Scammer Jammer: the Official Guide to Dealing with Telephone Scammers

 

Game of Chicken: Chicago

 

Plot twist: he's actually from Honolulu. Or Los Angeles. Or he's an expatriate living in Mexico City. Or he has a work visa for Calgary.

Belts and Welts

Owen Hall’s silent rage steamed hotter than the mashed potatoes and gravy he was eating for supper. Delicious food, though right in front of him, was the last thing on his racing mind. Sitting across from him at the dinner table was his wife Valerie and his daughter Leila. Both ladies smiled arrogantly at Owen while the father’s expression was dripping with ogre-like hatred. “Come on, old man, smile and make people wonder about you!” said Leila with a mockingly saccharine tone. Owen’s mouth curled even further downward as he tried to eat his dinner.

“Did you do your homework tonight?” asked Owen with disturbing calmness.

“I’ll do it after America’s Next Top Model is over,” said Leila. Her phone vibrated in her jeans pocket and she immediately went into text-messaging mode. Her eyes never left the screen even after Owen waved his meaty hand over her face.

“Relax, Owen,” said Valerie with her hand on his shoulder. “She’s a teenager. You know how they are. I’ll bet you anything you were like that at her age.”

Owen cracked his thick neck on both sides and said, “I wouldn’t know anything about that.”

“Of course you don’t, because you’re an old fart,” said Leila while her thumbs continued to dance around her smart phone’s screen. The sharp jab got a small giggle from Valerie.

Owen shook his head and put his fork down to address his daughter. His muscular hands formed a steeple underneath his hairy chin as he said, “You know, Leila. I got a call from the school today. They said you haven’t been keeping up with your homework. In fact, it’s pretty much the same song and dance for the last few weeks. Whenever the school has a problem with you, they always phone me and I get the blame for it.”

“Honey, eat your potatoes and we’ll talk about this some more after dinner,” said Valerie as she patted her manicured hand across her husband’s sausage fingers.

“I don’t want to talk about it later,” said Owen. “I want to talk about it now. If we don’t talk about it now, we’ll never talk about it again. You keep saying we’ll have all of these chances and those chances are always squandered. Put the fucking phone down!” The last sentence directed at Leila had some extra bite to it.

Instead of honoring her father’s wishes, Leila mocked his words with a semi-retarded voice and kept texting. Valerie smiled at Owen and said, “Come on, it’s not like this is the end of the world. She’ll figure it out soon enough.”

“No, she won’t!” snapped Owen as he stood up, garnering Leila’s attention at last. “She’s going to keep fucking up and nothing’s going to get done! What about college?! What about a job?! Does she not care about these things?! Last time I checked, sitting on your lazy ass watching TV isn’t exactly a nine-to-fiver!”

“Dude! Chill!” said Leila. “You don’t have to bite my head off! School’s been really hard lately!”

“School is supposed to be hard, you dumb shit!” barked Owen. “That’s how you grow and develop as a human being! If everything was easy, there’d be no fucking point!”

Valerie shot up from her chair and pointed at her husband while shouting, “Owen, sit down and eat your food! You’re acting like an old bastard!”

Owen took off his glasses and rolled up his flannel shirt sleeves. “No, Valerie, you’re wrong. That’s not what an old bastard acts like. This is.” With no trace of high voltage anger in his voice, Owen took off his leather belt and slowly walked around the table to Leila’s side of the table. Both wife and daughter looked up at him with wide, horrified eyes while Leila kept asking him what he was doing with a stutter.

The towering father grabbed Leila by the hair and slammed her torso against the table, not caring if the violent act got food on her T-shirt. Both ladies screamed like they were trapped in a real-life horror movie while Owen smacked his leather belt across Leila’s ass five times, each strike more sadistic and louder than the last. Both women collapsed to the floor and hugged each other while sobbing and screaming simultaneously. Leila could only bury her face in her mother’s chest while the mother looked up at Owen with puppy-dog eyes, asking, “Why?” over and over again in a whispery voice.

“I’ll tell you why, Valerie,” said Owen with trembling jowls. “I’m tired of being the bad guy at this dinner table. I’m tired of being the principal’s scapegoat when this whole shit storm is clearly my daughter’s fault. I’m tired of being disrespected. I’m tired of being walked on. And to think, this is Leila’s first belt whipping and she got to experience it at age fourteen. Too little too late. She’s grown up to be a bigger super-bitch than her mother.”

Leila pulled her face out of her mother’s hug and tearfully mouthed the words to her dad, “I hate you. I hate you so much.”

Owen slowly crouched down beside his daughter, placed his free hand on her convulsing shoulder, and quietly said, “That’s okay, darling. I hate you too. I hate you so much that I want to get the fuck out of this place as soon as I can. That belt spanking wasn’t out of discipline or even love. It was out of rage. It was out of a whole decade of disrespect and nothing being done about it. I’m done with you, Leila. I’m done with your mother. She better hire a good divorce lawyer, because I’ll be doing the same. Don’t expect a huge custody battle, little girl. Not even that creep Roy Moore will want you after all of this.”

Owen stood back up and his tree trunk knees popped like fireworks. Valerie also stood up, but brought her daughter to her feet with her and continued to hold her in a loving and sorrowful embrace. Valerie sobbed, “You can’t divorce me, Owen. After what you did tonight, I’ll take you for everything you’re worth!”

“Funny you mention that,” said Owen. “Because you probably will make more money off of my child support payments than you will busting your ass at a real job. Same goes for you, Leila. You’re both a bunch of losers. If you’re this disrespectful to me, what makes you think you’re going to be any better to your bosses? Oh, did I say bosses? I meant johns and pimps.”

“How can you say these things to your own family, Dad?” cried Leila. She could wipe her tears and comfort her sore buttocks all she wanted, but the sorrow continued to be painfully obvious.

“Family? What family?” said Owen with shrugged shoulders. “I don’t see a family in front of me. Just because you’ve got my DNA, doesn’t mean you’re anything more to me than a couple of bloodsucking leeches. The ride’s over. I’d tell you both to get your shit together, but you’re not even capable of getting that right, let alone an answer on a fucking math test.” The hulking father turned around and lumbered to his bedroom looking for a suitcase and some clothes.

“I’m sorry, Dad!” pleaded Leila while on her knees. “I’m sorry! I’ll do better in school! I’ll get a good job! Please, don’t leave us!”

“You’re too late for redemption, honey,” said Owen as he nonchalantly packed clothing into his suitcase and rolled it out to the kitchen. “It’s not my job to save you anymore. You can be someone else’s problem now.” He pointed at Valerie and said, “And you! You’ll be hearing from my lawyer first thing in the morning. Enjoy your dinner. I’m going to get a real meal at McDonald’s.” He waved goodbye and proceeded towards the front door with his suitcase in tow.

“Goddamn you, Dad!” shouted Leila as she picked up her dinner plate and threw it across the kitchen at Owen, who ducked down in the nick of time. The plate shattered and the mashed potatoes oozed down the kitchen wall.

But instead of white hot rage, Owen smiled for the first time in forever and said, “Thanks for giving my lawyer more talking points in court. Maybe your mother will start paying ME alimony instead. Bye-bye!” He waved again and stepped outside to the sounds of screaming teenagers and sobbing wives.

The chilly night air felt heavenly on Owen’s skin. The air tasted sweeter than anything on his dinner plate. A singular tear traveled down his husky cheek. He may have weighed well over three hundred pounds, but he felt lighter than a feather. He wasn’t going to just get away from this prison of a home. He was going to fly away like a caged bird.

There was a small moment where he questioned his need for spanking Leila with a belt. But as the screams and screeches from inside grew less tolerable, he shrugged his shoulders and rolled his suitcase out to the family SUV. He figured even sleeping in the back seat would be more comfortable than any fluffy mattress shared with his soon to be ex-wife.

Brat Man

Brat Man lived in his little superhero costume. Once elementary school was over, the uniform came off and the superhero outfit replaced it. Playing in the streets with his buddies kept him smiling, energetic, and happy in his young days. The more he played, the more he would fantasize about what being a superhero was truly all about. Why just arrest his Penguin and Joker-like friends when he could play in the big leagues? One Saturday night past Brat Man’s bedtime, he tiptoed out of the covers, put on his black leather uniform and mask, and sneaked out of the house through his window.

The night air felt refreshing against Brat Man’s honey brown skin. He took a deep breath, twirled his cape around him, and ventured out into the streets with a high and mighty swagger. So far, everything in the neighborhood was peaceful and quiet. Not one soul walking the streets this late at night. But then Brat Man strutted deeper into the streets and could hear the faint sounds of hip-hop music off in the distance. There was nothing wrong with that particular genre of music, but Brat Man imagined people in the neighborhood were trying to sleep.

The further the little superhero explored the streets, the less it felt like the safety of home. Barbed wire fences surrounded broken down buildings with spray-painted curse words on them. Smashed up cars with no wheels were parked on lawns and sidewalks every which way. Brat Man’s anxious chills multiplied throughout his body when he found a dead cat in the middle of the road. He reached down and petted the poor little thing, whose body had been pancaked by a careless driver. He wiped the blood on his cape and closed the precious baby’s eyes for good. He knew his services were needed now more than ever.

Brat Man snapped out of his animal-loving trance when a pair of combat boots stood in front of him. He slowly panned his head up to see a baldheaded white male with a swastika carved into his forehead and a Resting Bitch Face that could strike fear in the hearts of ferocious jungle beasts. The man wore a leather vest with several racist symbols on it as well as a pair of blue jeans that were several sizes too big. He also had the name “T-Money” tattooed across his neck with the T looking distinctively like another swastika.

The little superhero swallowed a huge gulp of saliva, but put on a brave front as he swirled his cape around him and said, “Give it up, T-Money! Your days of evildoing are over!”

The racist smiled a slimy-toothed smile before grabbing Brat Man by the chest and pulling the shivering young man him face-to-face. “Let me guess: you want to know what that hip-hop bullshit is playing in the background. Me too, buddy. In fact, if you’re such a fucking superhero, why don’t you go out there an see what those niggers are up to. Get them before they get away. Halloween’s over, but they’ll probably give you some candy anyways.” T-Money threw Brat Man to the ground and snickered at him.

The small child wiped the dirt off of his uniform and stood back up with his hands on his hips, defiant until the very end. In a godlike voice, he boomed, “Any last words before I take you to the authorities?”

T-Money shook his head before delivering a thudding knee to Brat Man’s stomach and dropping him to his knees. While the small fry gasped for air and whined in pain, the skinhead pulled Brat Man’s puffy until they were nose-to-nose yet again. “This ain’t no Marvel Comics bullshit, little guy. The hero ain’t going to win in the end. I tried being nice and letting you leave, but I guess your welfare momma spoiled your ass, so I’m probably going to have school you tonight.”

Brat Man threw the world’s weakest punch and only managed to hit something in T-Money’s pocket and bruise his own knuckles. The child cried and shook out his hand. The racist smiled and pulled out the object of Brat Man’s blind attack: a smart phone with a solid steel protection case. “You see this, you little bitch?” he said. “When you actually work for a living instead of lazing around on tax dollars, you can afford shit like this. Look at how strong this thing is!” The last sentence was punctuated by T-Money smashing the steel case against Brat Man’s temple, knocking him down and bringing tears to his eyes.

“Please, Mr. Money,” whined Brat Man. “No more. I just want to go home. I won’t read anymore comic books, I swear!” He held up his hands defensively to show that his begging was sincere.

“Nah, man, you ain’t going home tonight,” said T-Money. “If I let you go home, your welfare momma’s just going to spoil your ass some more. No more free rides, motherfucker. No more nigger money. No more of those geeky ass comic books.” He leaned down and whispered angrily, “Welcome to the real world, buddy. There are no heroes here. Just bad guys. Lots and lots of bad guys. In case there’s any confusion…”

T-Money pulled out a hypodermic needle filled with a mysterious substance and grabbed Brat Man firmly by the wrist, leaving purple marks in his wake. The little guy yelled, “No!” as loud as he could and squirmed around like a cat avoiding a flea bath. This was not the way he imagined his superhero life to be. Superman never had to worry about getting beaten to death by skinheads. Wonder Woman could break any sexist man with her warrior spirit alone. The Flash could run circles around even the biggest and baddest motherfuckers. Brat Man wanted all of that, but instead got a dose of heroin stabbed into his arm like a murderer’s knife.

Once T-Money pressed down on the plunger, Brat Man convulsed violently on the ground and coughed hard enough to bloody his mouth. He gasped for air while clutching the B symbol on his chest. Visions of T-Money blurred around him with a sadistic, devilish grin. The words, “Welcome to the real world” echoed like a schizophrenic demon in Brat Man’s head. The obtrusive sounds of sirens blaring caused Brat Man’s ears to pulsate with agony. The veins in his brains thumped and pumped to where they almost exploded. His vision grew dark and fuzzy until all that remained was cold silence.

In his nightmare, he huddled up for warmth while the bandages around his body did nothing to toast him up. The entire Justice League along with the Legion of Doom gathered in a circle around him, pointed, and laughed like horses at his “stupidity”. Tears flowed from Brat Man’s bloodshot eyes while he mouthed the words, “I’m sorry!” over and over again. No matter how many times he wiped his tears away, they just kept coming back stronger until they were more viscous than pipeline oil. Comic books formed a wall around him, but all he wanted to do was burn them all. With matches in hand, he struck the whole book and set the wall of paper ablaze while screaming, “I hate you! I hate you all!”

“Hey!” shouted a masculine voice, which jolted Brat Man out of his drug-induced nightmare. Except he wasn’t Brat Man anymore, not in those hospital bandages. The fact that he was lying in bed sicker than Superman around kryptonite made him even less of a hero on his mind. More tears were to come.

The trench coat and fedora-wearing detective standing over Brat Man’s bed patted him on the arm and said, “No more tears, young man. If you hadn’t dialed 9-1-1 when you did, we would have never caught that skinhead. We’ve been looking for him forever.”

Brat Man wiped his tears away and stuttered, “But…but…I didn’t call 9-1-1.”

“Maybe not on purpose, but somebody dialed 9-1-1 on T-Money’s phone,” explained the detective. Even in a drug-induced haze, Brat Man vaguely remembered accidentally striking T-Money’s phone. He pocket dialed the cops and they heard the entire conversation that night. Brat Man chalked this up to luck instead of having any real superhero potential.

“Make no mistake about it, young man,” said the detective. “Going out there in that silly superhero outfit at that time of night was dangerous. You may have done the right thing, but there’s always that chance that you could have died out there. Don’t ever do anything like that again.”

“I promise I won’t, sir,” sobbed Brat Man. “I hate being a superhero.”

“Funny you should mention that, sonny,” said the detective while ruffling Brat Man’s puffy locks. He pulled out his badge and showed it to the wide-eyed vigilante. “You see this? This is what a real superhero carries around with him. No kryptonite can ever take away this kind of power. But it takes a lot of work to get one of these. That includes doing well in school and training hard before you graduate. If you ever decide to be a superhero again, consider having this on your new uniform…when you’re old enough, that is.”

The cop left the room and gave Brat Man some privacy. He didn’t that much thinking time in order to know that the Brat Man gimmick was dead in the water. There was no way anybody could be that invincible. But with a police badge waiting for him at graduation, it was a good start. For the first time since being mauled by T-Money, Brat Man, or rather Officer Brat Man, formed a tiny smile on his face. But before he could take on the role of a real hero, he had to detox this poisonous drug out of his system. Beating withdrawal was a tough challenge worthy of a superhero’s might. He could do it. He had to do it!

The Aeromancer

The eighty mile per hour winds blew through Dread City like an apocalyptic breeze, leaving trees knocked over, garbage cans flying through the air, and electricity short-circuited. Even Officer Ryan Elkins’s radio was silent after navigating his patrol car through the city. Driving around was hard enough with trees, mail boxes, and garbage cans blocking the streets. Several times his tires skidded across the rough pavement with an annoying squeal. He breathed a sigh and shook his head no, realizing how dangerous crime rates could be in the middle of a windstorm.

As he turned down Tenth Street and narrowly avoided a knocked over recycling bin, Ryan’s patrol car took him over the sidewalk and toward a scene he had a hard time believing. “What the hell?” he said to himself as he watched a beautiful woman with long black hair while wearing a ragged gray dress dancing ballet-style across the windy roads. “This fucking woman’s out of her mind,” said Ryan to himself. He shook his head and got out of the car to confront this “crazy lady”.

The officer pulled out his heavy flashlight and shined it in the woman’s eyes. She covered her face wit her sharp red nails sticking out and hissed at Ryan like a monstrous cat. The brown uniform-donning policeman cleared his throat and said, “Excuse me, ma’am. You do know that you’re in the middle of a windstorm and it’s imperative that you stay indoors, right? Do you need to go to a shelter tonight?”

The woman smiled wickedly at Ryan Elkins and said, “I don’t need a shelter, Officer. I’m at home right here in these streets. These high winds make me feel quite happy at this moment.”

“Ma’am, I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to…” Ryan put a stop to his sentence when he saw a garbage can flying through the air about to nail the woman in the face. He dashed toward her in an attempt to tackle her to safety, but once the woman held out her hand, the garbage can blew right back to where it was supposed to be. Officer Elkins’ eyes were wide with horror. “How the hell did you do that?”

“I told you I was happy out here with the winds. They bring me the kind of joy that no youngster’s technology can. But with the power out, I don’t have to worry about such things. I can just dance up a storm,” said the witch, who was now floating comfortably in the air while lying on her back and sticking her bare feet up.

Ryan let out a flat tire noise and said, “I can’t believe what I’m seeing. Some crazy bitch is the cause of all this bad weather. Well, I’m going to have a hell of a time explaining this one to the guys at the precinct. Place your hands behind your head and interlace your fingers. You’re under arrest for destruction of property.”

The aeromancer gently floated to her feet and did as she was told, but not without conjuring up a stream of wind that knocked Ryan off of his feet and rolled him like a bowling ball into a pile of pungent trash bags. The cop spit out pieces of rotten lasagna and stale spinach before rubbing his tongue vigorously with his fingertips.

“Alright, you crazy bitch, I didn’t want to have to do this, but you’ve given me no other choice,” said Ryan as he pulled out his pistol. He squeezed off a shot, but only after his arms were blown upward by the wind magic. His bullet blasted a power line loose and rained sparks down upon Ryan, who danced around yelling “Ouch!” as each volt of electricity pierced his skin.

By the time his electric shower was over, Ryan hugged himself in pain and jiggled down to his knees, shivering hard as a cool breeze blew past him. The mysterious woman smiled as she approached the pain wracked officer. Placing a hand on his sensitive shoulder, she said, “You don’t look like you’re in any condition to drive. My winds can carry you to the hospital if you’d like. I’m sure they have a generator of some kind.”

“Get your hands off me!” shouted Ryan as he stumbled onto his back, shaking both in pain and coldness. He smiled insanely and said, “I don’t believe this shit. I’m getting my ass handed to me by a fucking witch! This is some fucked up fairytale shit right here!”

“I assure you, Officer, this is not a fairytale. Everything you see before you is real,” said the aeromancer when she leaned down beside Ryan and stroked his crispy hair. As the cop winced and gritted his teeth at each stroke, the woman continued her oratory with, “Surely you must have some kind of family to go home to. Maybe someone will come and visit you in the hospital. I don’t know who it is, but someone will. There’s always someone out there for everybody. And now that the electricity and internet signals are nearly gone, those folks will be closer than they’ve ever been. No looking down to text on their so called smart phones. No staring at their TVs and computers like zombies in the night. You can thank my aeromancy for that.”

Ryan brushed the witch’s hand away and looked at her with confusion. “So let me see if I have this straight: you knocked out the power in Dread City because you’re an ageist technophobe who has no life of her own? Okay, fine, lots of people feel that way. But do you know what else electricity is good for? Lights! Refrigeration! Cooking! Keeping time!” Ryan let out another flat tire noise and said, “Wow, you really didn’t think this through, did you, lady? We’re going to have a bunch of spoiled food and stubbed toes because of you and your so called aeromancy. Holy Christ, man!”

The witch stood up and stared blankly into the horizon like she’d just seen a ghost. Officer Elkins had been laughing at her this whole time and aggravating the sores on his body from the spark shower. The witch’s eyebrows suddenly furrowed and she raised her hands in the air, using her wind magic to elevate Ryan high into the night sky.

“What the?! Help! Get me down from here, you crazy woman!” shouted Ryan as his arms and legs flailed about in the air.

“First of all, you disgusting, laughing pig, my name is not crazy woman! By the time this is all over, you will know me as the aeromancer who set you straight! This isn’t some voodoo bitch magic! This is a message from Mother Nature herself! One day she will take everything back and none of your internet technology can save you! Until then…remember the name of Elizabeth Wilson, The Aeromancer!”

“No, no, no!” shouted Ryan when Elizabeth dropped her hands and sent the staunch cop plummeting toward the ground. During the rapid descent, Ryan’s life flashed before his eyes. He had only made it to forty years old and his life was going to end with the crunching of his bones and the splattering of his body. As death was ready to claim his very soul, Officer Elkins emptied his bowels and passed out into darkness before his body ever hit the ground.

It seemed like an entire century had passed since Ryan entered the darkness. No pearly gates of heaven, no fiery pits of hell, just darkness for the one who scoffed at the powers of aeromancy. His eyes felt like bank vault doors as he struggled to open them. All he could muster was a small glimpse into the white ceiling of a dimly lit hospital. Nothing new or exciting, it was just a stupid splash of white.

He could barely make out the feminine voice calling his name. Was it the crazy witch Elizabeth Wilson? Did she come to finish the job? No. The frightened face of Marilyn Elkins had come into view, messy brown hair, tearstained eyes, and all. “Oh, baby!” she said in a shaky voice. “I didn’t think you were going to make it!”

Ryan’s breathing was becoming heavier and his vision and hearing were both getting clearer. When he tried to sit up, his ribs sent a volcanic burst of pain through his system. “Damn, honey, I can’t even remember what the hell happened to me. I mean…I kind of remember this crazy woman and then…I don’t know. This is all bullshit to me.”

A vibrating noise buzzed in Ryan’s ears as Marilyn took out her cell phone to answer a text message. She didn’t look at it for two seconds before tossing it on a nearby table and staring deep into her husband’s eyes with the most loving expression imaginable. “Once you get out of this hospital,” she said, “We’re taking a trip to the mountains. No cell phones, no computers, it’ll be just you, me, and silence.”

Ryan managed a weak smile before he said, “Yeah, that’ll be lots of fun.” He tried to smile wider, but then winced in pain as he aggravated his injuries again. “Christ, what the hell happened to me out there?”

“Yeah, I’m wondering that myself,” said Marilyn. “What the hell is aeromancy, anyways? And who the hell is Elizabeth Wilson?”

“Good question, Marilyn. I’m trying to figure that one out myself. Wait a minute, what?!”