And he drove five hundred miles to bring them to us.
Of course, I'm freaking out because I didn't know that's what he was doing. When someone says, "We have two custom fabricated incendiary mannequins coming from out of state that were supposed to be here today," I presume that means that someone shipped them, in a box, on a truck. Y'know, logos, hand-held scanners, tracking numbers. Being the one who handles all the shipping, I'm seeing my choice gig dangle by a thread as four thousand dollars worth of SFX material fails to arrive where it needs to be. Moreover, I'm looking like a fool rather than a victim because I have no shipping data whatsoever on this pair of faux corpses that are slated to meet the business end of a flamethrower in less than two hours.
Thankfully I'm redeemed when a guy, covered in ink and skate scars and sporting a beard only slightly less bushy than mine, walks through the door and asks if this is the production office and where should he put the bodies. Of course this is after scouring the shipping logs, the label backups, the freight certificates and after saying a few unprintable things to a FedEx CSR to whom I have now written an extensive apology letter.
Everything's okay now that we have someone to set on fire and I still have a gig because hey, no blood, no foul.