Locals

My hotel doesn't accept guests that live within a fifty mile radius of us. My boss is a cranky individual and accordingly does not want anyone touching her collection of roughly severed handicapped infant heads, telling the authorities about her nightly feeding frenzies down at the morgue, or having wild parties if she hasn't been invited (and locals are the people most likely to have them). So anytime a local wants to make a reservation I have to explain our policy to them, which usually elicits the following, completely rational response: "Don't give me that. You will rent a room to me. You will. You will. What? You won't? Are you serious? You can't be serious. That's f**king ridiculous. You inbred dung-ingesting kidney stone. If I ever find out where you live, I am gonna cut out your esophagus, put it in a blender, set it on 'mince', and then force feed it to you. You pudding-filled colonic obstruction. Damn I hate you" etc. My typical response to such an undeserved tirade (usually delivered to the dial tone because they've already hung up) is: thank you. Thank you for hanging up because your voice is like Britney Spears trapped inside an abattoir and I was honestly two seconds away from coming through the telephone and stomping on your throat with my golf cleats until you begin to sound like the finest of woodwind instruments on account of your newly hole-filled breathing passages. After all, everyone who knows me understands that I cannot be CCDR: Controlled, Contained, Denied, or Restrained. So accept it, because I have.
One prime example of the anger slash denial that seems to thrive in the heart of every local would be this evening when I took a phone call from a woman who lives about five miles away. I told her, not impolitely, that we couldn't accommodate her and I explained why. After trying for some time to get me to change my mind, she hung up on me. I didn't think anything of it (other than "If you ever show your doubtlessly ugly face in this hotel then I'll see you in the ICU") until a reservation popped up on my screen not ten minutes later. Apparently she went to our website and booked a room there since I wouldn't do it. I tried to call her several times using the phone number she provided but it just rang and rang. So Steve and I cancelled the reservation and resolved to tell her in person when she showed up for check-in. And about ten minutes ago her husband came in here and tried to do just that, much to our INSERT HERE WHATEVER WORD MEANS SOMEWHAT SICKENING MIXTURE OF CHAGRIN AND DISGUST, YET ADDITIONALLY SLIGHT AMUSEMENT AND PITY. After we both explained again why they couldn't be our guests, and I helpfully added that I already spoke to his wife regarding the no-locals-no-how-now-f**k-off policy, he came at us with (I swear) "So, do you have any rooms?" I'll tell you one thing--whatever our town's genius quota is, when this guy moved in, he obviously upped it. And by upped it I mean attacked it, felled it, and poured corrosive acid over it until it was reduced to nothingness, which is exactly what resides between his (and his wife's) ears.
Steve and I watched as he went back outside to tell his wife the bad news, and they sat in their car for quite some time before finally driving off (we speculated that they may have been hopefully combing the backseat in search of firearms). All I can say now is: if those two ever come back they are going to regret it because I'm wearing my golf cleats tonight and I'm looking to dance on someone's vital organs. So...yeah. Stay somewhere else this evening.