Talking Turkey

Fernando is engaged with one of his customers one afternoon about the paucity of internet service providers in the area, and how Fernando has been sitting for over a month without a business internet connection because the one company that services the area with something better than 56k dial-up is a righteous dragass in opening a DSL line to the Dominion. A pair of gentlemen clad in green-and-brown camo like it was going out of style stump in and stand there behind Fernando's customer.

Well, the conversation continues on for about three more minutes because this gent is rather tech-savvy and has experienced for himself ire in attaining good internet. When at last the exchange draws to a close and Fernando bids the man a good evening, the two strangers approach. They're both in their 40s or 50s, both with perhaps two days' growth of face-stubble (because it is some silly ritual to allow one's facial hair to grow out during the hunting of deer, even if you spend the other 50 weeks of the year impeccably clean-shaven.). One of them speaks.

“It's about goddamn time. You gab worse than a whole buncha women.”

Fernando presses his lips together and regards the man. “It's actually a form of building rapport with my customer base, so as to link the concept of good conversation with my business on a psychological level and predispose them to returning at a later date, thereby insuring my finances remain in the black and I can continue to live with a modicum of comfort.” Since comprehension of Fernando's brainy-words does not seem forthcoming, he clarifies, “It's talking turkey.”

“Fuck you turkey hunters,” says the second man. His voice is slurred and accompanied with a miasma of stale beer Fernando detects from about six feet away. “Shooting at shit, scarin' away the bucks. Can't do shit with them out there shooting at shit.”

“You realize I'm not actually a turkey hunter. Now, how can I help you?”

“We want movies,” says the first man.

“That's splendid. What sort were you looking for?”

“Ones to watch,” the man responds. “What kind ya think?”

Fernando thinks happy thoughts and not ones that are full of disdain for idiots. “I meant action, comedy, horror...?”

“Action, yeah,” says the second.

“What kind?”

“Whaddya mean what kind? Action kind!” the second guy says.

“Thriller? Endless guns and explosions? Martial arts?”

“Guns, yeah,” says the first guy. “Whatcha got?”

“Well, first, I need your names, to check if you're in my records.”

“Never been here before,” says the second.

“Alright. Then I to fill this out right quick.” Fernando retrieves a membership application and one of his good pens. “Can I have your license please?”

The first guy feels at his abundance of pockets. “Shit, didn't bring my wallet.”

“Ain't got mine,” says the other. “Can't do nothing with it anyway.”

So the one is drunk and the other forgot his license, or claims to have forgotten his license. Yep. “Then I'm afraid I can't rent to you.”

“Shit, son, we'll bring 'em back!” says the first. “Won't be no problem.”

“Yeah, but no. And stop calling me 'son.'” At this point one of Fernando's regulars, a married ladytype, comes in and returns a couple of movies. The sloshed guy makes no secret of ogling her backside. She leaves mighty quickly. “I'm afraid I can't help you right now. If you care to come back some other time with your information, then we can maybe work something out. Else, probably best for you to leave.”

The first man assists the second to the door and they do just that.

Fucking hunters.