I’ve been messing around with the way I draw these things since I’m doing them in black and white now, so please excuse me while I throw consistency to the wayside for a little while.
Also, at work, we have sold one slushie so far. One.
The other gentleman here is Zane, who you may remember from an older comic. He’s a close friend of mine, and I’d probably have him in this thing a good deal more often, but unfortunately he lives in the hollowed-out ruins of Cleveland, where they are apparently more tolerant of his kind.
I love it that some people come into my work and assume they’re in Wal-Mart or some other place where the employees will take all their crap, apologize for things that are the customer’s fault, and generally obey some kind of “customer service” policy. That is so not how we roll.
Before the guy came in, Dan (my boss, featured above) posited that there was no way the guy who owned the tow truck would come in and throw a fit. He’s a tow truck driver, he said. There’s no way he doesn’t know how this shit works. I disagreed on the grounds that, yes, he is a tow truck driver, and that makes him exactly the kind of scumfuck that would come in and throw a fit. Apparently, I was right.
Also, earlier tonight I thought of another bit of this story I could turn into a comic, so I’ll be back with part three next. I will try to make it kick ass.
You know what? Fuck tow truck drivers. Anyone whose job is to make people pay $150 for parking in the wrong place doesn’t deserve basic human rights or decency as far as I’m concerned. DISCLAIMER: I am not, of course, referring to AAA drivers or other recovery-only towers, who have saved my ass numerous times over the years.
Anyway, this is part one of a two-part comic about the incident. The next comic is about what happened when the guy came back to ask about his truck.