I've worked at many restaurants, and, with one lone exception, you'd have a knife at my throat before I'd willingly darken the doorstep of any of them again.
Not so for Howard, a vengeful former co-worker who'd been fired on the spot for handling his alcohol poorly and tossing his cookies all over a customer's lap during a shift. Pish. Amateur. I've literally drowned my organs in gin and still been able to handle eight parties at once. Anyway.
During his brief stay, Howard and I got on perfectly fine. He stayed out of my way, did his job, and never bothered me. Thus, when he returned to dine about a month after being terminated, he entered my section drunk and greeted me warmly with an unnecessary bear hug.
He brought along an assortment of hot slutty girls, designed no doubt to impress a service staff composed entirely of straight women and a token gay guy. After ordering some gross fru fru martinis, Howard gave me a shit-eating grin and asked, "Aren't you curious what I'm doing here?"
"I'm gonna go out on a limb and guess that you're here to dine and drink?" I replied.
"Hahaha, this guy," Howard said. "You know I was fired, right?"
"Yes, I was there that night," I said.
"Oh right," he said. "I was fired and I came here to be a dick to [the manager]."
Now, I dislike restaurant authority figures as much as the next hateful server, but it wasn't her fault that Howard threw up on someone. I declined to point this out, instead faking mirth and telling him I'd be back with "...drinks for everyone, including me!" We all laughed together, my tone and body language implying I was on their side, even though I pranced on over to my manager and immediately told her what's up.
"Thanks for letting me know," she said, and then just continued pretending to watch one of the bar TVs, the static-saturated one that wasn't even working.
Howard kept sending back food and drinks in an effort to get the manager's attention, but each time she sent me in her stead instead to let him know we'd take the allegedly imperfect item off the bill. Finally, I told Howard he'd never have an audience with the lady of the house, and that his vendetta was starting to take up my precious, precious time.
After he paid (a 30% tip, so cheers to your blood lust, pal), Howard drunkenly walked to the back of the kitchen and knocked on the door of the manager's office, insisting she see him. She didn't let him in, mostly because she was on the opposite side of the restaurant at the host stand. Our kitchen manager and some of the cooks escorted Howard out of the kitchen and out of the restaurant.
Before they left, one of his female friends couldn't quite handle her multiple martinis, and she puked all over my booth. As always, I remained the only functioning drunk in the restaurant.