The Other End of the Phone

It’s a torrential downpour, and Julia is fucking soaked.

The day wasn’t bad starting out. She spent four and a half hours in the gym doing leg presses, leg lifts, squats, bearing the weight of the world on her shoulders in hopes that said weight would transmute itself into her ass, and not in the cottage-cheese way, either. She wants to walk into a room, look nobody in the eye, and watch all the little-booty bitches sit the fuck down.

And you know what else? Four and a half hours a day. She’ll get it.

After she gets home.

After she gets out of the rain.

After this abysmal fucking torture a la The Mother of Nature Herself has subsided.

The day didn’t start off bad.

After the workout, Julia put a big breakfast together. Chicken cordon bleu, except instead of ham and cheese stuffed into the breast it was just a bunch of steak. Juicy, medium-rare, seasoned, basted in herb-butter and sautéed with soy sauce and garlic BEEF, you sorry son of a shrew, and that? Well that was only the appetizer. That was only the hors d’œuvre.

That was only the amuse-bouche.

By the way, it was coated in breadcrumbs. The chicken, I mean. Pumpernickel breadcrumbs. Pumpernickel breadcrumbs cut with cardamom seeds, caraway leaves, some thyme for the heck of it, and… the bay leaf.

Nothin’ else, though. Especially not black tar heroin.

Loaded mashed potatoes. Bacon, cheese, sour cream. Chives.


‘Tät’es soft as a horse’s muzzle.

Her shoes are drenched. The wet squelches betwixt her purpling little piglets with every life-hating step she’s forced to take through this shower she did not ask for.

In a way, you could say this is a golden shower.     In many other ways, you could say absolutely fucking not.

She’s not happy to be walking in the rain.

But anyhow, the food.

She’s really, really not.

But, the food.

A cornucopia of fruits and vegetables that you’ve never even fucking heard of. Buddy, I’m talkin’ purple flesh; guy, I’m talkin’ edible mahogany rinds; pal, I’m talkin’ no leaves stems nor seeds nor sticks !


Every day when she walks on this trail she has to walk around a tree. She believes this tree may be conscious, but that’s beside the point. Going left takes her off the trail and into an estuary of sorts, into a swamp, into a prop’ slopping quagmiring bog. Circumnavigating to the right – that is… um… either clockwise or counterclockwise, that’s for sure… uh… right, so it, it uh… it… UH, going right keeps her on the trail. Every day she goes off the trail, she goes through the swamp, she forges the muddiest water you’ll never have to walk through because she’s doing it for you, now, not now, not in this moment, in all the other moments though, bow down.

Kiss the shitting soil.

Today, she stays on the trail. Because of this decision – and for no other reason – a rogue bolt of lightning strikes the tree and splits it into four perfectly unsymmetrical pieces. They all fall down like everything always goddamn does fuck I hate to fucking BREATHE, and not a single one hits her. She steps over – leaps over, as she is running, because I don’t know if you’re aware of this but it’s fucking pouring like a fucking torrential goddamn downstorm, oh-KAY?!!?1?      


She’s not happy.

But, she didn’t get killed by the lightning-struck falling tree and all of its shattered pieces, so… shit, dawg. Could be worse.

The food.

The food doesn’t matter because it’s all turning to shit at this point anyway. It’s halfway to browntown and chuggin’ there steadily, do you want more? You want more of the poo-Slæb you fecophiliac fucking whatever you are?? God, I don’t even have a word for you, what the fuck… uh… when she gets home… well… I don’t really… listen, women don’t poop. Women don’t fart. Women do not release excrement into the world. My Mommy told me this when I was very little, and I’ll not hear anything else.

By the way, my name is Terry. That’s all you need to know.

I live under her bed.

I’m waiting now.

She doesn’t know I’m here.



her socks do.

Why else would they smell so ripe?

She never wears them, never ever not once this pair of sock’, but they always smell so priffling ripe.

Obviously they stinkin’ f’r Terry.

All f’r Terry.

The rain pours and pours. Terry was not, is not, and will not become the I of this context we presently share. The wind continues to blow.

Julia pauses in the middle of the trail. Something is very wrong all of the sudden, and it’s not the silty water sloshing between her pneumoniatic toes. Something… something is off here, Jack. Something stinks. Something smells… ripe.

Her cell phone rings. She doesn’t answer the call, as it rains baboons and some other animal en mômèn’tö. Her cell phone stops ringing.

Then, it rings again.

The rain will not stop falling, and Julia is not fuckin’ thrilled… so she answers.

“Hello?” she wonders with fragments of hope lifting her inflection high above the ubiquitous stormy raincloud blanketing the sky like a weighted black quilt that got left out in the weather so long it needs to drip itself dry.

No words are spoken in return. Only a grumbling now. Only the sound of a chainsaw, and one born of lazy lips. No pull of the chain, no sputtering of the exhaust, no eccentric vrinn’vrinn! No, only brrrr.

Only a muffled mumbly half-shit’assed little brrrr.

“Who the fuck do you think you are?!” she belts into the phone as water runs down her cheeks and soaks into her already sopping wet, I’m talking drippin’ here, folks.

Hard stop.

Yes, it all streaks down unto her supremely moist left shoulder, and this only makes it worse. Every cunting bit of it.

“You know who I am…” wheezes the voice on the other end of the phone.

“I don’t,” she answers without a blink of the eye.

“Your sockies say howdy, parDner.”

She hangs up.

She stomps the cellular communications device unto the puddle-laden trailway.

She walks calmly on through this hellish down’pœr, her mind a crystal, all thoughts of that incredible spread she threw together for breakfast gone like mist into the winds on a sweltering sunny day that didn’t start off so hot.

An Idea comes to her as a Thought. They ascend it together.

The rain immediately stops pouring.

When Julia climbs out from her jalopy, she carries an off-red jerrycan full of gasoline.

With brazen flames dancing in her wide-open eyes like rapturous muses amongst the twinkling cosmos above she watches her nextdoor neighbor’s house burn to ash, to cinder, to sooty black char.

Then, Terry bursts yelping from the flames, a bat out of hell if ever there was one.

Terry was never underneath Julia’s bed.

Terry was never in Julia’s house.

Terry thought he was there the whole time, Terry thought it was Julia’s socks he was shoving so far up his nostrils that they scraped against what’s left of the liquid which once composed his brain matter.

But it was never her socks.

Terry’s skin blisters, pops, then melts off the crackling bones.

She watches Terry run into the road screaming like a petulant child who doesn’t know what pain is.

And again.

Again, a thought comes to her.

‘Shit,’ Julia giggles nigh unto the channel, ‘I bet that guy wishes it was raining right now.’

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