Blows it after he has already left!
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It's amazing how quickly they forget. All too eager to please, but forgetting what brought them there in the first place.

It's only a few days after landing the big "One-triple-oh" (1,000 completed pizza deliveries/missions) and you're pumping out a cool five deliveries an hour. Fucking sweet! It's a good evening. Sure, having completed 1,000 "missions" certainly does give you a bit of clout at homebase - you're accepted by the old guard. You've seen some shit....you know your roads and short-cuts. You can puff out your chest a bit, and rip-off the new guys who don't know about Johnny Botha's short cut off Liesbeeck into Obs. But don't get too cock sure of yourself JUST yet, capitano - many a lip in the nip of a tuck caught in the slip.

I was surprised at the speed of the delivery. The doorbell at the Safe House rang a lot sooner than expected so I had to ask the supermodel to go and hide with all the little Cambodian children in the second bedroom - "Daddy has to do some work," I explained.

"Yo," I gave over the intercom.

"And a good evening to you, Sir! This is Butlers Pizza with your order!"

Fuck me, we've got a live one, I thought to myself. I buzzed him in and unlocked the front door before he got there. I didn't want too much face time with this one.

"Pop it in the kitchen," I instructed, looking him over in a millisecond - summing him up before he could say "margherita".

"Yes, Sir, absolutely, thank you, I'll just pop it over there!!" - he was being OVERLY polite. Like REALLY pushing it. Not TRYING to be a cock, but just overcooking it.

He was clean. I wasn't worried about his hygiene. There was something else. No longer able to look directly at him, I was recounting from memory what he looked like, as I dealt with him, in these final stages of the pizza delivery. I gravitated to the bedroom to get the money. I returned with the cheque and placed it is his hand with my eyes to the floor.

"Thanks," I said, grabbing the door handle and pointing to what could only be outside.

He really went for it this time: "Well, thank you very much, Sir. And a very good evening to you," as he seemingly shuffled out sideways, bowing scraping, allowing himself a moment to glance at the cheque.

"And a very most generous of you thank you and a very good evening to you and very generous," he blurted as I closed the door on him vanishing down the Safe House steps.

What the fuck was that about, I thought to myself! What is going through that child's head? I grabbed the invoice to see what I could glean.

"Ronnie on his 1,217th mission" it told me.

I was beginning to piece it together as I opened the pizza box.

Aaah..... everything finally made sense...

Fucked.
Classic case of HSD (High Speed Displacement)

I think I know a little boy who was so confident following the big 1,000, that he drove a bit too fast! Showing off, perhaps? Wanting to leave the Safe House covered in glory? Well I tell you what - I think I know a little boy who should have looked before he leapt!

Well, Ronnie, here's a newsflash: Just because you've driven away from the delivery, it doesn't mean the jobs over! You aren't even close to winning! What if the order is wrong, fuck nut? Hey? What then? A quick tinkle from the client to homebase will land you with a shit sounding DOEF when you make it back there. Then you're REALLY fucking with your stats as you waste your time on the road with a no-earner.

Or, in this case, the pizza was correct, but you blew it anyway! You failed the test. You drove too fast and the pizza has been thrown around. HSD - High Speed Displacement - a rookie error.

Look at it, Ronnie. It's a fuck-show.

Look at it!

Christ.

It's not always about speed and manners, Ronnie.

There's more to it.

'Grace', for example....

For fuck sakes, man..................get over yourself.
  

Seth Rotherham
Editor
2oceansvibe.com
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