I need to preface this story: I really doubt I'm the good guy here. I'll put that right up front. I rattle easily with confrontation, and that's when my customer service skills start to fail. So here it is, warts 'n' all.
The other night, I was closing the liquor store. We carry cigars, as well. We're the only place on the island with any kind of selection that I'm aware of. There used to be a proper tobacconist on the island, but that went out shortly after a key industry in the area died spectacularly during the 2nd Clinton administration. Among our selection are cheapo "Black & Milds". Most places in the US I doubt they're even a dollar; here, they're about $2.00.
A guy comes in, super-dazed look on his face. Like, picture a fish you see in the seafood department. He ignores several greetings and a "hi, how can I help you?"
OK, whatever. That doesn't bother me. He walks right past me, straight to the B&Ms, takes one, and starts opening it up.
Me: Dude, you wanna pay for that, first?
Him: Whatever for?!
Me: Wh -- Man, c'mon, you don't just open stuff up before putting up the money. That's not how this works. Gimme that. (I gently took the cigar from his hand, he didn't really resist. I put it on the counter between us and zapped it with the scanner.)
Him: What's your problem, a$$hole?!
Me: Hey. You want your cigar, I want you to pay for it first, please. That's standard business.
Now, I've fully lost patience, and over a $2.00 cheapjack cigarillo. Up till the "retard" comment, I was prepared to still continue the sale. I took the cigar from the front counter and placed it behind me on the back counter.
Me: OK, that's it. We're done here. Go. (Pointed past him to the door)
Him: What the f&&& man, what's your damage?
Me: You opened merch without paying, then called me names when I ask for money first? Not cool, and I don't have to take that. We're. Done. Please leave.
Him: I got money right here, d&ckhead (and for the first time, he produces a couple crumpled bills from the pocket of his sweats).
Me: No. You know what? That's no longer the issue. You're being nasty, and I don't have to put up with this. I'm done, you're done. Hit the door, or we can have someone help you find the way out.
Him: (Over his shoulder at me, walking away) F@%%ot a$$ f&&&in' retard. See what happens. F&&& you. B!tch.
I sighed, wrote the situation down in the logbook, and marked the spot with the partially-unwrapped cigarillo. Nobody won that time. I certainly didn't feel good about it, but there ya go.