The Exact Change Bandit

Its a pucker morning at the office. We're wearing khakis and sandals because our boss is in Florida ruining someone's life a week before their pension matures. The air conditioning and our exposed toes banter with one another like two old men quietly being racist. The hive, relieved of some of its buzz after this most recent round of holiday firings, is throbbing with the macabre faces of forgotten hostages.

Our morning game is counting the number of times we hear customer service reps apologize to a stadium of unsupported customers and accounts.

At 9:30, the break room gets a visit. Much to our chagrins, we realize Armando from accounting didn't receive his pink slip on December 24th like we heard he would. Had we overseen the seasonal layoffs, Armongo's notice of termination would have been wrapped around a hurling meat clever. He nods in our direction then returns to pausing for breathes between aggressive bites of a McGriddle.

We ease our dollar into the vending machine and punch F4. Our liquid aspartame comes bucking down the drink shoot creating a familiar tune. In one motion we lift our Diet Dr. Pepper out of the catch and jam our sausage digits into the coin return ...

...wait...

...what the fuck...

...no...

...we bring our fore and middle fingers to eye line and they are both covered in shimmering ketchup. It appears, some fuckpang has flooded the office coin return with disdainfully sour condiments in a crude attempt to punish those of us without a coin purse. A bandit insisting on exact change.

To make the situation an even more a frostbitten penis, Armando throws his fat face in our direction and chuckles, "you just get your period?"

The Exact Change Bandit may be a filthy unstoppable menace, but his wake of destruction pales in comparison to the death toll amassed by the elusive Mexican Leprechaun...

Don't be fooled, that smile has killed with a knife.