blunt flounces off to his office, no doubt to write a report about me being late to send to head office, and I force my mouth into the regulation happy-face expression when a customer approaches the counter.

“Yes sir, how may I serve you this fine day?”

They make me say that, it’s in the staff handbook and it’s a sacking offence if I don’t. I’ve said it that many times now I don’t even smirk when I say it anymore. I just play it deadpan, like I actually fucking mean it.

The man, a big fat bastard in a suit with grease stains down his shirt and tie, scowls at me. “Big Mac triple cheeseburger, large fries, and a diet Coke,” he says.

“Certainly, sir. Will you be dining here or would you like them to go?” That’s another one from the staff handbook. As if stuffing your face with grease-and-gristle-burgers could be classed as dining, for fuck’s sake. Mr Blunt even refers to the plastic seats and tables as ‘the restaurant’ if you can believe that?

“To go,” he says. “And make it quick, I’ve got an important appointment to get to.”

“Certainly, sir, no problem.”

The customer is always right, apparently. Even when they’re an ignorant fucking cunt like this one. I resist the urge to curtsy, and make my way to the serving hatch. Colin’s on the griddles today. He only works part time, two days a week, he’s at college the rest of the week doing a course in car mechanics. He’s a decent enough bloke, but with all those spots and boils his face looks like someone’s taken a lump hammer to him. Put it this way, it’s not by accident he works in the kitchen, hidden away from the customers.

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