Fakin' It

I discovered a fake $10 bill while on the job this evening. I'm too damned determined to be the best I can be, so I told the customer (a young punk who's wrists were wrapped in bandages for boxing) that he was going to have to take a seat while I called the police. He balked and complained. He told me that if it was a real $10, he was going to get a refund, loudly, while I was on the phone with the police lady. I couldn't hear her over his whining. I glared at him and plugged my one ear. He didn't like this.

I am still sick with the flu (it's been identified), and my body is still wiped out. I need to run to the toilet at odd, inconvenient times. The kid paced around the store hissing "I ain't giving no pig my full name" and then told me he was leaving to get his mom, who was waiting in a minivan outside. It was spitting outside, the little droplets shining and fading in the headlamps of the van. Clearly she expected her son would be in and out, why turn off the ignition? He left, and reassured me "Dude, I'm not leaving, I'm getting my $10 back, this is bullshit!"

It's a crime to hand someone back a bill you believe to be fake. And it's also a crime to pick up and leave without returning once a cashier has alerted you that they are suspicious about some tender you just handed them. My bowels also thought it was a crime to exist at that particular point. In fact, they rejected their purpose in my body and decided to move.

The cop showed up late, apologized, took one look at the bill, and gave me a quick wink while whipping open a pad of paper for questioning. Turns out my hawk eyes are too sharp; my finger pads too sensitive; my intuition too tuned for your phony trickery, fakers!