Petrol Stations
My first job (aside from paper rounds / Betterware / fleecing people on a fixed British Heart Foundation lottery) was working at a petrol station in the northwest.

the owner was rarely around, as he was often out of the country shooting at things, him being a very rich bloke who fancied himself as a big game hunter.

on my first day i was left to run the place for an hour while the rest of the staff went off to the pub. i was told to restock the shelves and the ice-cream fridge while they were away.

so i did the shelves and moved on to the fridge. upon opening the big freezer in the back room, i noticed that there were some strange things among the choc-ices and cornettoes. no matter, it wasn't my business.

after about half an hour they came back, and asked how i was getting on. i told them casually that the dead labrador in the freezer seemed happy enough, but the stags head was stuck to the K9 lolly box.


i already knew that the owner was an amateur taxidermist, so i wasn't really that shocked.

apparently i was the first victim not to run screaming down the road. they'd actually been sitting just round the corner waiting for me to freak out.

(he'd shot the stag, but the dog had died naturally and was being stuffed for a little old lady).
(coobeastie Used to Be in Evil Gazebo, Mon 14 May 2007, 1:20, Reply)