Telemarketer From Hell
November 17th 2006 16:51
Okay. So picture this, right? It's Saturday and it's 8:56 in the a.m. and that last triple vodka shot you had is still oozing out of your nose. Your eyes are so bloodshot you piss magenta. The aftertaste of your vomit lingers like curd in your mouth: right along the walls of your mouth and the sides of your tongue. And you can practically smell your hangover. It reeks of last month's egg salad.
Then, the phone goes and rings. You ignore it, not because you're certain it will go away, but because you're so tanked you don't even hear it at first. When you eventually do, you don't even know if it's really the phone that's ringing or if it's just that ridiculous techno number you heard in the club that's stuck in your head looping over and over. Irregardless, it's the phone. Believe me. And it doesn't go away. It just keeps going on and on and on. It's suppose to have stopped by now, surely, but it doesn't.
Six minutes passes and it's still ringing continuously. You can't take it anymore. You can't force yourself to sleep through it any longer. One more ring and your temples will combust inside your skull. So, you roll off your bed and land on the parquet floor with a thud. But you don't feel a thing because the alcohol has numbed all your muscles. You drag your trailing limbs to the corner of the room where the phone is. You pick it up... and you mumble into the mouthpiece: "Mmheholl?"
A chirpy voice on the other side of the line greets you. "Well, good morning. How are you on this lovely day?"
The overly exaggerated jolly and shrill voice makes you want to shove the handset down your throat and strangle yourself with the cord. You should but you don't because that thought process just can't swim its way pass the sludge of alcohol quick enough from your brain to your arm. Plus, your throat is really dry.
"Hell the... who is the hell is you are?" you fumble as audibly as you can.
"Why, I'm just your friendly lil' neighbourhood telemarketer."
Now you really wish you had gagged and strangled yourself.
"Whadda ya selling to try me? I don't buy wanna... I don't but, I buy don't..."
"I'm not trying to sell you anything," the voice reassures. And haven't we all heard that before.
"I want YOU to sell ME something," he continues.
"Pee pee. I hafta pee. Pee," you stammer.
"In a moment. But first, I'd like you to sell your soul to me."
"My soh... my what? What the hell? Who is this? Is that... s'that you, Stan?"
"Yes, yes it's me. Stan."
"Heyyyyyyy, Stan! What is the up with the Stan?! Oh, hey, hey, hey. Hey. Listen. Stan, hey. Huh? What?"
"Okay, look here numbnuts. I'm gonna put you through to a voice recording. When you hear a beep, I want you to say this. Say, 'I formally agree to sell my soul to the Devil. In exchange, I will never have to endure another hang over for the rest of my life'. Can you manage that? Y'think you can handle that?"
"I don't anything... I wanna don't buy anything over the pheletone."
"Listen, you're not buying anything. I am. Okay? And besides, it's not like you're not signing your life away or anything."
"Hey, Stan. Stan. Stan, hey... I'm gonna go to the pee now, a'ight? I'll see you... I'll."
And you hang up. No sooner do you hear the click do you start vomitting all things green and brown and pea-shaped.
Then, the phone goes and rings. You ignore it, not because you're certain it will go away, but because you're so tanked you don't even hear it at first. When you eventually do, you don't even know if it's really the phone that's ringing or if it's just that ridiculous techno number you heard in the club that's stuck in your head looping over and over. Irregardless, it's the phone. Believe me. And it doesn't go away. It just keeps going on and on and on. It's suppose to have stopped by now, surely, but it doesn't.
Six minutes passes and it's still ringing continuously. You can't take it anymore. You can't force yourself to sleep through it any longer. One more ring and your temples will combust inside your skull. So, you roll off your bed and land on the parquet floor with a thud. But you don't feel a thing because the alcohol has numbed all your muscles. You drag your trailing limbs to the corner of the room where the phone is. You pick it up... and you mumble into the mouthpiece: "Mmheholl?"
A chirpy voice on the other side of the line greets you. "Well, good morning. How are you on this lovely day?"
The overly exaggerated jolly and shrill voice makes you want to shove the handset down your throat and strangle yourself with the cord. You should but you don't because that thought process just can't swim its way pass the sludge of alcohol quick enough from your brain to your arm. Plus, your throat is really dry.
"Hell the... who is the hell is you are?" you fumble as audibly as you can.
"Why, I'm just your friendly lil' neighbourhood telemarketer."
Now you really wish you had gagged and strangled yourself.
"Whadda ya selling to try me? I don't buy wanna... I don't but, I buy don't..."
"I'm not trying to sell you anything," the voice reassures. And haven't we all heard that before.
"I want YOU to sell ME something," he continues.
"Pee pee. I hafta pee. Pee," you stammer.
"In a moment. But first, I'd like you to sell your soul to me."
"My soh... my what? What the hell? Who is this? Is that... s'that you, Stan?"
"Yes, yes it's me. Stan."
"Heyyyyyyy, Stan! What is the up with the Stan?! Oh, hey, hey, hey. Hey. Listen. Stan, hey. Huh? What?"
"Okay, look here numbnuts. I'm gonna put you through to a voice recording. When you hear a beep, I want you to say this. Say, 'I formally agree to sell my soul to the Devil. In exchange, I will never have to endure another hang over for the rest of my life'. Can you manage that? Y'think you can handle that?"
"I don't anything... I wanna don't buy anything over the pheletone."
"Listen, you're not buying anything. I am. Okay? And besides, it's not like you're not signing your life away or anything."
"Hey, Stan. Stan. Stan, hey... I'm gonna go to the pee now, a'ight? I'll see you... I'll."
And you hang up. No sooner do you hear the click do you start vomitting all things green and brown and pea-shaped.
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Comment by lynn kirby
fred flinstone
Comment by Illie-T-Redd
The Devil & I
Majikal Mysterium
Comment by lynn kirby
fred flinstone
Comment by Illie-T-Redd
The Devil & I
Majikal Mysterium
Creeeeeeeepy.