Subtle like a shovel to the face

Woo, exam season. How I loathe thee. Just one more to go, thank god--why they schedule exams on Saturday remains beyond me.

It seems like I have something of a penchant for finding myself in jobs that regularly require me to deal with people in less than idyllic circumstances while I'm carrying a large object that could potentially be used to inflict grievous bodily harm.

The guy over at Waiter Rant has his thousand yard waiter stare;

"A lightening bolt of stress flashes from the top of my head to the base of my spine. As my chakras begin to smoke, stomach acid vaults up my esophagus and starts filling my mouth with the taste of regurgitated lunchtime pizza. I’ve got cappuccinos to make and desserts to plate. If I don’t get my orders into the computer soon, I’ll go into the weeds and be destroyed. Swallowing hard, I channel all my frustration into my eyes and unleash my thousand yard waiter stare. The girl’s resistance, predictably, implodes." --The Waiter

And I have my whips.

"M, the reason you deal with them every time is because... well, because you can handle it better than (pansy-assed co-worker) can, and because you look like you're about to beat them all to death with your riding crop." --Markhor, former boss.

Oh, and sometimes large metal sticks.

"Can you do the bins, M? Wait, wait--by taking up that stick, you are agreeing not to kill anyone. Okay? Don't kill anyone. Please don't kill anyone... stop smiling like that." --Jackal, my other former boss.

Now, I'm not a violent person. I've never, ever gotten involved in a fist fight. I'm about as hard-assed as your average cream puff, and I'm not particularly intimidating to look at, either. But man, can I turn the menace on when I want to, and especially when I'm armed. I'd never actually hit a customer, of course. I'd lose my job--but they, as the saying goes, don't know that.

There were several jobs in which my purpose was occasionally to stand near a difficult customer with something solid slung over my shoulder; brooms, lunge whips, riding crops, metal things for crushing rubbish in case of sharps, shovels, crowbars--even a clothes hanger can look like a deadly weapon in my hands. Only with difficult customers, though. The nice ones are not exposed to my potential wrath, and the vast majority are nice. Even if they happen to see me while I'm holding a very long whip, they're usually pretty well unaffected by my aura of pure malice. This is a good thing, because if they were, I wouldn't have kept any of my jobs for very long.

Maybe it's not the startlingly proximity of me and a potential weapon that scares 'bad' customers. Maybe it's a primal fear thing, like the way dogs can sense approaching earthquakes. They hear me calmly explaining that our horses are very well trained and they need to take the spurs off their boots right now, please, but then they make eye contact and see that what I actually mean is "I would rather be dealing with anyone other than your malodorous self. In my mind, you are dying slowly and painfully. The only reason I'm being polite is because I'm entertaining the vague hope that it'll make you go away faster. My next recourse will be the thorough application of this object to your fat face."

...or maybe not. Maybe I'm just scary when I'm holding a shovel. It'd be more trouble than it's worth, anyway. Can you imagine the lawsuits if I went around breaking my new crops in on the clientele? Apparently Australia is the second most litigious country in the world now, after the good ole US of A.

Besides, I know what the going rate for a dominatrix in my city is. If you want my beatings, you pay by the hour.