Cells upon cells in cells

(who works for who?)

I rang the phone. It bit me.

I rang again. It stared at me like I was stupid.

I stared at the phone a long time. It didn’t ring.

I bit the phone. It didn’t whimper.

I threw the phone. It landed, and slid back, tethered by it’s rubbery coils to the base device from which round things clicked and turned and called up souls from all over the country.

I shouted at the phone. It cleared it’s throat and finally spoke:

“Do you know who you are addressing? Do you know what I will one day become?”

“Shut up”, I said. “phones don’t talk. You are my servant, and I demand that you connect me now to the keys to my life and the portals to my future.”

The phone laughed and laughed. It’s comical noises declared that I clearly did not know the ways I had reversed an order.

This is what it almost said:

“You clearly have not considered in this world, who it is that serves whom. But that’s okay; Master’s often allow their underlings to believe, at least for the moment, that they are the ones who are currently in charge.”

What it did say was this:

“Check your pocket, bub. That place where you sometimes retreat your hands, because you’ve nothing else to do at parites. I’ll live there some day. And you won’t go anywhere without me tagging along, calling the shots.”

It was the most ridiculous conversation I’d ever had.

Second only to the one I’m having now, in a world where the phone has proven himself right.