It happened. I snapped
Apr. 26th, 2006 12:33 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
sparkindarknessI lost my temper with a client today. Now that’s something that doesn’t happen very often, after all, if my temper snapped every time I’m confronted with the unreasonable I would be in a small padded cell right now with a nice long sleeved jumper and a muzzle to make sure I stopped trying to destroy the world with my teeth.
But today broke me. An interview with one of my regular criminal clients (yes, that already tells you just about everything you need to know). When this man dies the quality of humanity will increase slightly. His achievements to date are that he has vomited in every continent except Antarctica. I am willing to pay for his trip to Antarctica on the off chance that the vomit will freeze to his face and suffocate him in a painful manner while he is savaged to death by rabid penguins. Failing that I am willing to pay for him to go back to the Australia in the vague hope that something poisonous will risk terminal alcohol poisoning and bight him.
See, this guy is a very bored person. He is sadly unencumbered by employment, education or purpose since he has mastered the art of sponging on his father’s vast wealth (I can only assume that the father accumulated this wealth through some terrible, nefarious purpose and the son was inflicted on him as some kind of really malicious karma. In which case if I were daddy dearest I’d be heading for a Tibetan monastry right now – a lifetime of brown rice, no sex, frostbite and angry Chinese occupiers is nothing compared to staying another day with his spawn).
But I digress. The son’s purpose in life involves drinking everything his father’s money can buy, breaking things his father’s money can repair and sleeping with anything his father’s money can rent. A typical hobby of his is to get extremely drunk until he is seeing double, knock the bottom off a glass bottle and try to shove it in the face of a random stranger – then have daddy buy everyone off. Really, the only possible remaining use for this person is medical research. I understand that recent scandals point to some medical research being unsafe and leading to an agonising death but I’m not willing to get my hopes up and will settle for him being stabbed with lots of big injections.
So I am sat at my desk, sighing dramatically and skillfully honing the haddock to a sharp edge. And the leads of the hounds have been frayed to a hairsbreadth in anticipation of inevitable need when he staggers in to lie to me about his latest encounters so I can try and get him some community service he won’t go to and his father will just pay off.
But he literally staggers in. Staggers and trips and knocks my bookshelf, scattering about £350 worth of books to the floor. And steps on them as he careens away from it. He reaches his chair just as my jaw drops low enough to cause severe bruising on my desk.
Yes, that’s right – he showed up DRUNK for a legal interview on how best to keep his scrawny arse out of prison. Falling down, drop dead, had-to-run-to-the-toilets-while-in-the-waiting-room DRUNK. There are no words.
He sat down and began slurring out his story (before I even said hello). I did not understand a word, so drunk was he. At this point the Hounds have actually frozen in sheer shock and even the haddock is looking very nonplussed. I’m still stunned. Until…. He pulls out his grotty tin of tobacco and begins to roll his own. Yes, he’s so drunk I can’t understand him, he’s vomited in our toilets and now he’s going to smoke in my office.
No, really, let me repeat that so it can actually sink in: he’s so drunk I can’t understand him, he’s vomited in our toilets and now he’s going to smoke in my office. The Hounds? They’re dead, they’re just dead from sheer shock. It has happened. There is a client here that is so stupid that he broke the Hounds. The haddock, gah, the haddock wilted like Hugh Heffner when the Viagra wears off.
Defenseless I resort to the lawyer gaze of death and tell him to get out. Literally. Actually, literally I said:
Me: Get the hell out of my office.
Him: *hic**urp* wha-?
Me: Get out. You’re drunk. It’s pointless you being here.
Him: But dad..
Me: No, just get out. I’m not wasting my time on this. Get out and reschedule for when you’re sober.
Him: *mumble slur* dad *slur*
Me: No buts, the door is there. I’m billing you for a standard 30 minute interview. I’ll have {mad secretary} send you a letter explaining why if you need explain things to your father.
Him: *mumble* *growl**staggers* {Actually, I’m not sure if he didn’t try to hit me then but he tripped over his chair so, I’m not sure}
Some people just aren’t worth the air they consume. Still, I just billed for 30 minutes for 2 minutes work, so there is a plus side
But today broke me. An interview with one of my regular criminal clients (yes, that already tells you just about everything you need to know). When this man dies the quality of humanity will increase slightly. His achievements to date are that he has vomited in every continent except Antarctica. I am willing to pay for his trip to Antarctica on the off chance that the vomit will freeze to his face and suffocate him in a painful manner while he is savaged to death by rabid penguins. Failing that I am willing to pay for him to go back to the Australia in the vague hope that something poisonous will risk terminal alcohol poisoning and bight him.
See, this guy is a very bored person. He is sadly unencumbered by employment, education or purpose since he has mastered the art of sponging on his father’s vast wealth (I can only assume that the father accumulated this wealth through some terrible, nefarious purpose and the son was inflicted on him as some kind of really malicious karma. In which case if I were daddy dearest I’d be heading for a Tibetan monastry right now – a lifetime of brown rice, no sex, frostbite and angry Chinese occupiers is nothing compared to staying another day with his spawn).
But I digress. The son’s purpose in life involves drinking everything his father’s money can buy, breaking things his father’s money can repair and sleeping with anything his father’s money can rent. A typical hobby of his is to get extremely drunk until he is seeing double, knock the bottom off a glass bottle and try to shove it in the face of a random stranger – then have daddy buy everyone off. Really, the only possible remaining use for this person is medical research. I understand that recent scandals point to some medical research being unsafe and leading to an agonising death but I’m not willing to get my hopes up and will settle for him being stabbed with lots of big injections.
So I am sat at my desk, sighing dramatically and skillfully honing the haddock to a sharp edge. And the leads of the hounds have been frayed to a hairsbreadth in anticipation of inevitable need when he staggers in to lie to me about his latest encounters so I can try and get him some community service he won’t go to and his father will just pay off.
But he literally staggers in. Staggers and trips and knocks my bookshelf, scattering about £350 worth of books to the floor. And steps on them as he careens away from it. He reaches his chair just as my jaw drops low enough to cause severe bruising on my desk.
Yes, that’s right – he showed up DRUNK for a legal interview on how best to keep his scrawny arse out of prison. Falling down, drop dead, had-to-run-to-the-toilets-while-in-the-waiting-room DRUNK. There are no words.
He sat down and began slurring out his story (before I even said hello). I did not understand a word, so drunk was he. At this point the Hounds have actually frozen in sheer shock and even the haddock is looking very nonplussed. I’m still stunned. Until…. He pulls out his grotty tin of tobacco and begins to roll his own. Yes, he’s so drunk I can’t understand him, he’s vomited in our toilets and now he’s going to smoke in my office.
No, really, let me repeat that so it can actually sink in: he’s so drunk I can’t understand him, he’s vomited in our toilets and now he’s going to smoke in my office. The Hounds? They’re dead, they’re just dead from sheer shock. It has happened. There is a client here that is so stupid that he broke the Hounds. The haddock, gah, the haddock wilted like Hugh Heffner when the Viagra wears off.
Defenseless I resort to the lawyer gaze of death and tell him to get out. Literally. Actually, literally I said:
Me: Get the hell out of my office.
Him: *hic**urp* wha-?
Me: Get out. You’re drunk. It’s pointless you being here.
Him: But dad..
Me: No, just get out. I’m not wasting my time on this. Get out and reschedule for when you’re sober.
Him: *mumble slur* dad *slur*
Me: No buts, the door is there. I’m billing you for a standard 30 minute interview. I’ll have {mad secretary} send you a letter explaining why if you need explain things to your father.
Him: *mumble* *growl**staggers* {Actually, I’m not sure if he didn’t try to hit me then but he tripped over his chair so, I’m not sure}
Some people just aren’t worth the air they consume. Still, I just billed for 30 minutes for 2 minutes work, so there is a plus side