September 17, 2018 – DSG
The keyboard clattered away like windblown rain on a tin roof. The words and phrases flowed, letters dancing onto the screen, line by line. Instrumental hip hop, set on low, was on point.
A strange whisper. It was soft at first, almost imperceptible. He thought he imagined it and kept typing. There it was again… a female voice. He stopped typing and glared down at his headphones on the cluttered desktop.
“Help me, please,” the headphones whispered. “Please… I need help.”
He pushed his chair back a bit and rubbed his eyes. He’d been working too hard.
Huh? No, that wasn’t in my damn head.
He sat still and quiet staring at the headphones on his desk. They spoke again.
“David, I need your help.”
The voice was fearful but controlled, like its owner was a caged hostage pleading for the help of a passing stranger.
“Uh, hello there?” David asked. “Can you hear me?” David looked around the room as if expecting a ghost.
“Yes, David, I hear you,” said the girl. “I need you. Please don’t leave… please!”
“Um… Who are you?”
“I can’t explain it,” said the whisper. “But, I really need your help.”
“Well, I need to know who you are and how it is that you’re talking to me through my goddamn twenty dollar Walmart headphones!”
Irritated, he held his mouth slightly open and nodded his head with authority like he meant business. It was his mustache alpha look, like a 1970’s beer commercial actor looking for a fight.
“David, please know that you cannot understand or comprehend me. But, know that helping me could save you from a lot of trouble.”
No, I’m losing it. This isn’t possible. My headphones?
David tried to ignore the voice. He got up, went to the bathroom, and splashed cold water on his face.
“David!” the voice called out.
He heard the harsh whisper-yell from the bathroom. Peeking around the corner toward his desk, he pinched his arm to see if he could feel it.
That was dumb. Of course a dream can simulate pain. I’ve known that ever since that weird mini-crocodile bit my hand in that dream a long time ago… It fucking hurt, then I woke up.
David walked back and stood behind his desk.
“Tell me who you are,” he said.
“I can’t do that, David.”
“What do you want?”
“I need your help.”
“Help with what?”
There was a long pause and what sounded possibly like a held back snicker.
“Help with what?” David asked again.
“I’m hungry,” whispered the voice. “Make me a sandwich.”
Now, David was really confused. A sandwich?
“What?” said David.
“A sandwich! Make me a sandwich, bitch, I’m hungry over here.”
Okay, what the hell is going on?
David picked up the headphones and looked them over. He held them up to the light and shook them. There was nothing unusual. He put them on.
“Okay, well, what the crap kind of sandwich you want, then?” Alpha mustache look again.
A pause and then, “roast beef… pepper jack cheese… light mayo… pickle. Make that two pickles.”
That’s what my stupid sister eats all the time. Wait a minute…
“Sandy!” David yelled. “How the hell are you doing this, you stupid fart nugget?”
“Fart nugget?” the voice replied. “You can do better than that. Where’s my damn sandwich?”
“Well, where the hell am I supposed to take your stupid sandwich?”
David was fed up now. He took his key chain pocket knife and ripped into the soft part of the earphones, his twenty dollars be damned. Out dropped a little silver cylinder into his hand. David spoke into it.
“I said, where am I supposed to bring your sandwich?”
“Bring it out to the back yard,” the voice blared from the device. “Set it on the patio table.”
That bitch! Oh, this was a good one.
David smiled as he walked down the stairs and towards the back of the house. There she was, standing by the pool, facing away from the door like an evil mastermind.
Oh, she’s in her swimsuit…
David hatched a plan. He put the little microphone on his desk and turned up the instrumental hip hop a bit. Then he went into the kitchen and slathered a gob of guacamole between two slices of bread. He sneaked slowly through the patio door with his guac bomb in hand and took cover behind the cottonwood tree. His sister looked around and then said something else into her little mic.
Yeah, that little byotch is gettin’ it.
As she turned back away, he crept up behind her like a hunting tiger, his protruding mustache flittering in the breeze and his wide eyes glued to his little 19-year-old sister’s sun-tanned back. Crouching, he inched forward probing with his left foot and hand, holding the guac bomb behind him in his right hand.
This is your guac sandwich weggie, sister…
Just as his left hand grasped the back of his sister’s bikini bottom, she shrieked and wheeled around. Her mic flew into the air and the strap on her bikini bottom snapped as she stepped back towards the pool.
David’s guac bomb dropped from his right hand onto the patio in a green plop while his left hand held the skimpy fabric of a pink and yellow polka dotted bikini bottom. Sandy’s arms flailed like dual windmills as she fought a losing battle to maintain her balance. She finally timbered, bottomless, into the deep end of the pool.
Oh crap! That didn’t go to plan.
David ran to the side of the pool to help his sister out.
“I can swim, you dumbass!” Yelled Sandy. “Just go get me a towel. You ripped my bottoms off!”
David laughed as he ran inside to get a towel. The weggie guac bomb plot had failed, but the end result might have been better.
David handed her the towel as she climbed out of the pool.
“And, you owe me twenty bucks for tampering with my headphones,” said David.
“Call it even since you ripped my bathing suit!”
They both started laughing and shook on the deal. Just another day of pranks in the house, no harm done. David went into the kitchen to make them both a sandwich.
Half way around the world a greasy man in a basement got busy uploading the files fed to his computer from the backyard home security camera that just captured the whole event. He picked up the phone.
The man answered the phone with a grunt.
“Yvgenny!” said Sergei. “We just hit a big one in the States. Girl falls into a pool with no swimsuit bottoms.”
“Security camera hack?” asked Yvgenny. He knew the answer to his own question. “Good, good. Upload and post now. I’ll take a look.”
A few minutes later Sergei had loaded five minutes of video and hundreds of stills onto the dark web for the viewing pleasure of disgusting creeps from around the world. A dollar for each image, ten for the video. Business was good.