Remember to head over to the Library of the Damned for this week’s installment of the horribly terrible fanfic I’m riffing. It’s two chapters in one!

 

 

At [ghostbank] we have one of those coin-counting gizmos that you pour your change into and it prints out a slip of paper that you can then deposit into your account or trade for cash and livestock.

Okay, maybe not that last bit.

People love this noisy thing and it runs nearly constantly and as such frequently breaks down. It’s an inconvenience but it’s not like our coin-counter is the only one in the whole wide world. Most of the time the problem is fixed by one of the tellers cracking the thing open and removing whatever random bit of trash the person who was using last forgot to take out of their change before dumping it in. The most common culprits are paper clips and pocket lint, but word has filtered through the [ghostbank] grapevine of tellers having to unwind condoms from the inner workings and on more than one occasion bullets have been found lodged in bad places, at least once being set off, destroying the machine and also causing the kind of panic you would imagine a sound like a gunshot making in a financial institution.

Occasionally something will break that can’t be solved by a teller (such as extracting a live round with a pair of forceps) and the machine will be out of service until a tech can come and sacrifice a chicken or whatever it is they do to make it work again. Our machine was down for several days, including a Friday, about a week ago. When the machine is down there is a large sign on it that states this. A woman came in, walked past my desk directly to the change counter.  She ignored the sign and tried to pour her change into the hopper where it is fed into the machine. Luckily we have run into this particular problem before and there was something taped over the opening. The woman sees this and stalks back over to my desk, dropping her heavy jar of change on my desk. I could feel it through my feet.

“The coin thing’s not working!”

“No, ma’am. I’m sorry, but it’s out of service right now. We’re waiting for a technician to come out but it will probably be Monday.”

“What am I supposed to do now?”

“You could go to another one of our branches, there’s one …”

“I don’t want to go nowhere! Get someone to count it.”

At this point, there was a long line for the tellers, several phone lines are ringing, and there were a number of people signed in and waiting; pretty much everyone is doing something, including me.

“We don’t have anyone available to do that right now.”

“Get someone. I know you got people in the back. Take it to the machine in the back.”

“We don’t have another counter in the branch. The one in the lobby is our only one.”

She grabs the jar off my desk, knocking several things off, and storms out muttering about how lazy everyone is and that this is why she never comes to [ghostbank] and that it’s pretty much the worse place in the world. Like Negative Disneyland.

 

Not exactly what I had in mind, Google Image Search.

 

Here’s a news flash, angelface – DON’T. Don’t come back, don’t bank here. just withdraw your account and go somewhere else.  We’re not holding your money hostage, you can take it anywhere you want. Being an insufferable bitch does not make me want to help you out in any way.

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