It was the year 2009, pizza deliverers were busier than ever, and Glenn was balls deep in debt.

No, make that eyes deep in debt.

Even after two weeks of delivering pizzas almost daily at two different pizza joints and living off of nothing but cup ramen and water for the better half of a year, he still couldn't see his kitchen table. After a certain point in time, bills, late-notices, and debt notifications and threats kind of refused to stay in nice, neat piles and insisted on spreading out everywhere, keen for his attention.

So Glenn ate on the dingy couch in front of a shitty black and white television.

Even in his dingy, debt ridden excuse for a life, however, there were times that made it worth not blowing his brains out (if only to prove his father wrong about being a waste of space). One of these times just so happened to include a couple of violent rednecks and a supreme pizza.

Driving out of Atlanta and onto the gravel back roads of Georgia was so not in the job description. It was bad enough that his little power scooter barely had enough gas to get him to and from work for a week, was it really necessary that people out in the middle of fucking nowhere had to order pizza from their service?

Muttering a few choice words under his breath, the Korean maneuvered his scooter through the gravelly driveway up to the large, if somewhat run down, house. Just from the various car parts and couch sitting on their front lawn, Glenn had a feeling he knew the type of people that lived there. Now, he wasn't a racist man or anything like that, but he had lived in the south long enough that there were the southern city people, and then there were redneck hicks. While there were some people that were a mix of both, he'd seen very few (and being a delivery boy, he saw a lot of different types of people). And the few rednecks he'd delivered to in the past weren't that bad, but they typically held out on the tip.

He parked his scooter behind a motorcycle (was that an SS symbol? Ohgod.) and an old pick up. As soon as the soft putter of the engine died out and he unloaded the extra large supreme pizza, Glenn could hear a soft raucous from inside the house that sounded like the type of not-so-serious argument over football.

A few moments later and he was standing at the porch, knocking because the doorbell didn't work the first time he pushed it. Muffled voices let him know that someone was coming, before the door swung open.

He'd guessed right. The man who'd opened the door and was currently staring him down intensely was dressed in sleeveless plaid, and it looked like he'd been wrestling with pigs earlier. Glenn didn't realize he hadn't said anything, caught speechless in just how stereotypically redneck someone could get, until the guy cleared his throat. "Th' fuck you want?"

"Oh. Uh. Your pizza- that would be twenty-three fifty," he replied at last, sliding the pizza out of its warmer and holding it up. The guy stared at him for a few more minutes before entering the house again, coming back with the exact amount and taking the pizza.

"Wait- no tip? You guys live out in the middle of-"

The moment the words were out his mouth, Glenn realized he was an idiot. A big, fat, stupid idiot that was going to end up dead. The redneck, who was turning to go back into the house, had stopped to give him a look that probably would have dropped him dead if it was possible. What he said next, however, was something Glenn never thought he would hear, let alone from a guy he was delivering pizza to.

"I don't tip chinks."

And then the door was shut in his face.

For a few minutes Glenn just stood there, dumbfounded, before realizing that if he stayed there any longer he might come out again and he did not want that. So he quickly stashed the money in his payment pouch and hustled back to his scooter, not even bothering to look back as he shot out of there faster than was safe on those dusty roads.

That was encounter number one.