This story originally ran in New Session, which is taking submissions for issue 2 now. They pay $30 for accepted stories, and it’s a really cool project so any of you who are writers should send something their way!
It’s a secret number, you just punch it in. My grand-dad taught it to me, got it from his. Tommy Watson. Don’t fall for that Thomas shit, no one who knew him would say that. Inventor of the phone, you know. The real one. Bell barely did anything.
No listen to me.
Listen to me.
Bell got people on the line. But it’s not for that. It’s a weapon. Yeah, a weapon. Oh look it’s a crazy old drunk, oh he’s deluded. I got a perfect mind of glass. Don’t you worry about that, friends. Phones make a network. You get them to build a network. Back then it was just wires, that was bad enough. Now it’s signals. Can’t throw a hatchet on your back and go protect your town like ol grand-dad.
Look I’ll show you. Give me your phone. Because I don’t carry one, that’s why. Too dangerous. You’ll see. You, what’s your phone number? Thanks kid, love your attitude. So you just pop the right stuff in, then the phone number of the recipient and hey, there you go.
Stop trying, he’s not gonna wake up. I called him off this mortal coil. And be quiet. Thank you. Christ.
My point… stop, that boy’s brains are soup. Can’t do anything with ‘em anymore. My point. It’s the greatest weapon ever made. Nuclear bombs, ICBMs… cannons. None of em match up.
Oh yeah call the cops, what’re you gonna say? I mean you got that thing to your ear right now, two numbers and your ear’s popped and you’re deaf forever. Fighting phones with phones. You kids. Anyone want to know why? No? Great grand-dad’s wisdom, gratis, and this is the thanks I get. You build a bomb when you want everyone to get scared. Big explosion, no doubt that’s the death. A sonic weapon? Invisible. That’s for racking up body, after body, after body.
Hello officers. No idea. He just fell over. Look, look. They’re kids, they’re wasted. Hey! Anyone see me lay a finger on the dead kid? See? No. Probably had an aneurysm. Kids these days get jacked up on speed and try to slow things down with some booze and then pop. Done. I appreciate you coming out here, boys, I know it’s tough. God bless.
See, that’s what I’m saying. Untraceable. But it’s not about that. Get a guy’s number and he’s toast, that’s small time. Waste of infrastructure. I got his number because I wanted to aim. What if you didn’t?
Don’t get that running look in your eye. Just like a rabbit. Your friend has contacts. I can work my way down a list. What was I saying? Right.
Used to be, there was a woman at the end of the line. So if I pick up the phone and say hey Betty can you put me through to these ten thousand phones? And once you’re there, play the killing sound. Thanks you’re a doll.
There’s gonna be a hand on her shoulder that tells her to wait. But institutional memory isn’t for shit. One guy in a city knows the secret and a heart attack cracks him open, it’s gone. Good-bye.
So everyone wants to automate the whole deal, get Betty out of that chair and off raising kids. Or riveting steel. I’m not a historian. I know phones. And now no one’s around to say these things are dangerous. No reason not to make it a few twirls on the rotary. You kids don’t even remember that. Now that felt like a murder. Click, whir, click, whir, body hits the floor. Now you just type in a few numbers…
And there you go.
Huh. What’re your area codes? 412 like his? Should’ve known. Just came for a visit? Tourism’s a racket. What’s the difference between a beach and a picture of a beach? You’re seeing the same thing.
Getting close to last call. Better get out of here before anyone notices the mess. You kids heard of any after-hours places an old man can get a bit of attention?
I know. I’m passing through town myself. Big plans further west, but while I’m on the road I’m likely to indulge.
You can have this back. I don’t need it, I’ve got your friend’s. Hope you see some good sights while you’re here.
412, right? I’ll remember that. Cheers.
What I’ve Been Reading
Tell Me I’m Worthless by Alison Rumfitt: an absolutely harrowing trans horror novel about fascism, specifically how its logic worms its way into our thoughts and actions despite our professed best intentions. As befits its subject matter, it’s a book filled with brutality and anguish, but still fulfills the trans lit genre expectation of having a scene where a trans girl feels bad at a party.
Bend Sinister by Vladimir Nabokov: Nabokov’s attempt at satirizing a sort of broad-brush authoritarianism, which ultimately leaves him coming off as Kurt Vonnegut with better prose. The moments where it settles into the protagonist’s grief over his dead wife and his worries for his son are spectacular nonetheless.
The Formal Method in Literary Scholarship by M.M. Bakhtin and P.N. Medvedev: a methodical, but scathing, critique of Russian Formalism in service of an attempt to put together a sociological method of literary criticism that accords with Marxist principles.