It was in my most overwrought condition - during the brief stage of postulated rapid eye movements - that I had received the call. It had arrived over the fibre optic cable exchange at precisely 4:00AM - as evidenced by the faintest crimson illumination of the NEC digital clock by my faux-marble bedside. The phone rang, in a way that a phone does, with a familiar ringing tone to it, a metallic note, and in such a loud, awful manner that the repeating digitised melody terrorised the deepest sleeping depths of my inner ear’s slumber.
"Huh?" I said, lazily reaching for the wireless headset, for which I had to stretch, ligamentally extending myself across the approximated length of three feet and thereby ultimately destroying the last semi-alive remnants of my dream (in which I faced a naked Jessica Alba covered in honey whom I were to rescue from a mob of angry, but fairly slow zombies).
"Robert?"
"Huh?"
"I want to speak to Robert Ford."
"That's me," I said, upon hearing the mysterious man mentioning my given and last name. I recalled the history of my name, and the one to two customary questions a year:" "Are you related to Harrison Ford?", to which I would truthfully reply "No" - thereby ending any future discussion, and leaving the other person seemingly disappointed. And too, another realization had stricken me - that far from being a teenage prank, the call at hand must have been important for I rarely gave away my real name, instead preferring to operate under an alias of Max Power.
"Robert, you’ll receive a fax very soon. I'll call you later."
"Wait!" I said, but the man had hung up. I was going to say that I had disconnected the fax machine recently, for I kept getting tangled up in its telephone wires – I had purchased a cord much too long than I had needed, for I was influenced by the SPECIAL ticket it had displayed. Also, the scanner component had broken down, in that, every time I would hit the Scan button, it would turn yellow (originally green) and it would start flashing a strange sequence of wan flickers, which I dare not look at long, fearing that its sole purpose was Canon's attempt to program my brain in purchasing only its original accessories – an evil intent, considering the saving one achieved purchasing the no name generics. Consequently, seeing that it was not used any more, I had dumped the evil machine into my shed - very deep into the shed’s shadows, behind the piled boxes of Amazon's cardboard delivery remains.
Alas, seeing there was no other way to receive the fax, I realised I had to reconnect the dreaded Canon Multifunction. And so, I ran across the house, in my Superman pyjamas, nearly tripping on the stairway and breaking all of 206 to 208 of my fourty three year old, adult male bones.
To be continued…
I had hoped that such clearly redundant info would be humorous to some.
"Huh?" I said, lazily reaching for the wireless headset, for which I had to stretch, ligamentally extending myself across the approximated length of three feet and thereby ultimately destroying the last semi-alive remnants of my dream (in which I faced a naked Jessica Alba covered in honey whom I were to rescue from a mob of angry, but fairly slow zombies).
"Robert?"
"Huh?"
"I want to speak to Robert Ford."
"That's me," I said, upon hearing the mysterious man mentioning my given and last name. I recalled the history of my name, and the one to two customary questions a year:" "Are you related to Harrison Ford?", to which I would truthfully reply "No" - thereby ending any future discussion, and leaving the other person seemingly disappointed. And too, another realization had stricken me - that far from being a teenage prank, the call at hand must have been important for I rarely gave away my real name, instead preferring to operate under an alias of Max Power.
"Robert, you’ll receive a fax very soon. I'll call you later."
"Wait!" I said, but the man had hung up. I was going to say that I had disconnected the fax machine recently, for I kept getting tangled up in its telephone wires – I had purchased a cord much too long than I had needed, for I was influenced by the SPECIAL ticket it had displayed. Also, the scanner component had broken down, in that, every time I would hit the Scan button, it would turn yellow (originally green) and it would start flashing a strange sequence of wan flickers, which I dare not look at long, fearing that its sole purpose was Canon's attempt to program my brain in purchasing only its original accessories – an evil intent, considering the saving one achieved purchasing the no name generics. Consequently, seeing that it was not used any more, I had dumped the evil machine into my shed - very deep into the shed’s shadows, behind the piled boxes of Amazon's cardboard delivery remains.
Alas, seeing there was no other way to receive the fax, I realised I had to reconnect the dreaded Canon Multifunction. And so, I ran across the house, in my Superman pyjamas, nearly tripping on the stairway and breaking all of 206 to 208 of my fourty three year old, adult male bones.
To be continued…
I had hoped that such clearly redundant info would be humorous to some.