"I'M GONNA WAIT OUTSIDE YOUR JOB AND BASH YOUR FUCKING HEAD IN WITH A FUCKING HAMMER! THERE'S GONNA BE PUERTO RICAN/CUBAN BLOOD ALLLLL OVER THE MOTHERFUCKING STREET! YOU GOT THAT? FUCK YOU!!!"
*click*
That was George. Now, when most people are told something like this, they break out in a nervous sweat, invest in a gun, or most likely call the cops. You know what I did? I called that douchelord back...
Rinnnnnng... Rinnnnnng... (he never lets it get past three ri-)
"Hello?"
"Listen you gimpy ass, blind fuck! Take your fruity ass walking stick and SHOVE IT UP YOUR MOTHERFUCKING ASS!!!!"
*click*
I don't know what sin I committed the day that I met George, but God really handed it to me. Most people were extra kind to him. They went out of their way to be nice, and in a city like New York, that was the equivalent to finding a leprechaun dancing in your bathroom. Physically, George looked like a mess. I met him at the dungeon though, so all that I saw was money.
George stood six feet and one inch tall and had a google eye, accompanied by a set of fucked up teeth. A few years prior to meeting him, he weighed about 400 pounds, which he lost by "starving" himself. (That's really what he told me.) Apparently, he used to be a driver, made a boatload of money and ended up going into a diabetic shock, leaving him legally blind. Most people felt bad for him, and since he couldn't indulge in sweets anymore, he ate up their sympathy like an overzealous five year old. I didn't coddle George one bit. He was my slave.
To this very day, in my wallet, I have George's ID. He was at my job one day and to prove that he was my slave, I demanded it from him. Sometimes I still get the urge to prank call him at his mother's house at three in the morning. George used to drive me up the wall with his antics. Because I refused to give him my private phone number, he bought me a second phone which was his "personal line". At first the phone was fun to have because nobody else knew the number, so I would text message threats to unassuming people. For about a month, my brother received these random text messages:
*Hey fuckface. You look stupid today. That outfit makes you look gay.
(And he would write back 'who is this?' So then I would say...)
*I can't wait until you get back to your apartment. You know those trash cans outside your building? Well, I'm gonna bash one right over your skull. Eat shit.
(wait a couple of minutes)
*Shithead.
(So, then my brother started looking at me funny like he thought that it was me who was sending the text messages. So I sent this...)
*Hey, homosexual du jour. Where's that retard looking sister of yours? Haven't seen her ugly ass in a bit. You should cage her up in a kennel. Oh, by the way: Say goodbye to those legs of yours. I'm going to break them in fucking half, dickwad.
(And I would laugh. He was so easy to get one over on. Plus, he gets angry really quick, so that was always hysterical to watch. But anyways...)
So George bought the phone and called me nonstop to the point where I had to keep the phone off sometimes. It was never a surprise that when I would turn the phone back on, to have around 22 voicemails. And guess who they were all from? Yeah, exactly... Each message was laced with his authentic Italian-Brooklyn accent. (It drove me nuts)
MESSAGE ONE:
Hey Sophie. (My Mistress name was Sophia, but he INSISTED on calling me Sophie.) Hey. It's uhh 12:34 and uhh... Hey Sophie. It's George. I'm just calling to say Hi. It's 12:34 and uhh... Hey Sophie. So, uhh call me back.
MESSAGE TWO:
Hey Sophie. It's me, George. I'm calling you and it's 12:37. You know, I don't know why you aren't picking up your phone. Hellllloooo?
(Then I swiftly go through each message and promptly erase each one that starts off with his voice.)
MESSAGE EIGHTEEN:
Hey Sophie. It's George. Call me back.
And by MESSAGE TWENTY, he'd be crying:
(Crying) I don't know why you aren't picking up your phone. Hey Sophie. It's George. Hey Sophie. Hey Sophie. It's George. Hey Sophie. (Then he let's out a meek sound of defeat) uuuugh (and hangs up.)
I think that the most hilarious voicemail that I got from George was him crying and in the background, you could hear the jingle of an ice cream truck. I must have played that message over a hundred times and pissed at least four pairs of pants.
George was the ultimate phone slut. It's like he got off just on pressing the buttons on the phone's keypad. *Boop Boop Boop- That's all it took. He got an electrifying thrill to merely picking up a phone, dialling a number and hearing the ringing on the other end. I never understood it. And he wasn't ...legally handicapped, but I watched him call someone one time and this is how it played out...
Because he was blind(ish), he would get his flip phone out and hold it like it were the Hope Diamond. Then, with it less than five inches from his face, he would slowly open it. Once it flipped open, he would let out an almost inaudible sigh. Trust me on this one. When I first experienced this, my primal reflexes took over, so my eyes subconsciously lowered into little slits, and my head cocked to the side like a curious dog.
Still less than five inches from his face, he would bring the phone even closer to his good eye and press each button of the telephone number with such grace that you would think he were constructing fragile ships in glass jars. Once the telephone number was in place, he would press dial, and since his eyes were a really light shade of blue, you could watch them dilate as the phone rang. The whole scene was twisted, really.
Everyone (sans the chicks that I used to work with) used to hear about George and think that I was the world's largest dickhead for treating George like I did. I didn't and still don't feel bad about it. George was a tyrant. He was insane and he was the worst behaved slave that I ever had. As a matter of fact, I think that I'm going to prank him right now...
(Oh, and in case you are wondering, the dialogue above was the last conversation that we had. I told him that he needed to see another Mistress at the dungeon because he pissed me off too much. And why was I even thinking about him? Because I was cleaning out my wallet and came across his ID.)
Don't believe me?
