So I bled on a pork orc today. I'm taking some molding clay out of a pre-made display, 'cause the 'powers that be' want it that way.  So, on the shelf it goes.  Uh, hooray. Anyway... ...I'm moving at my usual speed, which, is still 5x faster than your average fatty.  It's the sort of speed where their trendy heart rate monitor would start yelling "Danger Will Robinson!  Danger!", while mine (don't judge me, it was free, and I'm a stats nerd) displays a number that one of them could only see on a thermostat (we're talking freedom units here, of course). So, the fruity smelling plasticine is out of the pmds, and I'm about to break down my boxes and grab another cart of stock (my 8th, while fatty cow-orker is just finishing their first... I fucking count this shit) when I look down and realize I'm bleeding (not profusely, but enough to be a little concerning) on the floor.  Should've paid more attention to the fact that the edges of the pmd were the cardboard equivalent of 'death by 1000 paper cuts', in my quest to get product on the shelf. I grab the "caution: wet floor" sign of off my cart, place it in the aisle, and walk briskly towards the lunch room, where the first aid kit is kept.  You know, conveniently far away from where any injuries would happen... unless most injuries happen to my co-porkers while they're eating.  It's entirely possible.  That's what they do for the majority of their time.  Anyway, I digress. As I'm about to enter Valhalla, otherwise known as the door which reads 'employees only', a custoham oinks at me.  They only get as far as "Hey you, where are your..." before I interrupt them with "Can't talk.  Bleeding", and turn towards the door.  Before I can enter, this fucking entitled piece of adipose grabs my arm (the non-bleeding one), and REEEEs "HEY! I was talking to you", and attempts to turn me around. Of course, guntus interruptus has the upper body strength of a DYEL, but in that split second, I get a shitlordy idea, and pretend like they've managed to spin me around to face them, while flinging my bleeding arm in their direction.  A couple of drops land on fatty's shirt, but a few hit their other hand. Right as this happens, I do my best 'mock horror and concern' face (the years of customer service have made it seem utterly believable) and utter "Oh no!  Wash your hand immediately, and go get yourself checked out.  I have to go stop the bleeding." ...and off I went, into the back.  I'd washed my hand, and started wrapping it, when the new co-worker came up to me (the only other human in this fucking place... I have people I can talk to at both jobs now.  It's wonderful), and said, with a smirk, "I saw what happened.  I hope you don't mind me asking you what you have, in case you ever bleed on me." "Nothing", I replied, "But fatty doesn't know that." My co-worker smirked again, and said "Tuna, you're an asshole, you know?" "Yep.", I answered, "But at least I'm not fat."