Big Frankie Shepherd sat up at the bar like he owned the
place. Which to be fair, he did. His grey hair circled his bald crown and his
face had the expression of a man whose moustache had been dipped in shit.
“Frankie,” I nodded as I made my way to the toilet.
“Pipsqueak,” he replied, He’d called me that since the day
I’d started working for him. The problem with men like Frankie is that they dish
out respect based on muscles and reputation not on the work people do. I may
have been small in stature but when I arrived at this place it had been a
two-bit boozer with a dodgy food hygiene rating. It was me that turned it in to
the award winning gastropub that it is today. The thing is, I did it quietly,
unassumingly; I went under the radar. Big Frankie took the credit of course; it
had been his vision but it had been my hard work.
As I was having a slash, I made my decision. I’d been
thinking it over but it was time to do it.
“Frankie, I’ve been thinking,” I said.
“Careful now pipsqueak; too much thinking can be dangerous.”
I smiled a smile so insincere I could have been a Tory
politician.
“I’m handing in my notice.” I said. “I’ll do two months but
then I am moving on. I quit.”
Frankie stood up and towered over me. He grabbed me by the
collar and lifted me clean off the floor.
“You listen to me,” he boomed. “No one leaves my employment
unless I say so. Do you understand me?”
I nodded. I had little choice. Once I’d regained contact with the floor, I
scuttled into the safety of the kitchen and back to my pots and pans.
A couple of weeks later, I walked into the bar to find
Frankie not at his usual spot.
“Where’s Frankie?” I asked.
“He’s not well,” Carol the cleaner said.
“What?” I said.
“I know, I’ve worked here for thirty years and I’ve never
seen Frankie ill.”
“It’s true, the man’s made of teak,” said Yvonne the
barmaid. “Must be something really bad.”
“Apparently he’s been throwing up all night.” Carol said
enjoying the chance to gossip.
“Shocking,” I said, and made my way into the kitchen,
leaving the women to speculate on what might have caused the boss’s gastric
problems.
They could make their random guesses, but I didn’t have to
speculate. Because I knew what I’d put in Frankie Shepherd’s Pie.
'Big Frankie Shepherd sat up at the bar like he owned the place. Which to be fair, he did. His grey hair circled his bald crown and his face had the expression of a man whose moustache had been dipped in shit...Frankie stood up and towered over me. He grabbed me by the collar and lifted me clean off the floor...Once I’d regained contact with the floor, I scuttled into the safety of the kitchen and back to my pots and pans..Because I knew what I’d put in Frankie Shepherd’s Pie...'
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