Tacky.

My inner monologue in this entry will be shown in (what else?) purple.

A woman and her two friends took up a six-seater booth for most of the lunch rush. When I brought the ticket, the woman snagged it and insisted to her friends that she would pay. They were done eating and she wasn't, so they left and she spent another twenty minutes painstakingly masticating. Finally, she had her credit card on the edge of the table so I went over to pick it up.

"I'll be right back with your card!" Thank god, it's been hours.
She grabbed her wrist and stopped me immediately. Do not touch me! 
"Is it really NINE DOLLARS for a BLT sandwich?" she asked, pointing at the appropriate line on the bill.
No. No, it's not. I just hacked in to our corporate computer system and changed the price on your bill, just to fuck with you personally. "Yes ma'am." I said with a smile.
"Well!" She huffed. "I just can't believe that!" She then stared at me expectantly.

"43 bumper stickers and a YOLO license plate."

You're not getting anything free. "I'm sorry ma'am," I gave her my best rueful smile, "I wish I could set the prices."
"Well, doesn't it come with the salad?" she pointed at the next line down, the $1.49 sub salad upcharge.
Have you never been in a restaurant before? "It comes with fries, but he opted to upgrade to a salad." I explained patiently.
She finally shoved her credit card toward me and muttered "take it." Gladly, you tacky bitch. Don't offer to pay for someone's food without looking at the bill, and then bitch about the cost!

The total bill came to $32 (for three people). She wrote a big zero on the tip line and then left me one dollar bill and two quarters. I'm sure she felt like she'd proved a point - and she had: At the end of the day, I am not you. VICTORY IS MINE.