It was nine o’clock at night and 1970s international pop sensation Leo Sayer had just finished an eight hour shift cleaning the toilets in Wetherspoons. He was just about to descend the fourteen flights of stairs to the ground floor to order himself a meat feast pizza meal deal with his 50% off staff discount when the manager, Benton Greasy, came huffing and puffing onto the landing.
“Jesus fucking CHRIST!” Greasy sputtered. He was a hideous shade of purple. “Why the hell do they have to put the toilets in these fucking places up so many stairs? Christ! Jesus Christ!”
“Can I help you with anything, sir?” asked Leo Sayer. He crossed his fingers that a regular with acute pancreatitis and alcoholic liver disease hadn’t just emptied seven gallons of bright yellow diarrhoea all over the disableds.
“There’s a dragon wot’s got into the top bar,” Greasy wheezed. “Deal with it, will you, and then you can have your supper.”
Leo Sayer wasn’t happy about this because he’d been looking forward to his pizza, despite the fact he knew it would arrive at his table cold and wrong. Grumbling to himself, he made his way downstairs to the first floor top bar on the second floor. When he got there, the dragon – a great big scaly monstrosity with horrible yellow eyes and fiery breath that could melt pots and pans – was standing at the bar looking miffed.
“About bloody time,” roared the dragon. “Can I get a pint of Guinness, please?”
Leo ignored the dragon, picked up a dirty cloth and started wiping down the fridge doors.
“Excuse me,” bellowed the dragon. “Did you hear me, mate?”
“I’m not on the bar,” Leo told him as he rearranged the Kettle Chips and KP nuts. “You’ll have to wait until Sally’s finished cleaning the lines downstairs.”
“What kind of fucking service is this?” shouted the dragon. “What the hell do you mean you’re -”
“Please don’t speak to me like that, sir,” Leo interrupted.
“Please don’t … WHO THE FUCK DO YOU THINK YOU’RE TALKING TO?” thundered the dragon.
“If you carry on speaking to me like that, I’ll be forced to call my team leader,” Leo replied, turning his attention to wiping down the various customer service awards that the pub had fraudulently won by the staff being on their best behaviour whenever the regional manager paid a visit.
“This is a fucking outrage!”
“Right! I’m calling my team leader!”
Thirty five minutes later the dragon was being bundled into the back of a van by the police. They had been called after the dragon had lost its temper with Leo Sayer’s team leader. She was a very rude woman and her attitude towards the pub’s customers stunk to high heaven, which was why she was always wheeled out whenever there was trouble or somebody wanted to make a complaint. Leo watched as the door slammed on the irate dragon, who was shouting his head off about fucking Wetherspoons bastard fucking bastards. Needless to say, he had NOT got his pint of Guinness.
“Well done, Leo,” said Benton Greasy. “That was textbook dragonslaying.”
“Thanks, boss,” replied Leo Sayer. “Now, can I order a meat feast pizza meal deal? I’m starving.”
“I’m afraid not,” Greasy chuckled. “One of our regulars with acute pancreatitis and alcoholic liver disease has emptied seven gallons of bright yellow diarrhoea all over the disableds. I need that cleaning up before you have your dinner, and if you refuse, you’re fucking sacked, MATE.”
THE END
Napoleon's Landfill 