“Look, I just want my sandwich.”
The employee behind the glass counter stared at me, a scared look on her face. This shit always happened.
“Ma’am, I just want my sandwich. That’s all I want. Just give me my sandwich and we all go home safe.
Still though, she remained stock still, an expression of sheer terror stuck to her face. I waved the gun for more emphasis. Once more, I repeated myself.
“I just want my sandwich okay?”
The counter girl remained frozen and quiet, like the rest of the sub shop. At least, until some asshole broke the silence.
“Jesus fucking Christ Heather! Just give him what he wants, okay?! Just give him a sandwich!” someone in the shop screamed.
I turned and stepped over the people lying on the floor in the lobby. 
“First of all, my sandwich. My sandwich is not a sandwich, it’s MY sandwich. Second of all, who said that?”
Silence. Whoever had the balls to speak up a moment earlier definitely didn’t have them now.
“I’m asking a question, and I want an answer. Who said that?”

Of all the people, I wasn’t expecting this guy to stand up.
“I did. I did and I’m sorry. I’ll make your sandwich. I’ll make it however you want. Heather’s new, she... she doesn’t know how to do it… it’s her first day.”
“No, she makes it. I don’t trust you now. What if you spit in my food?” I advanced on him, keeping the gun centered on him.
“Sir I’m not going to spit in your food… just... please stop pointing the gun at me,” the greasy man in the dingy yellow polo squeaked out. 
“Who are you?” I asked.
“I’m the manager,” he replied.
“Well Mr. Manager, I’m having an unsatisfactory experience in your store.”
“I’m very sorry to hear that sir.” He kept stepping back as I kept moving forward and prodding him with the pistol. “How can I resolve this?” he squeaked out, pressed against the wall.
“You can get this very nice lady to make me my sandwich, okay? You’re gonna do me a favor, and you’re gonna go behind the counter and help Ms.”—I pointed the gun at the girl behind the counter again. “Heather, it’s Heather.”— “Help Ms. Heather make me my sandwich. Okay? Can you do that right quick?”
The ratty man nearly slipped on the garish linoleum, so quick as he was to get behind the counter.
“Okay, you can help her, but she makes the sandwich,” I decided. I didn’t trust him; he was an asshole. Fuckhead spoke out of turn. Lucky I didn’t kneecap him.
“Okay, you gotta ask him what bread he wants.” The ratty man was whispering in her ear.
“S-Sir, what bread would you like on your sandwich?” The girl was stuttering, but at least she was trying.
“I want a six inch, Italian herbs and spices, Italian BMT with some meatballs, Swiss cheese and some pepper jack, toasted of course, and load me up on all the veggies. I want the Siracha sauce too. Cheddar sun chips and an Arnold Palmer.”
The girl stared at me dumbfounded until her sleazebag manager grabbed her and directed her around the kitchen. In a few short minutes my meal was ready.
“Thank you, that wasn’t hard at all.” With those parting words I left the store. The way rat-face’s knees were knocking he’d need orthopedics in a couple of years.