Pie counter dog man.

This evening I served a man so drunk, he had to hold onto the counter as he attempted to speak (he swayed so violently that I began to feel queasy myself). He pulled a sticky ten dollar note from his pocket and bought a melted Cornetto (our freezer is broken) and a pie. He then proceeded to unwrap his pie on the counter, dropping the wrapping on the floor. His next request was tomato sauce. I think. Anyway, I gave it to him. He dispensed it onto one finger, and proceeded to smear it on what he intended to be the top of the pie. In reality, it crossed into the realms of mostly the sides of the pastry and on the bench itself. He leaned toward the bench as if he was going to be sick, asked for me to call a cab, and with my back turned, began eating the pie (like a rabid dog) without the use of hands from the counter. As I turned around, his dentures promptly fell out and he stuffed them, uncased into his dirty, sticky top pocket. 

He spent the next three minutes scooping his pie from the bench, ambling to the door and being sick into the front garden.