I’m so incensed, so flippin’ wild, I could spit bullets of blood. I could murder a buffalo with my bare hands. I could … well, eat Scott Morrison’s lies. Yeah, all of them. Ruddy thousands. So, yeah, I’m really pissed because, see, some people can’t see the wood for the fleas. So influenced … no, not influenced, so addicted to money they can’t see they’s losing customers foot over fist. Just cuttin’ they’s leg off with their arm or something.
Cos, like, last week I bought this product from my local shop … yeah, local, like Runaway Bay, Morala Avenue. I mean, how local can you get an’ they’s prejudirising or whatever their own people. See, I paid good money for this product, took it home carefully and it didn’t work. Useless as headlights on a carrot. Hopeless damned thing, like used dunny paper, so I took it back two days later, see. In perfect condition. Just like I got it from the shop.
“No, we don’t give refunds,” said the shop girl, smiling like she’s eaten a lemon, all smarmy like.
“But … it don’t work,” I said, a bit surprised.
“Sorry, no refunds, sir.”
“Oh, what about a replacement? One that works?”
“No sir.” Smug lookin’ tart.
“That’s against the law,” I said, knowing she’d have to back down now. “You have to give refunds on stuff that don’t work. Hair Trading Act and all that.”
“Sorry, sir, no refunds.” She turned to serve someone else who was sniggering and shocked at her behaviour. Right, go to the top.
“I need to talk to your boss man,” I said.
“Yes sir?” was a booming voice behind my left ear and I jumped out of me socks, hit my elbow on the counter and saw stars. I pulled meself up, shook my head, adjusted my trousers and saw a big woman, bloody big woman, Turkish wrestler, scary bitch.
I jumped back but was already against the counter so sort-of slid down and landed on me bum, their product still in my hand. Can’t give up, see!
“How can I help?” she asked in a voice that shook the trees outside and all the possums buggered off back to Africa. Scary, right! Well, I kinda’ clambered up and asked for the man in charge. Wrong question, huh!
“I own this shop, young man, and I am not a man!” she said in that gun-toting voice and the gum trees all buggered off back to Africa.
Gotta’ say, was I shakin’ a bit now. Not much but me jeans was wet in front. I bent over a bit to hide it and asked for a refund, waving the product in her big face.
“No refunds! You heard the girl!” The roof shook and the birds flocked off to China.
“But …” I demanded in a voice that had lost its voice. Yeah, bit of a squeak, really.
“No buts! No refunds! No replacements! Do you want to buy another one?” It went a bit dark and I think the sun buggered off too.
“I … er …” I said and, noticed my left boot filling with pee and felt like flockin’ off to Africa too. I thanked her in a squeak, stalked out manfully, tripped on my lace, went face-first on the floor, picked meself up and made a definite decision. Two definite decisions. Don’t mess with buggers who’s influenced only by money and never buy another Lotto ticket from that shop.
This story is one of many from My Whispering Teachers, available as both a paperback and an e-book.