Digital Ischemia

15/07/2017

Cold Call: Day 2

A series of telephone conversations where truth comes away in layers – begins at Cold Call: Day 1

SOUND: PHONE RINGS
LACRIMOSA: Hello?
SìMON: (D) Is this the, er, Fetish Warehouse?
LACRIMOSA: Oh, aye, sorry: I thought it was an internal call.
SìMON: I wouldnae like to think what ‘internal’ means in your line of work.
LACRIMOSA: You’re not into surgical stockings?
SìMON: No’ when my aunt’s wearing them.
LACRIMOSA: I’m so sorry. How’s she doing?
SìMON: No change. I’m just away up there the now.
LACRIMOSA: Bless her. And Mrs McIver?
SìMON: No idea. If you’re still no’ her then I’ll have to start checking tea rooms.
LACRIMOSA: Well, we don’t really do scones, so how is it I can help you?
SìMON: You should: Mrs McIver’d be your top customer. It sounds awfy quiet. Maybe you need some ‘mood music’ playing? Attract some customers?
LACRIMOSA: What mood would that be?
SìMON: Er, thrash metal?
LACRIMOSA: Very good.
SOUND: PEACOCK CALL
SìMON: What was that?!
LACRIMOSA: I think that’s a peacock.
SìMON: And what the hell is that?!
LACRIMOSA: It’s not a euphemism. Just the standard ornamental bird thing with the big feathers.
SìMON: I don’t think folk should be interfering with massive feathers with the birds still attached. I think that’s animal abuse.
LACRIMOSA: (LAUGHS) No, nothing to do with fetishes—well, I hope not—nothing to do with us, anyway.
SÌMON: I didnae think Linlithgow was so exotic.
LACRIMOSA: It’s not a standard pet, is it?
SOUND: PEACOCK CALL
LACRIMOSA (CONT’D): Aye, there, it’s calling again.
SìMON: What’s it saying?
LACRIMOSA: They sound like Penelope Peacock—Pitstop, don’t they? Or am I confusing them?
SìMON: You’re confusing me.
LACRIMOSA: Haielp! Haielp!
SìMON: Er, OK.
LACRIMOSA: Right, I’ll stick to inanimate fetishes.
SìMON: Anything happening in the world of whips?
LACRIMOSA: BOGOF on the cat o’ six tails.
SìMON: Other three fall aff?
LACRIMOSA: Worn out. Blunt.
SìMON: Second-hand? Is that hygienic?
LACRIMOSA: Some folk like it.
SìMON: I got a bunch of daffodils to take up the hospital but—aye, there’s six, so they just look dodgy now.
LACRIMOSA: Six?
SìMON: I’m not made of money.
LACRIMOSA: Tricky steal from your neighbour’s?
SìMON: I actually nicked them from my aunt’s garden.
LACRIMOSA: I honestly can’t decide if that’s sweet or twisted.
SìMON: You’re the expert. So, I’d best get my sweet, twisted self up there afore they die.
LACRIMOSA: Bye.

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