“I’m sorry Sir,” the teller said, “your account is overdrawn.”
“It can’t be!”
“You’ll have to make a deposit to start making withdrawals again.”
“Fine!” he said and stomped out.
Two nights later he handed her an invoice from the Red Cross blood drive he ran that day. “This should cover it.”
“Thank you Sir,” she said as she stamped ‘received’ on the top of it. “It will take two days to clear then you can make withdrawals on the account.”
“I need to make a withdrawal now,” he replied angrily.
“I’m sorry Sir, but those are the rules.”
“I … need … it … NOW!”
He lunged at the teller and his fangs extended in anticipation of the advance he was going to take on his deposit. He didn’t even see the stake she’d grabbed from under the counter. He died instantly.
The teller straightened her shirt then picked up the phone. Her voice crackled over the PA system, “Clean up on the teller window one, code three.”