Useless, useless as a nun's cuntfart useless. Punch the numbers into the machine. A microwave oven for the brain with extra buttons, a glorified blender. Out comes the voice, a Phillipino voice, that is, a voice with a Phillipine accent. An old voice, maybe 150 years old, an old man's voice. Tiny, ancient, dry & crackly. Also distant, very distant.
"You must please call to Mankiro."
"Fuck that," I hit the button. I hit it too hard.
The screen says "Respect Teleset".
"Yeah? Fuck teleset."
"Respect Teleset". I punch in more numbers, punch numbers, punch numbers, numbers, numbers...
"You must please call to Manchac.." the Phillipino mummy's voice again.
"AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!...!" punch, "Respect Teleset" punch, "Respect Teleset", punch again, punch, punch, punch, "Respect Teleset, Respect Teleset, Respect Telese...", control alt delete, "Respect Teleset",...well, you had to face it, the computer would always win. Obvious, designed by a human.
"Respect Teleset".
In the hall behind me they're talking. Talking about bloating constipation, talking about overactive bladder, overactive bladder. The speaker in the wall barks "We wish to remind you that this is digestive disease week and all quotas must be exceeded. Thank you." The announcements were always followed by the Sound. The Sound sounded like a metal fork jammed vigorously and enthusiastically into a meat grinder, only electronic. The Sound was supposed to keep us from falling asleep. It worked. I couldn't sleep now, even when I was at home. Sometimes the Sound came out of the speaker even when there was no announcement, just to keep us on our toes.
The speaker on the teleset began beeping. Then the names started coming out. "Doris Wadsworth," I copied it down. "Barbara Batdorff,".........."Karina Gummo-Boogles," I got them all down. The speaker on the wall croaked "YA GETTIN' THOSE NAMES DOWN KID?"
"Yes sir Mr. Flabheart!"
"WHAT?"
"I SAID YES SIR MR. FLABHEART!"
"MAKE SURE YOU GET THEM ALL NOW. AND MAKE SURE THEY'RE SPELLED RIGHT. WE BEEN GETTING COMPLAINTS."
"YES SIR MR. FLABHEART!"
The sound known as the Sound came out of the speaker. The teleset beeped, "Beverly Konxpipes, Oroville McGurgle, Lavinia Schwonky," I got them down. "Myrlene Gazookas, Frindy Gingrik, Raymond Buttko," while typing the names I hit the wrong key and get the buzzer, "Respect Teleset".
"Oh fuck!" I hit the correction combination, make a mistake, get buzzer, "Respect Teleset".
"AHHHHHHH!"
"Wyndy Morehead, Florine Bowglin, Hurta Frobaka," I hit the correction combo right and start getting the names in.
"Ozella Wubbenhorst, Gale Pfaff, Melvin Glasscock, Danine Gurgen, Andrea Bitchelmeyer, Mishbosh Shazaam, Ann Skrobut,..." the wall speaker crackles, the Sound comes out. "Sylvia Bunnybarley."
I'm barely making it, barely getting them down. In the hall they're still yukking it up, talking about public toilet seats.
"Me? I don't never touch that."
"Oh me neither. I wouldn't touch that seat if you paid me."
"I wouldn't even go near that seat with my hand!"
"Oh, me neither. I'd never touch that thing with my hand."
"Yeah. You know I just use my foot you know, I just reach up there with my leg and just tip it down with my toe ya know? I wouldn't touch it."
"Yeah, that's what I do, use my toe. I wouldn't touch it either. Not ever. Not with my constipation. The doctor says it's too much cheese. I don't know."
"Wilfred Gurstenblatt."
My hands are bleeding into the keyboard. The blood flows in spasms. Monitor display reads "Malfunction".
"YOU GETTIN' THOSE NAMES DOWN KID?"
"YES SIR MR. FLABHEART."
"ALL OF THEM?"
"YES SIR."
Then there's the Sound. There isn't even a micro-mini nanitosecond to catch up. "Bettina Schraufnagle, Robin Pancake, Erika Katsenelenbogen," it's impossible. The blood makes the keys sticky, it's smearing around. "Respect Teleset".
"Wulfhilda Jisczak."
"Respect Teleset", the red lights are flashing.
"Respect Teleset", I can't keep up, could anybody do this?
"Ripudaman Mokshagundam, Yahtzek Portsniefski, Venkatachala Jeejeebhoy, Wolfgang Dunkleburger," I listen to the names coming out without typing anything, stare at the screen which now reads "Malfunction Respect Teleset Malfunction Respect Teleset". The Phillipino mummy voice comes out again "You must call to PURROPUT!"
"Thiriloganathan Mathailahan, Sukanto Ayeesh,"
I give up. Me and my bleeding hands are leaving. They win. I stand up. Blood drips on the gray dirty carpeting.
"Mokdong Przybyszewski, Mopti Ouagadougou, Jokkmokk Pajala". I can hear the speaker behind me as I walk out into the hall.
"Frienzingalus Bacciagaluppi."
I wait. I get on the elevator. There are some kind of full grown mongo babies in there. Three or four of them, seal heads. The elevator is full of them. Beluga whale faces, pale white. Sweaty, confused & chubby, expressionless. They look like salamanders with hair and they're big, staring with beady little eyes. I looked at one of them. I could not tell if it was a man or a woman or what its name was. A small baseball hat rode on top of its head. It looked at me and bleated "BLEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!"
"BLEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!" It was the most horrible sound, somewhere in between a dying sheep and an angry dolphin. A sound that was something ripped out of the depths of a damaged soul.
"So how's the weather like outside?" I ask.
"BLEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!"
"That bad huh?"
"BLEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!" Then the other ones joined in.
"BLEEEEEEEEEEEEE!" "BLEEEEEEE!" "BLEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!"
The elevator stops. I leave them in there, bleating horribly. Out through the doors, back on the street hard. I'm a life size catshit homunculus walking with the herd. The grunting pigs, the ants. Backed into an evolutionary corner & no one sees the turds flowing in the street.
There we all are, there we all go. Mindless thugs of survival. Walking around with little bits of food stuck in our teeth while the hair grows out of our ears. I can't remember if the name of my company is Data Systems Network Corporation, or Automated Info Tech Systems Incorporated. I walk by the shoeshine man.
"SHOEshine?" he asks me, "Put a smile on?"
"No thanks."
"FAGGOT!" he spits at my back, but brutality is normal. I walk through the thrashing nervous herd. Suddenly I'm surrounded by small children. They're pressed all around me.
"WE'RE GOING TO TAKE OUT YOUR HEART," they yell, "AND PUT IN A POTATO!"
"O.K. by me," I say. They get confused, lose interest and let me go. They couldn't know that there was nothing but a potato in there all along.
People, more people, people, and I see some another disdainful ectogirl coming down the street. My salvation? My salivating angel? Or my destructress arriving? The eyes, cross eyed, insane. The lips, a voluptuous smear of blood. Another woman downstreet walking hand in hand. But the hand she's holding onto is a severed hand, and no longer attached to a body.
There's a half a hamburger sitting on top of a fire alarm box. My potato or what's left of my heart is leaking out onto the pavement through the flanges between my webbed toes.
"Manyank Sampatpak."
Back up in the office they're running up and down the half dark hallways, their heads wrapped in gauze. Waiting for the drug pizzas. There are no faces, only gauze. Gauze wrapped heads in the hallways, running up and down. Stopping, then running again.
