Madness

Percy sits poised on the edge of his chair in the kitchen, his 12-gauge shotgun at his side, loaded and primed. He gazes at the wall where the thing hangs. He calls it a thing because it's there to steal his soul.

It will soon lure him near, and he will pick up the receiver. A voice will enter his ear and move slowly into his brain. He will go mad and the voice will snatch away his soul and send it tumbling across the wires, where it will land and lay devoid of meaning. The soul will turn to dust and Percy will be eternally lost.

I just got a phone call from a spammer who hung up when I answered. I have no idea if the spammer (maybe it wasn't a spammer, but a scammer) connected with my soul. It was perhaps a long enough call to have achieved that. They know who we are now. We aren't safe. They can find us, even if we aren't in the phone book. They don't even need a phone book now. They just call us. We answer. We're victims, lost in a world owned by aliens. We need protection.

Once, the telephone was a marvelous new invention. I found no references to it in 1875. Two years later, Bell's masterpiece was the talk of America. Since then, the telephone has been one of the most useful tools in story-telling because it allows for conversation. And blackmail. Mostly blackmail.

Or threats. Or other scary stuff. Don't answer the phone!

Percy was right. Aim the shotgun, Percy ... and blow the damned thing to smithereens.