Creepy, crawly scumbags

Hi everyone. I apologize for the lack of posting - you can forward any complaints to my professors. However, in light of recent events, it's time to start blogging again, and the most recent, relevant topic in my retail career is the presence of what I lovingly refer to as "creepers".

Creepers. They walk among us, often undetected. However, because I am undeniably flypaper for freaks, I seem to attract an overwhelmingly large number of them. Tonight I'll discuss two of the more frightening creatures I've had the displeasure of encountering.

The first incident happened when I first began working at Hellmart. I was about 16, it was late at night, and I was the only cashier, when I was approached by a man in what looked to be his mid-50s. He was portly, balding, and absolutely repulsive looking, and the tattoos of cheetahs and serpents playing or fucking, or whatever, on his arms definitely didn't do him any justice. He saunters up to me and leans in close across the counter.
"Hey there gorgeous. When do you get off?" he drawls.
"Umm, later?" I reply sarcastically, hoping he'll get the hint. Surprise - he doesn't.
"How'd you like to go out for a drink with me after work?" he tries again, clearly not sensing my disinterest.
"Um, I'm 16," I reply coldly, hoping to set him straight. No such luck.
"Really? Well, you certainly look 21. You got a phone number I can have? I'll call you later."
At this point, I didn't care how rude or ridiculous I sounded - he had to go.
"I'm sorry, I don't believe in phones," I say, pouting a little for dramatic effect.
"Hmm." He scowls for a second, then still won't get the message. "You got an e-mail address or something?"
"Nope, I don't believe in e-mail either."
"Well damn, don't you like to have fun?" he winks at me.
"No, fun sucks. I hate fun," I say with a glare. I'm honestly surprised I was able to keep a straight face.
"Hmm. Well, I'll see you later," he says as he leaves, with an ominous look that, to be quite honest, freaked me the fuck out. It was several days before I would walk to my car alone at night. I saw him in the store a few more times, but he never spoke to me again.

 The next incident happened sometime last week. It was a similar situation - late at night, I'm the only cashier. Are we detecting a pattern here? Anyway, I've started wearing polos to work so maybe this kind of shit won't happen to me as much, but apparently even an increased amount of chest-covering fabric isn't enough to keep the creepers out.
I'm at my register, minding my own business, when a scrawny, white-trash crusty bastard approaches me. He's buying three bottles of pop, so I am relieved to notice that our encounter should be relatively short-lived.
As is customary, I offer him one of our store's loyalty cards, because I'll probably be waterboarded by management if I don't enroll a certain number of them. He gets one, probably so he can stare at my tits for five minutes longer, and I learn that his name is Randall. After spending a good few minutes eye-raping me, Randall gets his shit and leaves, and I'm like, 'Great! Good riddance! Buh-bye, Randall."

The following morning, I leisurely get out of bed and check my Facebook. There's a new friend request, and I think, "Hey! Maybe it's someone cool!" Nope - it's Randall.
Randall and I have no mutual friends. His profile picture is dark, grainy, and taken upwards, like he has a camera on his you-know-whats. He's included a personal message with his request: ";P"
How eloquent of you, Randall. What a way with words.
Whatever. Denied.

I don't get it. Yes, Randall, I enrolled you in our loyalty program last night. Fantastic. Congratulations. However, if you read the fine print, you will find that membership in this fine program does not entitle you to stalk me.
And I assume you're asking yourselves how he got my last name? Easy. He searched for all the Sams in my town and looked until he found my profile picture. This is no easy task, as there are over ten thousand of us in this town alone. But trust me, they do that. It has happened to me before.
So consider this my best attempt at a public service announcement. Creepers are everywhere and can strike at any time, even when you're wearing a polo.