Hai Doggy

You ever worked a night shift? I used to. Emphasis on the past tense. These days I spend my night behind a door with four locks, the whole room lit up like Times Square.
I worked in a flower shop, forcing a smile while elderly people screamed at me, demanding I sell them shit they didn't need. A dead end job, to be sure, but we all have to eat, don't we?
Yes. Yeah, we all have to eat.
Anyway, flower shop. They had me closing, making sure everything in the store was ship-shape for the freight crew that arrived every day before dawn, while the manager that'd drawn the short straw for the night sat in the back counting the money. It was a tedious position, to be sure, but most folks were too lazy to come in and terrorize us service reps at ten o' clock at night.
Most folks, anyway.
That night I'd finished my duties early, and found myself staring at my phone, counting the minutes, the very seconds until I could lock up, listening to the exact same three Iggy Goddamn Azalea songs on the store radio for the millionth time today when I heard the rattling grumble of the automatic doors sliding open, a sound that kicked my heart somewhere down into my lower intestine, even as a hot spike of irritation flared up in my stomach. After all, the store was open thirteen goddamn hours a day, and this jackass needed some flowers now? I grit my teeth, twisted my lips up into that tried and true customer service rictus and turned to face the jackass in question.
It only took one look at our would-be customer to wipe that smile off my face.
Lurching through the doorway was a hunched and pallid figure, so entirely swaddled in a great black tuxedo, that I couldn't see anything of flesh but for the angles of their gaunt face. It was a frightening visage, to be sure, their chalky white skin stretched tightly over the ridges of their skull, framed by a greasy and stringy mop of jet black hair, a complete lack of color and depth shared by the suit, so deep that the light from the fluorescents seemed to recoil from the shambling figure. Sunken eyes, a surprisingly bright green for the discolored bags hanging underneath them, swiveled in their sockets, nearly independent of one another, until both focused on my hypnotized person. Pale lips stretched wider than I'd have thought possible, pulling their flesh taut to the point I was fearful their face might tear and revealing rows of discolored and crooked teeth.
Was I afraid? Disgusted is more the word I'm looking for, then not sure if I wasn't looking at a man (a woman? Even now, that thing's gender escapes me.) so much as a corpse. Still, I'd been trained well, and our visitor was still not the most grotesque customer we'd ever had. I swallowed, clasped my hands, and recited, like a good employee, "Can I help you?"
The customer said nothing at first, despite the obvious spark of comprehension lingering in their eyes. They shuffled forward, approaching me with an unbalanced gait, still grinning like a lunatic, as that bright gaze darted to and fro about the store. Eventually they focused on, you guessed it, a French bulldog sitting by the register. From the depths of their tuxedo emerged a thin and bony hand, waxy flesh sagging off their arm like jowels, as long, twitching fingers ran through the dog's fur. Their eyes swiveled, inspecting it before focusing unsettlingly on me once more. Their mouth open, and following a rattling intake of filtered air they spoke.
"Haai" the customer croaked in a heavy Polish accent. "Can I have a dozen red roses please?"
I suddenly went from being so tense I was ready to jump over the counter and just make a run for it to feeling deeply relieved as I carelessly replied "Oh, hi, Johnny, I didn't know it was you. Here you go."
"That's me!" he (or she?) rattled. "How much is it?"
"It'll be eighteen dollars."
"Here you go, keep the change. Hai doggy."
At this moment, I was so excited that I truly could only blurt out "You're my favorite customer!" at which they cheerily queried "Thanks a lot, baai".
"Buh-bye" I said, more to myself than to them, as I thought "what a nice young gentleman".
Mere weeks later, he threw his TV out the window and killed himself.
Category:Trollpasta
Category:Satire
Category:DIALOGUE!
Category:Suicide
Category:Memes
Category:Pages with grammar that doesn't suck
Category:Originally on r/shittynosleep