If you feel that your manhood is already dead, call us
In my mind’s eye I’m reading this spam message to an acoustic backdrop courtesy of [[Godspeed You! Black Emperor]]. Maybe Providence. The preacher man says that it’s the end of time. Outside, the day’s bleak. Dirty clouds sail overhead, scurrying away inland ahead of a bitter wet wind coming in off the sea.
Here you are. Motionless. Downbeat. Gazing at the horizon. Looking into your soul. Shivering. Not from the cold. Phone in your hand. Lifeline. A noise. Something between a sob and a laugh escapes your numb lips as you raise the phone to your ear. You dally. Check the number again. Pointless. You watch gulls wheel and cry. Wonder what it’d be like to soar on that wind.
No more navel-gazing. You hit dial. Hear the tones. The click. The ring.
Well? a tinny voice asks.
My manhood is dead, you answer.
Fade to black.