Phone Call

‘Listen to me you piece of shit – you’re a really slimy piece of work, aren’t you? Huh? You thought I wouldn’t have the guts to call you up well fuck you, you jizz-mop tablefucker My Little Pony-watching festering landfill, I know what you did. I! Know! What! You! Did!’


‘What, you thought I’d never find out? My own sister, what, you thought you’d keep that a secret from me, you dirty low-down son of a bitch bastard! Well I do know, asshole, and you – you’re done, and when I’m done with you you’ll wish you were dead, you’ll wish you’d never’ve been born, I’ll cut off your fucking toes, I’ll feed you your own dick, you shitlicking creep.’


‘What! Don’t you “what” me, don’t you give me that crap, John! I let you in, I trust you, and you go off with that conniving bitch, and you fucking steal from me, and now you have the fucking nerve to say “what”?! Fuck you! Fuck you, fuck you, you’d better run and hide under whatever rock little traitor insects like you run and hide under, and you’d better pray to God and all the fucking saints that I never find you, because I promise you that I’ll give you a really slow death. I’ll start with your fingernails and I’ll go on from there. You understand?’

‘…I think you’ve got the wrong number? I just got this phone.’


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