Dead Dogs Don't Roll Over
Written by: Alex Sandell


Chapter 33
Lisa Spits Out Her Hubba-Bubba As Richard Spews his Venom

It's only about ten feet from my bank when I notice three security guards, Slot Service Specialist, Lisa, and Richard, who somehow got to my bank ahead of me and doesn’t look very confused anymore. Worrying over what they’re all there for causes this morning's breakfast to make a faltered attempt at vacating my bowels.

Once I get to my bank I look around and finally decide Lisa is the least threatening of the group. "Can I help you with something?" I ask a stone-faced Lisa. Lisa removes a large chunk of grape bubble-gum from her mouth before answering. "I don't know, Wayne, maybe you should talk to one of the security guards." I roll my dried out eyeballs back into my head, cringing as I feel them scratching against my skin.

Richard is the next one to take his turn at speaking. "Wayne, I've got some disturbing news," he begins. "Oh no," I return, amazed at Richard’s slight bout of sympathy, "no one died, did they?" Richard looks down and sighs, he then moves closer in toward me and begins blowing onion breath all over my face.

"It's worse than that, Wayne." I hope the shiver that runs up my spine doesn’t show, and ask Richard what it is. Richard looks down once again, this time the security guards join him in his mourning. After noticing the head-bowing of her cohorts, Lisa follows suit and puts her head down, only she does it too late and everyone else has already put their heads back up, leaving Lisa looking like a complete dork.

Richard looks glumly into my face as he begins telling me what employee-related disaster I created. "Mr. Ziekel," he starts, intoning his seriousness by using my last name, "earlier this afternoon, you left your bank unattended, without locking its doors." Any hope I had of receiving a minimal punishment quickly fades when I see how forlorn, betrayed and destitute Richard, the security guards, and Lisa looks. This time it’s my turn to bow down my head. Not locking your bank is a very serious offense at "Broken Arrow" casino. Probably not as bad as discovering Elvis, but it's still fairly severe.

During our one-week training-in session they pounded the "NEVER-LEAVE-AN-UNLOCKED-CHANGE-BANK-UNATTENED" rule into our heads, over and over again. I had nightmares where I would be sent to Hell, and all I would here was out of tune Opera singers repeating, over and over again, "dooooon't you ever, don't you ever, don't eeeeeveeer, leave your bank un-a, un-a, un-attended if it is not looooooocked up."

Leaving my bank unlocked was the last mistake I thought that I would ever make. Hey, maybe I can’t tie my shoes so good, but damnit, I can lock a bank behind me. I see Lisa standing firmly at her designated post between Richard and the security officers. Her face looks stern, her attitude is parental, and her Hubba-Bubba has been spit out. Once again, I reluctantly come up with a lame excuse.

"Sir," here I go with that nervous "Sir" thing again, "in my thirteen months of employment at this fine," I can't believe I just used the word "fine" to describe this rancid establishment, "casino, I have never forgotten to lock up my bank doors, prior to today." The gang collaborating against me all bow their heads once again, this time Lisa is nearly in synch.

"Wayne," Richard starts in with the name game, "we're not talking about events prior to today, we're talking about today. Do you have a problem with grasping that concept?" Richard waits for me to answer before he finishes his lecture. "Yes, SIR, I understand fully." Suddenly I feel like the world's biggest ass-kisser. It's just that I hate when people force you to answer a question that you're forced to answer in the specific way that they want you to. "So, Mr. Ziekel, if you understand that, why did you just dredge up past-accomplishments?"

I take in a deep breath and compose my next sentence in the most articulate way that I can, under this amount of pressure. "By bringing up events prior to this evening, my intention was to show my value to the company, that I hold as an employee. I was hoping to prove to the lot of you that I am a responsible person and that I simply made a human error." I think using the word "lot" to describe a group of people is taking it a little too far, but I feel that, as of late, the other characters in my life have been getting all the good dialogue.

My tiny monologue causes Richard to look peaked, although his next words to me indicate that it actually had some affect. "No one is here to deny that you are a good employee . . ." "You are," I cut in. "What?" Richard asks impatiently. "You’re here to deny that I'm a good employee. As a matter of fact, I can't help wondering if that's all you’re really here for." "We're not talking about me," Richard suddenly looks fatigued, "now, may I continue?" "Yes," I answer, adding a "I'm sorry," for good measure.

Richard goes on with his interrupted speech, "Still, today you made one gigantic mistake. A mistake that would not be overlooked for even the most exceptional employee. I'm not trying to be cruel, it's just that you need to be reprimanded."

Richard’s use of the word "cruel" pushes me over the edge. I stick my middle finger out and slowly rotate my upper body to allow the finger to point at each member of the accusing party. The whole time I give my future the finger, I let my leg rock up and down, and begin feeling my buttocks tighten and unclench over and over again. Before I can stop it, my pelvis begins wiggling, my vocal-chords begin howling, and I burst into my best rendition of Elvis Presley's "Don't be Cruel."

I keep my eyes centered on Richard as I sing, as if serenading him. I've pulled all casino patrons’ eyes away from their machines. I've grabbed the attention of every strolling human. Every eye in the buffet is centered on me. The cameras above my head spin around to get a better look. "Don't be cruel," I scream, "aaaaaahhhhh, to a heart that's true." I nearly burst into the chorus a second time when four security guards grab me and begin pulling me into the basement. I don't think I've succeeded in gaining many fans.

Go to: Chapter 34

1997 Alex Sandell but, if you're a book publisher and, you wanna get this puppy out, please get in touch with me, hand me a nice, big contract and, of course, a 12 pack of Grape Soda and maybe we can do lunch.

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