Ice, Ice Baby
Our story takes place at an ice rink, a popular hang-out for kids who were not yet old enough to go to pubs, but who had enough brain cells to find that congregating in bus shelters and outside chip shops held little appeal. It would have been a perfect place to socialise, were it not for one particular staff member: one of those lads with ingrowing acne, a polyester uniform, and a chip on their shoulder which meant that they gleefully wielded the miniscule amount of power they actually had at every possible opportunity. He saw it as his solemn duty to prevent any kind of fun being had by any of the customers, and would enforce rules far beyond the bounds of reasonableness or proportion.

His reign of terror, however, came to a crashing end one day, when shouts and screams from one corner of the rink caused him to bustle over with his usual puffing self-importance, demanding to be let through to see what misdemeanor he could inflate out of all proportion. As the crowd parted, he was confronted by the sight of a punter lying sprawled on the ice, arm outstretched, with several fingers bloodily severed by a passing skate blade. At which point the self-promoted rink-fuhrer turned a deathly shade of greenish-grey, and fainted away like a little girl.

At which point my mate stood up, wiped the ketchup off his "special" hand - the one missing the three fingers that he'd been born without - picked up the hot-dog sausages he'd arranged on the ice and covered in more ketchup, and joined the others in pointing and laughing at the now groggily recovering victim.
(moon monkey is busy making memories worth repressing, Wed 11 Sep 2013, 10:09, 1 reply)

Nice
Folks like that need to be put down. Hard.
(Panzerfaust, Wed 11 Sep 2013, 18:34, closed)