Smoochie Poochies

            Luke walked into the coffee shop just down the street from his house feeling like today had an odd touch of destiny to it.  As the little bell attached to the shop’s front door rang, he felt as though that ring was exactly as it should be, and that his life had led him to this very shop for a very distinct, purposeful reason.  He had arranged to meet his friend Aaron there at precisely that time, and as Luke looked around, he quickly found his friend enjoying a frozen mochachino in a corner booth.  He took the hint and ordered the same for himself before he went to the booth and sat down.

            Aaron’s eyes brightened up when Luke sat down, and quickly jumped into conversation.  “You know, since we’ve been on the subject of dogs, lately, I’ve been meaning to tell you a bit about my dog.

            A waitress butted in, and gave Luke his mochachino. Luke took this opportunity to cut in before Aaron got into one of his long-winded rants again, “We’ve been talking of dogs? Well, as long as you think so, carry on.”  He took a long drag from his drink as Aaron continued with what he had to say.

            “I was on the computer last night, and all of a sudden, my dog came into my room and started throwing quite the fit. She was barking, yipping, jumping, knocking things over, spewing bio-hazardous farts at me, it was really a lot to handle.  I set my computer to the side, and was about to ask her was the matter was, and before I knew what was going on, she had hijacked my computer!  She opened up several pages, one was youtube, another was some email site, and I didn’t get a glimpse at the other.  She started blaring Deadmou5 from youtube as she composed this clever, biting email to an address I didn’t recognize.  I still don’t know where she heard Deadmou5 from.  I never listen to the stuff, myself, and it isn’t exactly the kind of music the PA system at the park plays as background music to people’s picnics.  Maybe she likes the name, what with the neat way they switched the ‘se’ for a 5, but that would only make sense if she was a cat.  Last time I checked, Yorkshire terriers were dogs.  It just bugs me, I tell you.  What is the world coming to when our dogs don’t listen to the same music that we do?” 

            Aaron finished his diatribe looking quite distraught, but Luke had no idea how to really respond to something like that.  So much information to process, so little time, and he’d only had a bit of his mochachino, so caffeine was running low still.  The best he could come up with was “So, you’re telling me that you don’t listen to Deadmou5? Who doesn’t listen to him, he’s all over the place, man!”

            Apparently, that was the wrong response.  Aaron huffed at him indignantly, sipped down the rest of his beverage while eyeing Luke with intense discontent, and left without saying another word.  Luke was fine with this development. Saved him the time of listening to whatever else that damned Yank dog was doing.

Suicide Hotline

Parties have always been kind of awkward for me, but not for the same reasons it would be for most people that say this.  You walk around, socialize, have fun, you know, the usual things at parties. Eventually, or right off the bat, people will ask you what you do for a living. It’s a very honest question; gives people insight into your life. After all, what better way to judge a person than their actions, and what does one do more frequently than their job?

            I like to tell them that I answer phones for a living.  While that isn’t untrue, I leave out some crucial details. The fact that I answer phones for an unconventional form of suicide hotline rarely gets mentioned unless people get really inquisitive, which is fun. I like those people. They’re rare.  Even then, they assume I help depressed little teenagers in skinny jeans get through their pimply, existential woes, which is another quasi-truth. It depends on the perspective of the listener, but then again, doesn’t everything? 

            You’re here, and I feel like spilling the beans would be fun right about now, so I’ll explain to you exactly what it is that I do. In fact, I’ll run you through what happened to me yesterday. No, I don’t think you’ll be bored, actually. It does start out with a phone call, but there’s so much more than that!

            I sat at work, in one of those plush, black office chairs that you see kids spin around on at the store. I do that, myself, but I bought the chair and brought it to work, which makes me cooler than those kids. That’s the story I’m sticking to, anyway.

            Anyway, I was sitting, or spinning I guess, in my little cubicle and the phone rang.  The higher-ups are nice enough to let us program our own ring tones on the phones, so I was a bit startled by Chop Suey blaring out of my office phone. It always catches me off guard while I’m spinning, I’d have thought I would be used to it by now. I answered, and introduced myself.

            “Hello, I’m Reto. You’ve reached This Is Not The End of The Line, what’s going on?”

            “Hey, Reto. You ever think of why they ever bothered making phones? Who wants to talk to anyone anymore? What’s the point?” The guy at the other end of the line sounded like the type I tend to talk to: tired, melancholy, probably around 20, but I’m horrible at guessing the age of callers until I meet them.

            “I have wondered that, surprisingly. But you’re using one now, right? I bet you had a reason, seeing as this number isn’t something people just happen to dial most of the time.”

            “Yeah, I’ve got a reason. I haven’t used a phone in months, this feels kind of weird. Actually, talking at all has become almost a myth to me. I don’t even speak in my dreams anymore.  I just heard about your company from a councilor, ironically, and thought I’d give you a call. What are your rates?”

            “That’s a great question!” I was kind of surprised at that. Most callers don’t care about the rates. It just doesn’t factor into their minds, I guess. I scrambled to find the into sheet that was supposed to be nailed to my wall.  “Uhhm, let’s see.  Most cases are just a flat fee of $40. If you want something spectacular or super-specific, that’s going to cost extra. The ‘extra’ depends on what you want, of course. We’re very accommodating. What was your name, again? I don’t think you mentioned it.”

            This kid wasn’t very forthcoming with info. I was going to have to entertain myself somehow: paper basketball time! By that, I mean to say I crumbled up old memos into balls and tossed them at random directions over my cubicle wall, seeing how far I could throw the memos, and how long it would take for someone to yell “Fucking stop it!” 3 points for me if they yell that exact phrase, 2 points for me if they yell something different. 2 points for them if I get something thrown back at me. It’s terrifically fun!

            “Sorry about that. My name… You know what, fuck my name. Call me ted.”

            “Ok, Ted-“ I said, tossing two memos at the same time.

            “No, don’t capitalize the t. It’s better this way. I can hear that shit, you know.”

            “What? Alright, that’s cool. Are you sure you want our services, ted?” No response from the peanut/cubicle gallery. Increase assault intensity accordingly.

            “Quit that shit, motherfucker!!!” Someone screamed at me from near the bathrooms. I smiled, trying not to chuckle into the phone because that would seem unprofessional. 2 points for me.

            “If I didn’t want your services, would I be calling? Like you said, that number doesn’t just randomly pop up. How do we do this? Is there a delivery service, or do I come to you?”

            “Oh, we come to you, ted.  We found out pretty early on that having suicidal people come to an office downtown isn’t a reliable business model.”

            “Right.” ted sighed. “Do you take checks?”

            “Taking checks from suicidal people also isn’t a reliable business model, ted. I’m sorry.  We take cash or credit card numbers, though.” A crumbled up memo hit me in the face. 2 points for them. Curses!

            “Oh, right,” ted said. “I’ve got that much cash on me.”

            “Excellent. What is your address? I’ll come over, and we can talk.”

            “4021 Belforth St., apartment 18. It has a King Burger sticker below the peep hole on the door.”

            “I’ll be there shortly.” I said, hanging up the phone.

            What I do isn’t entirely legal, in a strict sense of the word, so we tend to use a lot of disguises. Halloween passed only a week or two ago, so I quickly donned my Superman costume and ran out of the building, my red cape trailing valiantly behind me.

            When I got to ted’s place, I knocked on the door and simply let myself in. Convenience first, that’s our company policy. Don’t want the customer to be inconvenienced by the effort of opening their front door for us, and at that point, they usually don’t even mind the intrusion.  All of the lights were off, and the apartment was in a readily apparent state of disarray, so I couldn’t differentiate between garbage and possible humanity in the low light.

            “Hi! I’m that guy from the phone, Reto. Where are you?” I called into the apartment, hoping ted would have the decency to respond. Sometimes they don’t, and you have to poke around with a sharp stick until something groans at you. I call it jousting, but that isn’t the technical term.

            “Hey, Reto. I’m on the couch to your right.” I heard under a pile of clothes and what I guess were rent letters. I turned the lights on, pulled the clothes pile off of ted, and put on my ‘Happy Business’ face.`         

            “Any specifics?” I asked him.

            “No, just get it over with. I’m done.” ted mumbled.

            “With pleasure,” I happily replied, and shot him in the face.

            I’m always glad that people are not like chickens in this instance.  A shot to the face pretty much always kills people, much unlike the common story of decapitated chickens running around willy-nilly. I would have to do something else if I was killing chickens.  After contemplating that, I took $40 out of ted’s wallet, found out that his name was Dick Burger, and I saw why he wanted to go by ‘ted’. I returned to the office with another mission accomplished.

            See, people would have a problem with my working at a place that kills suicidal people. Think about the economy of it, though. Some people want to die, other people want to kill other people, but don’t because they either a) don’t want to go to jail or b) have morality issues with just going postal and killing random people. Each end of this transaction I take part in finds satisfaction. The one that wants to die, dies. The one that wants to kill someone gets to kill someone. Each action a major release of stress in one’s life.

            I’ve heard people condemn such actions as ‘evil’, but the concepts of good and evil are simply differences in perspective, aren’t they? Being good is merely an outwardly focused perspective (toward other members of society), whereas being evil is a more self-centered perspective. The company I work for serves a selfish desire of others, for they call us to arrange meetings, not the other way around. If we marketed or coerced business, the matter may be more clear-cut. As it is, though, can this suicide hotline really be so easily categorized as evil?

            I’ll leave that up to you.

Delicacies Devoured

            Fernando quivered with anticipation in the janitor’s closet. Though there was no light in the small room, he knew that Anastasia was brimming with excitement for what the evening held in store for them. With a gloved hand, he reached out and pulled her head towards his, and whispered, “Are you ready?”

            “Yes.”

            “You brought the alcohol?”

            “Of course.”

            “The gags?”

            “I never leave home without them, Fern, you know that.”

            “True, true. I’ve got the Zippos and everything else. Here we go.”

            With that, they burst into the Hilton hotel’s kitchen that they had snuck into, and attacked the kitchen staff.  Anastasia went straight for the incoming waiters, smashing their heads and necks with the very trays they brought in. Meanwhile, Fernando grabbed a small skillet from the nearest stove and a knife from the magnetic strip on the wall above it, and stabbed the cooks to death. The skillet was used as a shield to protect from the cooks’ knives, and any plates that sailed his way from Anastasia’s onslaught. As the kitchen staffs’ screams shot through the first floor, more waiters and attendants came to see what the commotion was about, and more waiters and attendants fell victim to Anastasia’s violent wrath.  Fernando found the security office connected to the office, killed the officer there in much the same way as he disposed of the cooks, and turned off the security alarms before they were even sounded.

            When people quit coming in the kitchen doorway, Anastasia turned and called to Fernando, “We’re good to go!” He ran out of the security office, threw the knife into a deep fryer, and ran out the door with Anastasia following immediately behind. When they reached the foyer, Anastasia dropped to her knees and pulled 6 bottles of everclear from her backpack. As she uncorked them, Fernando stuffed a rag in the top of each bottle. They then called the main elevator down, and it opened a few seconds later. Fernando smiled approvingly at the plush velvet walls inside the elevator, and lit two of the newly made Molotov cocktails.  Anastasia pressed the Floor #4 button, and ran out of the elevator as Fernando threw the Molotovs inside. 

            The two took the other elevator to the ballroom on the second floor. As soon as the elevator doors opened, Fernando and Anastasia had lit the rest of the Molotovs, and threw all four of them at the politicians and aristocrats that they had caught in the dastardly act of eating dinner. Amid the screams and demands of an explanation, the pair closed the elevator doors and went back down to the first floor. Fernando set the elevator’s walls on fire before exiting it, and both he and Anastasia sat and enjoyed the sight of the doors closing on the growing flames.

            “Now those, Anastasia,” Fernando said with a content sigh, ”are what I would call the delicacies of a ruined evening.”

            Anastasia sat still, searching for words, for a moment. “That was… amazing. Deliciously demented, darling. Doomy doom does wonders for dull evenings, does it not? But why did you ask if I had brought the gags?”

            Fernando chuckled, leaned back, and said, “Now, that’s for my favorite part. For our grand exit, we’re going to put those gags on ourselves, strip down to absolutely nothing but those gags, and run out of hotel trying to scream bloody fucking murder through the gags.”

            “Sounds fun, but why?”

            “Why not?”