Sunday, June 17, 2007

Violent Intrusion Into A Holiday Home

“Yo Mike, how’re the guns?”
“Pert, man. How’re things on your end?”
“Fine, fine.”
“What’re you up to?”
“Nothing, nothing. Just loungin’. Relaxin’ after last night.”
“Did you get some rough hole, you filthy bastard?”
“No man. I was hitting up some young one but got nowhere. She was fucking hot. Like a short Italian babe…”
“Like Talia Shire?”
“Now, don’t be silly. Talia Shire must be ancient.”
“I meant in her hey.”
“Well, no. I’d say more like Vanessa Marcil.”
“You know, your one off Las Vegas.”
“Vanessa Marcil, eh. Did the young one have a grandmother named Sally?”
“… All I found out was that she has no sisters.”
“Why the fuck did you ask that?”
“Vanessa Marcil has a grandmother named Sally.”
“And… how do you know this when you didn’t even know who she was?”
“Oh, I’m on the Internet.”
“While we’re talking?”
“Don’t be so ignorant man. We’re having a conversation.”
“Hey, I was on before you rang bud.”
“I suppose you haven’t even put your wang away yet.”
“Sure, amn’t I holding the phone with it? Ha-ha-ha.”
“Anyway, you’re a sub-standard conversationalist. I need to multi-task when I talk to you or I'll fall asleep or die or what.”
“’Scuse me?”
“You heard me man. If you have a problem with that, I have two hungry guns here gnashing at my shoulders.”
“Hey, I am an excellent conversationalist. I have entertained royalty. In my day.”
“You have in your pyjamas.”
“Hey listen, I have stories. I can talk.”
“You can talk alright.”
“You’re an asshole.”
“Look man, there is an easy way out of this. Amuse me right now. Otherwise, feeding frenzy.”
“Alright, I have a story. A good one too. With intrigue.”
“Go on then.”
“I hope you’re sitting.”
“Yeah, yeah.”
“Okay. A few days ago I rang a number on my phone. It was under the name Anne. Now I don’t know any Anne, but I tried it anyway. She may have been hot. I mean I don’t keep any ugly chicks on my phone.”
“You have your mothers number, don’t you?”
“I’m talking here.”
“Yeah, I hear you.”
“So, anyway, it rang and someone answered. I asked if it was Anne. ‘Yeah, who’s this?’ 'Hello, my name is William. I have your number in my phone but I’m not sure I know you.’ I could hear her smile when I said this.”
“I don’t like science fiction, bud.”
“This isn’t sci-fi man. This is a true-life story. Just listen... She made a sound then, anyway, like a whine. She goes ‘Oooh, I was waiting for you to call.’ But when she whined, it hurt my ear and I said ‘gah’ or something. ‘Fuck, my ear’… something like that.”
“Well, maybe it was a bit. She knew what she did and she became very apologetic. ‘I’m sorry. Shit. I’m excited.’ Her voice was fucking quivering, I swear to God.”
“I’m sure she was all wet as well.”
“Are you going to listen or just fucking interrupt?”
“Jesus, I’ll listen. Calm down.”
“Anyway fucker, I just started to explain to her that I have the volume on my phone turned up louder than necessary. I told her it was because I like the intimacy of a voice in my ear. I used that word too. Intimacy. And she began to quietly murmur as I spoke. Maybe she didn’t notice she was murmuring or thought I couldn’t hear but I continued anyway. I told her that it was like having your lips directly beside someone’s ear, almost touching, and it sounded like she had a conniption on the other end of the line.”
“And this is how the conversation started?”
“Well, who was she?”
“I just met her in a night club the week before but didn’t remember. She remembered me however and tried to get frisky over the phone.”
“I’m serious man. She was all, ‘You have a lovely voice. It’s Herculean. You sound like the mighty god Thor’. She was crazy.”
“Now I know you’re lying.”
“I’m not. She was getting all freaky. But I couldn’t have any of it.”
“Too young. Only seventeen. Half my age plus seven is nineteen.”
“I thought it was half the age and add five.”
“No seven. Don’t be ridiculous.”
“Christ, you are ignorant.”
“What are you up to later?”
“Going to the gym. These guns don’t polish themselves.”
“You and the gym. Right then. Come over after if you want.”
“I may. I may. Talk then.”
“Yeah right.”


  1. What kind of dickweed passes up a 17 year old talking crazy at him down the phone?

    Man, responsiblity is a bitch. I guess you need to have a formula.

    I wish I could do maths.