My Job, My Hell...

Share a survival experience with us and explain what you learned from it. You might help someone.

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TheLastRifleMan
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My Job, My Hell...

Post by TheLastRifleMan » Tue Dec 08, 2009 9:11 pm

Some of you have requested that I regale you with more tales of some of the horrors I have encountered in the course of my profession. Two of them have been posted here:

http://zombiehunters.org/forum/viewtopi ... &start=600" onclick="window.open(this.href);return false;

This thread is for anybody with a tale to tell. The weirder, the better! I want to hear them all. Everyone here wants to know! So start posting.

I will begin with one of my favorites:

For those of you who do not know, I have a unique line of work. I repair power wheel chairs and battery operated scooters for handicapped (I know, NOT PC!) or otherwise mostly immobile people. I have been doing this for almost 7 years for two different companies. The first company I worked for (and was later fired from) was a full service home health care company. This means they had a respiratory department as well as a home care nursing staff, carried prosthetic devices of all kinds, orthotics, etc. My function was to repair the various devices my department sold when the broke down. This excluded oxygen/respiratory gear, which left me with walkers, home hospital beds, manual wheel chairs, scooters, power wheel chairs and powered lift recliners. If it had wheels and did not feed O2 to someone, I was the man. Most of the equipment I repair is in the users home, so I drive a lot. And, as it seems, see a lot.

The first company I worked for covered a large portion of the county I live in, plus parts of three others. My main area of operation, though, was in the roughest, most run down, crime ridden part of town, since we were partly owned by the hospital in that covered that area. I had a very cruel and hard enlightenment while doing home service calls in this area, plus a few other unsavory places. The company I work for now covers a larger area, but I only deal with power chairs and scooters. Also, my current employer manufacturers scooters for home and commercial use and just expanded last year. Also, they have been in business for 41 years now.

So that is the background. Now, a tale:

Unlike my other tales, this one contains NO POO! Really!

I had to go to the rough part of town in order to repair a manual wheel chair one summer morning. I followed my maps to the location and found the address in good order. This was in the age before Mapquest or GPS units were accurate enough, readily available or affordable. So a good set of city maps, in book form, etc. were your best friend.

This area was a war zone, to put it bluntly. Picture Berlin, March of 1944. Okay, maybe not that bad. But every other house was boarded up with rotting plywood, burned out, covered in gang graffiti or just plain run down. Half the houses had been stripped of their aluminum siding, which the indigenous population then sells at a local scrap yard for pennies per pound. Men wearing parkas wandered aimlessly down the middle of the street, avoiding the trash covered sidewalks. Parkas are not unusual, you say? I would agree, but not for mid July!

I found the house and was stunned. Here was a nice little two story right out of the pages of Better Homes & Gardens, right down to the tiny, well groomed rose bushes. The car parked in the drive was a model from a decade previous, but looked like it rolled off the showroom floor. Cream white with the chrome polish to the point that is the sun hit it just right, fires erupted from the reflection. Ahh, at last, I thought. No problems here. Nice houses mean nice folks, at least for the most part. Sometimes like the box on a porno DVD, you can get fooled by what lies inside. I got out, grabbed my tool box, got into character and rang the doorbell.

After about twenty seconds, the door opened. I good not see into the house, not due to lack of light but the fact the entire door was blocked by one of the largest humans I have ever seen. Not fat, mind you. BIG as in a set of washboard abs the Governor of California would kill for, pectoral muscles straining the limits of the fabric of a XXXXXL white tank top. I could not see his face above his nose because the top of the doorway obscured it.

"Yes?" a voice that would make Barry White cry with envy inquired. I explained I was there to fix Mrs. X's wheel chair. A small, weak but friendly elderly female voice then called out.

"Jamal, is that the man for my wheel chair?" the voice form inside asked.
"Yeah auntie."
"Let him in so he can fix it, honey!" she called back in a tone that was friendly but at once demanded action.

"Jamal" stepped aside and let me in. He truly was enormous! I swear I could hear his muscles ripple under his skin as he moved, like when you stretch rubber bands close to your ear. I could now see his entire face, including his eyes. The look in those eyes would cause a brick wall to explode had he wished it. At this time they were telling me "Fuck with my Auntie and me stuffing you into a cigarette pack will be the least of your problems!", or "One wrong thing and will rip your heart out through your big toe and make you smile and sing the "Star Spangled Banner" while I do so". He meant business, his "Auntie's" well being his first priority. In a way , I can't blame him. This was a rough area and there were many fly-by-night companies pulling con jobs on handicapped people out there. He said "follow me" and I did so, trailing behind him.

Those house was clean and neat beyond belief. I was scared I was messing up the carpet permanently by simply walking on it. I think the house swayed with his every step but I won't swear on that.The room he lead me to was all white and the morning sun was streaming through the windows. In a regular chair was an elderly lady, weighing about 85 pounds. She was drinking tea out of a cup and saucer which she sat down as I entered, I kid you not! The wheel chair was nearby and she told me what was wrong. It was a simple fix, a couple of simple adjustments from use. The chair itself was pristine and clean, very rare in my line of work.

When I finished, she politely asked if she could sit in it to make sure what I had done was okay. I told her that I insisted she would do so in order for me to make any adjustments she may need. Jamal came in (he had been behind me the whole time, ready to pound me like a tent stake if need be) and picked her up like she weighed no more then a styrofoam coffee cup and placed her in the wheel chair as gently as I had ever seen. She tried out the adjustments I had made and found them to be a bit stiff. She kindly asked be if I could change them and when I said I would be happy to, her face lit up. It about five minutes I was finished and she was a very happy person. She thanked me profusely, patting my hand and asking God to bless me several times over.

"When Jamal takes me to church on Sunday," she told me, "I am going to say a prayer to the Lord for you!" I told her I would appreciate that, since I could use all the help I good get, which pleased her to no end. I had learned before this episode that when people say they are going to say a prayer for you, you tell them thanks. To tell them otherwise will offend them greatly. Jamal just made a near noiseless grunt when I said this. I told her to call me if she had any problems and that her insurance covered everything and she owed us nothing (ah, the good ol' days). I bid her good day and Jamal showed me to the door.

"Two homies were starin' at your van," he informed me.

"I told them to go away!" he said in a tone that would make a pit bull loose control of it's bladder.

I still think those two "homies" were the luckiest men on Earth that morning.

I had several clients in that area, within two blocks of "Auntie's" house. Other service companies, i.e. phone, cable, etc, during that same time period in that area were always having their vans broken into while they worked. It got so bad, the companies had to send two men, one to work and the other to watch the truck!

Not mine. After that morning, those previously mentioned men in parkas would jumped to the side walk when they saw my van coming. Actually, not just my van but any of the vans bearing my employer's logo. No one but no one even approached those vans within a 50 meter radius.

Over the next year or so I had to go back to Auntie's to fix some other items she had, none of it needed more then a small adjustment or part. Jamal always kept watch and always seemed to take good care of her.

I am just glad I never caused him to squeeze me into a 20 oz. soda pop bottle.
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We shall not sleep..."

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Re: My Job, My Hell...

Post by Meat N' Taters » Tue Dec 08, 2009 9:16 pm

Awesome! A Rifleman Story Thread is born!

You don't tug on Superman's cape
You don't spit into the wind
You don't pull the mask off the ol' Lone Ranger
And you don't mess around with Jamal
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Re: My Job, My Hell...

Post by TheLastRifleMan » Tue Dec 08, 2009 9:23 pm

I don;t think anyone for 10miles around messed with him. He was seriously one big bad MF'er. Scary thing was all he had to do was look at you. Never had to say a word or make a gesture.

Tomorrow, my very first solo service call. A tale that I even still cannot believe and I was there!
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Re: My Job, My Hell...

Post by Lionheart » Tue Dec 08, 2009 9:30 pm

Meat N' Taters wrote:Awesome! A Rifleman Story Thread is born!

You don't tug on Superman's cape
You don't spit into the wind
You don't pull the mask off the ol' Lone Ranger
And you don't mess around with Jamal

+100 :lol:
Pain or damage don't end the world. Or despair or fucking beatings. The world ends when you're dead. Until then, you got more punishment in store. Stand it like a man... and give some back.
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Re: My Job, My Hell...

Post by Bearcat » Tue Dec 08, 2009 9:31 pm

Sounds like he needs to play some pro ball. MOAR! Now if we could only get Arch to post his amazing tales....
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Re: My Job, My Hell...

Post by rhi » Tue Dec 08, 2009 9:45 pm

Eh, good for Jamal for taking care of his Auntie. From what you're describing, it was his sheer presence that kept her safe and the house in order.
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Re: My Job, My Hell...

Post by bonanacrom » Tue Dec 08, 2009 9:47 pm

I understand your difficulty in expressing the true impression of the young man. I had the experience of true ( holy shit ) myself once. But there where two of them, brothers. I was behind them in line at a 7-11 getting coffee. The large coffee looked like a small in there hands. I didn't know they made work boots big enough that I could sit down inside of. The two of them could have pushed the building over with no problem.
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Re: My Job, My Hell...

Post by Ad'lan » Wed Dec 09, 2009 3:11 am

+1 for Jamal, sounds like a top bloke. Having that sort of respect for your vehicle is a very good thing in a rough neighbourhood. I don't know anything about the man other than your story, anyman can love and protect his relatives, but his extension of protection to your van seems like he was a good guy.
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Re: My Job, My Hell...

Post by GeneralDiscontent » Wed Dec 09, 2009 3:17 am

I had a similar experience once - I used to work delivering ice in the summertime. I was filling the freezer at a mom & pop grocery in a tiny little town, and had most of my body in there to stack the bags. I heard a voice with a thick Russian accent say, "Excuse me, you give me directions?" I turned around to look at the guy, and was staring directly at the middle of his torso. He was seven feet tall if he was an inch, looked to be about 400 pounds, and none of it was fat. It was like looking at a dump truck that had come to life. To top it off, his face was covered in enough scars that it looked like a topographic map. He was extremely well dressed - dress shirt, tie, slacks, and a gold bracelet I could've worn as a belt. He asked where the next town was, and it was all I could do to point and squeak out "just down the road". He gave me a long stare (I'm sure my eyes were as big as dinner plates), nodded, and walked out the door...
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Re: My Job, My Hell...

Post by Kabong30 » Wed Dec 09, 2009 10:36 am

Dear Penthouse...his muscles rippled under his skin.
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Re: My Job, My Hell...

Post by Meat N' Taters » Wed Dec 09, 2009 11:32 am

Man, I wanna be a huge dude. :(

I'd make up a third-person name for myself, like "The Presence", and insist that other people call me that.
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Re: My Job, My Hell...

Post by Kip » Wed Dec 09, 2009 1:24 pm

Meat N' Taters wrote:I'd make up a third-person name for myself, like "The Presence", and insist that other people call me that.
Hahaha! :lol: :lol: :lol:

I'm 5'2 and 100lbs, so even short people look like Jamal to me. Now if i can come up with a name like that, maybe i wont feel so weird about it.
Last edited by Kip on Wed Dec 09, 2009 1:29 pm, edited 1 time in total.

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Re: My Job, My Hell...

Post by Neville » Wed Dec 09, 2009 1:25 pm

Man, I wanna be a huge dude.

I'd make up a third-person name for myself, like "The Presence", and insist that other people call me that.
I'm sure that's what CarrotTop said to himself one day.

Hmmmm.... impressive? A little. Frickin' scary? Yah, definitely. And more than just a little weird.

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Re: My Job, My Hell...

Post by nimdabew » Wed Dec 09, 2009 7:31 pm

[Jamal Immitation] Hi. I would like a kids ice cream cone please. And put sprinkles on it.[/Jamal]
Thanks Anianna!
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Re: My Job, My Hell...

Post by TheLastRifleMan » Wed Dec 09, 2009 7:37 pm

bonanacrom wrote:I understand your difficulty in expressing the true impression of the young man. I had the experience of true ( holy shit ) myself once. But there where two of them, brothers. I was behind them in line at a 7-11 getting coffee. The large coffee looked like a small in there hands. I didn't know they made work boots big enough that I could sit down inside of. The two of them could have pushed the building over with no problem.
Damn, them had to be some big boys!

I heard on the wind that "Jamal" was a pretty stand up guy who had gotten into trouble when he was younger and had reformed, finished school and went to college. He was no dummy, I can tell you.

I wish I new what he was up to now, since I have not worked for that company in over 5 years. "Aunite" was a real sweet lady. And I mean "lady" in every sense of the word. She was always polite, never demanding and had those old time manners one does not see in people anymore.

Who wants to hear of my very first solo service call? It's a dandy!
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Re: My Job, My Hell...

Post by Meat N' Taters » Wed Dec 09, 2009 7:41 pm

TheLastRifleMan wrote:
Who wants to hear of my very first solo service call? It's a dandy!


MOAR!
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Re: My Job, My Hell...

Post by Samurai Penguin » Wed Dec 09, 2009 7:51 pm

Meat N' Taters wrote:

MOAR!
+1!! This thread is gonna be full of win, I'll tell ya now. :!:
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Re: My Job, My Hell...

Post by Lionheart » Wed Dec 09, 2009 8:13 pm

TheLastRifleMan wrote:
bonanacrom wrote:I understand your difficulty in expressing the true impression of the young man. I had the experience of true ( holy shit ) myself once. But there where two of them, brothers. I was behind them in line at a 7-11 getting coffee. The large coffee looked like a small in there hands. I didn't know they made work boots big enough that I could sit down inside of. The two of them could have pushed the building over with no problem.
Damn, them had to be some big boys!

I heard on the wind that "Jamal" was a pretty stand up guy who had gotten into trouble when he was younger and had reformed, finished school and went to college. He was no dummy, I can tell you.

I wish I new what he was up to now, since I have not worked for that company in over 5 years. "Aunite" was a real sweet lady. And I mean "lady" in every sense of the word. She was always polite, never demanding and had those old time manners one does not see in people anymore.

Who wants to hear of my very first solo service call? It's a dandy!

I certainly do!
Pain or damage don't end the world. Or despair or fucking beatings. The world ends when you're dead. Until then, you got more punishment in store. Stand it like a man... and give some back.
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Re: My Job, My Hell...

Post by TheLastRifleMan » Wed Dec 09, 2009 8:51 pm

Alright children, gather 'round the fire and make sure you have you hot cocoa handy. You know, the kind of hot cocoa with bourbon in it. Or rum, whichever you prefer. I like St. Brendan's in mine, so pass that little brown bottle over here and let's begin.

Nothing really gross in this one, just a tale of the bizarre and ever mysterious nature of man.

I had been working at my ex employer's for about three months when this occurred. I had been repairing units in the basement repair shop and going on the road with the "rehab" tech for the company. His job was to fit wheels chairs and the like to the user and their needs but was the only one in the company who had the time to show me the ropes or had any knowledge of what was out there. My boss also did not want me on my own until they had a vehicle ready and made sure I knew enough to be able to handle what came at me. And trust me, I was NOT ready. I could have been there for a year and not been ready for what lay before me in the months and years ahead.

The day before this even went down, the rehab tech and I had gone out to a "mobile home estate" i.e. trailer park on a call. This time it was another bed that was on the fritz. He drove, I navigated and we found the place in short order, despite the horrid directions given to us by the dispatcher/paperwork loser/slacker, who claimed he had once lived there!

This place, well, to call it a dump would be polite. Cars on blocks with engines removed and said engine setting on a milk crate on the porch. Burned out trailers setting next to trailers that had been gutted out, leaving only a shell for the various small mammals in which to take shelter. Concrete pads now devoid of the double wide that once stood there and would probably never see another mobile home setting on it again. Dogs on rusted chains barking at anything that moved. Scrawny cats searching through the piles of uncollected trash for a morsel of food. And worse of all, the trailers that still had "people" living in them. They only way I could tell people were living in them was the fact that there was a car or truck of some kind parked in front or because dirty urchins played in what was once a small yard. I have had campsites in the middle of National Forest's that were cleaner then the "homes" these people were living in. In all my short years, I had not seen anything like it. Culture shock takes it's toll.

We found the trailer after making a complete lap around the place. We walked up to the door and
pounded. And pounded. No reply. We could not call the resident, she having a neighbor call us since she had no phone. After about ten minutes, with no response, we left.

The next day was a Saturday and my boss wanted me to come into work to help catch up on
some things. Hell, overtime was good money and so I said sure, no problem. After about two hours, my boss comes down stairs to my basement shop.

"You have to go back out to that trailer park to fix that bed." he tells me.
"Your joking!"
"Nope. I have no choice. Woman says the bed doesn't work and she has been sleeping on the floor."
"We were there yesterday and no one answered the door!" I told him.
"I know. She said she was taking a nap and never heard you knock." he said. Well, I thought, if she could sleep that good through our pounding, the bed may not be her biggest priority! Worse yet, he tells me, Both vans are in the shop for routine maintenance. I will have to use my own vehicle. Damn the luck to the 7th level of hell! My boss asks for my cell phone number since I don't have a company phone yet. In case of trouble, I can call him and vice versa. Good idea. But if the people there decide to chase me down and eat me... I loaded up my tools and some various parts I think I will need and zip!off I go.

I get no further then a mile from the shop and my boss calls. Says the lady's door jams up at times and I will have to give it a kick to open it. Strange, but OK, nice to know that. Thanks boss! I arrive at the town that was too nasty to be the setting for "Deliverance" and drive right to the house trailer. How could I forget it? The address numbers were spray painted in 2x2' numerals on the side. It may have once been white, but time makes fools of us all. It was not even sitting level and the porch had a five inch gap from meeting the rest of the trailer. Real class.

I knock on the door. Through the open window, a voice tells me I will have to kick in the door to break the lock. It seems she can't find the key to the front door lock. What she had meant by "kicking" the door was to break down the door! I yell back and tell her there is no way I am going to do that. She yells back she has to have this bed fixed now, so go for it.

Hell, no, I tell myself. I bust that door and the company is going to get ass raped financially by some high priced attorney who has taken this low life's case pro bono. I call my boss and tell him that she wants us to bust down the door. Bloody bleeping hell no, he tells me! Damn right, I'm not, I tell him. I replied I was going to go up to the main office building and see if they had a spare key. Good idea, he says, let me know what happens. I yell back my intentions and she is still telling me to bust it in. I tell her hang on, I will be back in a few.

I drive up to the office. I'm telling myself this cannot get any worse. Again, fate proves she is a very fickle bitch and does not play favorites, because, as I quickly find as I go to the main door, a piece of paper torn from a spiral bound notebook taped to said door. In big block letters, written in pink Crayola crayon (yes, effing crayon!) were the words: "Back in foorty five minets". Yes, spelled just like that.

What did I do in a previous life to deserve such bad karma? Deflower some underage Viking princess? Urinate in the sacramental wine at the Vatican? Things weren't flowing in the positive my way at this point. No choice but to tell the woman the bad news and somehow figure out a new plan of action. I just needed to calm down. There was a strip bar just a quarter mile down the road, but I quickly realized I had no cash on me anyway, so that idea was just no good. I drove back down to the hovel and was going to deliver the bad tidings.

I arrived at a very strange scene. At here door a crowd had gathered. About three dirt encrusted children and a frail looking woman stood on the crumbling sidewalk while a man wearing gray sweat pants stained with used motor oil and wearing a very white and clean (?) "wife beater" shirt was at the door, his hand working in frantic motions at the door knob. I got of my car just in time to see him push the door open! How in the world? What just happened? He climbed down from the porch, a tarnished butter knife in his hand a smile on his face. How he was able to hold the cigarette he was puffing mightily and smile at the same time I do not know. Perhaps he had wedged into one of the gaps were teeth had once been. The knife had me scared, though. Damn, what a sad ending! And painful, I thought, to be slain with a $3 stainless BUTTER KNIFE!

" I gots it open fer ya. I heards her yellin and I jimmied da lock. Did it about a month back fer 'er." he said in a freindly manner. I stammered a thanks and he turned to the women and miniature dirt miners, pulled the cigarette from his mouth and gave it to the women, who began puffing on it.

When I die, I thought, I will surely not go to hell.

I was already there.

Part II tomorrow night, kids.
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Re: My Job, My Hell...

Post by Lionheart » Wed Dec 09, 2009 9:17 pm

TheLastRifleMan wrote:Alright children, gather 'round the fire and make sure you have you hot cocoa handy. You know, the kind of hot cocoa with bourbon in it. Or rum, whichever you prefer. I like St. Brendan's in mine, so pass that little brown bottle over here and let's begin.

Nothing really gross in this one, just a tale of the bizarre and ever mysterious nature of man.

I had been working at my ex employer's for about three months when this occurred. I had been repairing units in the basement repair shop and going on the road with the "rehab" tech for the company. His job was to fit wheels chairs and the like to the user and their needs but was the only one in the company who had the time to show me the ropes or had any knowledge of what was out there. My boss also did not want me on my own until they had a vehicle ready and made sure I knew enough to be able to handle what came at me. And trust me, I was NOT ready. I could have been there for a year and not been ready for what lay before me in the months and years ahead.

The day before this even went down, the rehab tech and I had gone out to a "mobile home estate" i.e. trailer park on a call. This time it was another bed that was on the fritz. He drove, I navigated and we found the place in short order, despite the horrid directions given to us by the dispatcher/paperwork loser/slacker, who claimed he had once lived there!

This place, well, to call it a dump would be polite. Cars on blocks with engines removed and said engine setting on a milk crate on the porch. Burned out trailers setting next to trailers that had been gutted out, leaving only a shell for the various small mammals in which to take shelter. Concrete pads now devoid of the double wide that once stood there and would probably never see another mobile home setting on it again. Dogs on rusted chains barking at anything that moved. Scrawny cats searching through the piles of uncollected trash for a morsel of food. And worse of all, the trailers that still had "people" living in them. They only way I could tell people were living in them was the fact that there was a car or truck of some kind parked in front or because dirty urchins played in what was once a small yard. I have had campsites in the middle of National Forest's that were cleaner then the "homes" these people were living in. In all my short years, I had not seen anything like it. Culture shock takes it's toll.

We found the trailer after making a complete lap around the place. We walked up to the door and
pounded. And pounded. No reply. We could not call the resident, she having a neighbor call us since she had no phone. After about ten minutes, with no response, we left.

The next day was a Saturday and my boss wanted me to come into work to help catch up on
some things. Hell, overtime was good money and so I said sure, no problem. After about two hours, my boss comes down stairs to my basement shop.

"You have to go back out to that trailer park to fix that bed." he tells me.
"Your joking!"
"Nope. I have no choice. Woman says the bed doesn't work and she has been sleeping on the floor."
"We were there yesterday and no one answered the door!" I told him.
"I know. She said she was taking a nap and never heard you knock." he said. Well, I thought, if she could sleep that good through our pounding, the bed may not be her biggest priority! Worse yet, he tells me, Both vans are in the shop for routine maintenance. I will have to use my own vehicle. Damn the luck to the 7th level of hell! My boss asks for my cell phone number since I don't have a company phone yet. In case of trouble, I can call him and vice versa. Good idea. But if the people there decide to chase me down and eat me... I loaded up my tools and some various parts I think I will need and zip!off I go.

I get no further then a mile from the shop and my boss calls. Says the lady's door jams up at times and I will have to give it a kick to open it. Strange, but OK, nice to know that. Thanks boss! I arrive at the town that was too nasty to be the setting for "Deliverance" and drive right to the house trailer. How could I forget it? The address numbers were spray painted in 2x2' numerals on the side. It may have once been white, but time makes fools of us all. It was not even sitting level and the porch had a five inch gap from meeting the rest of the trailer. Real class.

I knock on the door. Through the open window, a voice tells me I will have to kick in the door to break the lock. It seems she can't find the key to the front door lock. What she had meant by "kicking" the door was to break down the door! I yell back and tell her there is no way I am going to do that. She yells back she has to have this bed fixed now, so go for it.

Hell, no, I tell myself. I bust that door and the company is going to get ass raped financially by some high priced attorney who has taken this low life's case pro bono. I call my boss and tell him that she wants us to bust down the door. Bloody bleeping hell no, he tells me! Damn right, I'm not, I tell him. I replied I was going to go up to the main office building and see if they had a spare key. Good idea, he says, let me know what happens. I yell back my intentions and she is still telling me to bust it in. I tell her hang on, I will be back in a few.

I drive up to the office. I'm telling myself this cannot get any worse. Again, fate proves she is a very fickle bitch and does not play favorites, because, as I quickly find as I go to the main door, a piece of paper torn from a spiral bound notebook taped to said door. In big block letters, written in pink Crayola crayon (yes, effing crayon!) were the words: "Back in foorty five minets". Yes, spelled just like that.

What did I do in a previous life to deserve such bad karma? Deflower some underage Viking princess? Urinate in the sacramental wine at the Vatican? Things weren't flowing in the positive my way at this point. No choice but to tell the woman the bad news and somehow figure out a new plan of action. I just needed to calm down. There was a strip bar just a quarter mile down the road, but I quickly realized I had no cash on me anyway, so that idea was just no good. I drove back down to the hovel and was going to deliver the bad tidings.

I arrived at a very strange scene. At here door a crowd had gathered. About three dirt encrusted children and a frail looking woman stood on the crumbling sidewalk while a man wearing gray sweat pants stained with used motor oil and wearing a very white and clean (?) "wife beater" shirt was at the door, his hand working in frantic motions at the door knob. I got of my car just in time to see him push the door open! How in the world? What just happened? He climbed down from the porch, a tarnished butter knife in his hand a smile on his face. How he was able to hold the cigarette he was puffing mightily and smile at the same time I do not know. Perhaps he had wedged into one of the gaps were teeth had once been. The knife had me scared, though. Damn, what a sad ending! And painful, I thought, to be slain with a $3 stainless BUTTER KNIFE!

" I gots it open fer ya. I heards her yellin and I jimmied da lock. Did it about a month back fer 'er." he said in a freindly manner. I stammered a thanks and he turned to the women and miniature dirt miners, pulled the cigarette from his mouth and gave it to the women, who began puffing on it.

When I die, I thought, I will surely not go to hell.

I was already there.

Part II tomorrow night, kids.

Been there man, my ex lives in a trailer park which wasn't all that bad but she had some weird fuckin neighbors one of which had supposedly sold his sold to Satan for money which I thought was bullshit cause if he did he wouldn't live there but he had easily 10 cars in really good condition which I think he was just a criminal or something but he did have also sorts of weird symbols on his property and another neighbor was a drag queen who was a Wiccan that practice black magic on ex boyfriends who pissed him/her off and he was close friends with the alleged Satanist. The worst thing is that now those are my daughters neighbors. :x
Pain or damage don't end the world. Or despair or fucking beatings. The world ends when you're dead. Until then, you got more punishment in store. Stand it like a man... and give some back.
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Re: My Job, My Hell...

Post by Samurai Penguin » Wed Dec 09, 2009 9:24 pm

TheLastRifleMan wrote: Part II tomorrow night, kids.
This is shaping up to be great.

But cliffhangers make Baby Jesus cry. :x
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Re: My Job, My Hell...

Post by JCgoose » Wed Dec 09, 2009 9:26 pm

that was great!

you really do have a talent for this keeping going!

as others have said

MOAR
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'I rather thought that was the point of them' - Van Voytz to Gaunt
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Re: My Job, My Hell...

Post by USMCSergeant » Wed Dec 09, 2009 9:52 pm

Samurai Penguin wrote:But cliffhangers make Baby Jesus cry. :x
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Re: My Job, My Hell...

Post by Vicarious_Lee » Wed Dec 09, 2009 11:14 pm

I KNEW IT! I FUCKING KNEW IT!!

Back in my 4th year of med school I took an ER rotation. On only one day I had to do a "ride-along" with the EMS. In that one afternoon I saw more shit, validated more shit, confirmed more suspicions, and solidified more opinions about the "underbelly" of this country than I ever thought possible.

It's a wacky place to visit (rotate) but I sure as hell won't live (work) there. Rifleman, I'm now living through you......wait for it......Vicarious_Lee.


Keep it coming.

Oh, and a YouTube vid for you and you alone, just so you can get a glimpse of the pinnacle of your clientele:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wd5v9jN4JrE" onclick="window.open(this.href);return false;

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MEyJO3kB ... re=channel" onclick="window.open(this.href);return false;

The boy has MS, and him and his dad were featured as "Innovators" in Popular Mechanics not too long ago. I e-mailed them a while back, but they didn't get back to me. It's probably for the best, though. This chair ain't meant for everybody, and only those with the greatest moxie deserve to find that it exists. Yes, that's a ventilator setup on that tank. :twisted:
duodecima wrote:The tinfoil's a clever idea...
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