Knife Fight in a Phone Booth
“Hello?”
“Rosie, it’s me.”
“Where you callin’ from, you creep?”
“The phone booth on the corner below your building.”
“Drop dead, you cheatin’ bastard.”
“Hey! You drove me to it.”
“Don’t you dare try an’ pin this on me, you lowlife.”
“Cow.”
“What did you just call me?”
“Clean the wax out of your big jug ears, you fat cow.”
“You’re a dirty backstabbing liar. A pathetic little inbred weasel.”
“Your words can’t hurt me.”
“You don’t think so? Listen close; I’m gonna yell something out my window. We’ll see what you think then, jackass. HEY, EVERYBODY! THAT WHITE SUPREMACIST PEDOPHILE RAPIST RIGHT THERE IS MAKING THREATENING CALLS TO MY LITTLE GIRL!”
She pointed, and on the crowded street, fifty pairs of angry eyes turned and settled on the man in the phone booth. He was still holding the receiver in shock when the mob opened the door and dragged him out.
Oh man. I hate to resort to Internetese, but I can’t think of a word that fits better here than “pwned.”
Comment by Sara Sakana — February 15, 2008 @ 1:28 am