I Spent Three Hours Taunting a Debt Collector. You Should, Too.
I had more fun that I should have
Over the years, I have been taunted incessantly by unsavory debt collectors who went out of their way to violate every debt collection law in one phone call.
Four have threatened to throw me in jail. Another rep told me they would break my knee caps if I refused to establish a payment plan. One even berated me to the point I shot my phone with a Paslode pneumatic framing nailer.
Most of the time, I am able to find these unethical twits and serve them with FCRA, TCPA, or FDCPA violation letters. Some get one of each. I love these debt collectors because they pay me for buying my debt (in a roundabout way).
Others enjoy calling me from across the street despite the fact their office is in Fargo, ND. They use auto-dialing technology that “spoofs” local numbers; when you pick up the phone, they pounce. I can normally find these folks, too — just takes a bit longer.
Not today.
For the first time in years, a debt collector actually called and gave me a local number, a New York number and an 866 number — and I still failed to find them. I even had their alleged company name, two individuals who worked for that company, and key phrases that could help me identify them. No such luck.
So I toyed with them.
For three long, grueling hours, I taunted this bottom-feeding organization. They finally blocked my number.
Yes, a company who purchased my legitimate debt blocked my number so I would stop calling them.
Here’s how it went down.
Hour one
I went ahead and took the first call sent my way at 10:47 AM, a call from a town 54 miles east of me.
The company claimed they were Wellington Partners. A representative stated they needed to verify my address so they could send some documents, and began rattling off my name (mispronounced, of course) and old address.
At this point, I was confused. How do you know who I am? Are you a courier company? Where is the mini-Miranda?
Once they finished their spiel, I hung up without identifying myself or caring why this company was desperate enough to call 19 times this week just to see to it that documents were delivered to an address I have not lived at for 3 years.
Starting with some basic due diligence, I wanted to see who these clowns were.
After skimming through Google, I discovered several possibilities for “Wellington Partners”. A few financial companies, some others from New Zealand, and others I cannot name off the top of my melon. None of these search results had anything to do with debt collection.
Repeated the process with Bing. Nothing.
Second call was at 10:51 AM, this time from a Buffalo, NY number.
I answered, but did not speak. Instead, I started breathing heavily into the phone.
“I can hear you breathing, David” said the rep with an almost bored-sounding tone.
I hung up and immediately called the Buffalo number back with *67 activated.
An unusually spunky female answered the phone.
“Wellington Partners, how may I direct your call?”
With my voice altered to sound almost like Kermit the Frog, I asked the lovely woman if they were debt collectors. She affirmed.
I asked the lady how she liked her pizza as I was buying her office lunch, failing to disclose that her accounting department was footing the bill.
She hung up, turned around and called back at 10:54 AM.
When I answered, I let her identify herself. From there, I let Five Finger Death Punch christened her ears with Got Your Six at an almost unbearable volume even for me.
I can only assume she hung up because the line was dead when I picked up my phone once the song had concluded.
Hour two
By 11:04 AM, I had received a few hang ups and one voicemail that lasted 1 second, but nothing major. I wanted to give these guys a break because, well, I’m nice like that.
At 11:09, they called from a local prefix.
It was the same guy who initiated the first call. He sounded friendly, but I was over it.
“How do you sleep at night knowing you work for an unsavory debt collection company?” I asked.
“Quite well, thank you.” He almost sounded happy to say that.
“I know where your company headquarters is. Do you know they are downsizing, and your job is on the chopping block? It is all over the news.” I was dead serious.
“I have seniority here as a supervisor.” His voice reeked of unsureness.
I hung up since now I have a name, and the fact he is a supervisor. I took that information, and plugged it into Facebook, LinkedIn and Twitter. Nothing.
These guys are good.
At 11:21 AM, I called the 866 number that was in a voicemail I received on Monday, with *67 activated.
“Wellington Partners, how may I direct your call?”
“I am interested in investing. Can you direct me to your partners or the individual in charge of investor relations?”
“We are well funded, and do not accept investments from individuals off the street,” stated the young lady, who was sensing I was on a fishing expedition.
“So, you are not interested in $1.1 million in capital to grow your company?”
She hung up.
After letting my dog outside to run, checking some emails and reinstalling Microsoft Office on my other computer, I received a phone call from a local prefix. The time was 11:49 AM.
It was the same gentleman from earlier.
Without allowing me to greet him, he immediately began his plea for my address.
“Sir, today is the last day we can allow you to verify your address. If you do not verify the address we have on file, you will not receive these documents.”
“What do the documents say?” I asked.
“David, I cannot disclose that information without your verification of address.”
“Well, sir, I live with your mom. Did you forget?”
He slammed down his receiver, terminating the call.
I immediately called back without *67.
“David, I am a busy man. If you are not going to verify your address with me, I will send the documents out anyway.”
“Did you stop to think I was busy when you called 11 times on Monday, 9 times on Tuesday and quite a few times today?” I was on the toilet when he picked up.
“It is my job to call people like you.” He was pissed.
I hung up.
Hour three
I decided to take a brief sabbatical from harassing the debt collector to eat a nice lunch with my dog.
12:33 PM comes, and I get a Buffalo call again.
I let it go to voicemail. The gist of the message was the same as the previous phone calls; we need to verify your address, blah blah.
I phoned the 866 number and dialed 0. The operator must know me by number already, because this exchange was priceless.
“David, it is important that you pay your debts.” She did not offer to send me to another individual or department.
“You guys have not identified yourselves as debt collectors as required by law. Furthermore, you guys failed to verify the individual was actually the one you wanted; hell, I could be a police officer, an attorney or your brother for all you know.”
“We knew who you were, and we do not have to identify ourselves to you.” She seemed confident in her answer.
“Who is your registered agent?” I needed this to properly serve this company once I found them.
“What is that?” she asked.
I hung up. I was done with the incompetence.
For the next 44 minutes, I kept calling every number that called me. I recruited an online prank calling system to say “Why you messing with my baby momma?”. I yelled, screamed, cussed and harassed every representative that picked up the phone.
I even tried to send 24 Edible Arrangements to the company. Unfortunately, they do not COD such deliveries.
Minute after minute, I called with a vengeance I cannot describe. I thought I lost my mind, in fact. I was saying things I dare not let my mother hear.
Finally, I got the dreaded “The code you dialed is either invalid, or out of service”.
To verify I was blocked, I had my best friend 31 miles away call the 866 number. They got through.
I am still yet to discover who this company actually is. I will not relent until I find them.
Moral of the story? Harass these indecent collectors when and where possible. Document times they call, and their failure to identify themselves. Do not threaten bodily harm or anything illegal; just play their game until they cave.
Like they did today.
