Call Us At 1-666-HELL.

“Hello, this may be recorded for quality testing purposes.”

This is being recorded. There is no “may be” involved. Peggy in Customer Solutions will sit there all day listening in, judging your every breath. Say hi, Peggy.

“To verify your identity, I need your name, your date of birthday, and the last four of your SSN, please.”

Also, if you don’t mind telling me where you keep your spare front door key, and the name of you “guard” dog. And you know, just the standard height and weight of everyone in your family. Also, please include Great-Aunt Jennie’s secret raspberry pie recipe. And just one last thing, it’s nothing major, just the name of your first born. It’s standard protocol, you understand.

“Now, how may I help you today, sir?”

I’m just going to sit here and listen to you huff and puff. I’ll add in a few hmms, and maybe some ahhs, and yes, sirs. Will that do something for you? And when you have finally gotten to the end of your prepared speech, I’ll go,“Well sir, I hear what you’re saying. I’m gonna forward you to someone in the department which just so happens to be downstairs so that you can tell them all of this too, okay? Please hold.”

Elevator Music Plays.

“Thank you for your patience. All of our phone agents are currently helping other customers, but we will get to you as soon as we can. Thank you valued customer.”

That word burns in your throat as your stomach acid boils and your heart beat quickens. Customer? Feels more like puppet. Or maybe even fool.

“Have you heard about our Extras Golden Platform Variety Club Membership? This membership, more like death trap, entitles you to free benefits just for selling your soul. Ask your representative for more details…”

What? Did you call direct to the gates of freaking hell? That’s gonna cost a pretty penny.

You hear what sounds like laughter.

Or is it screams?

“Peggy, Are you there?”

“Peggy?”

“Peggy, Please. I just wanted to change my four digit PIN…”

Laughter. Silence. The line picks up, as someone breaths heavily. “Oh, sir, do you mean your SIN ID?”

The line cuts. Guess you should have read that fine print, love.

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