Love in the time of Diarrhea

B21, my alter ego and closest friend by far, had fucked off into some unknown sunset. He was convinced I no longer needed him. And neither did the world. He was mistaken about his first conviction. Bang on with the second though.

He is back now. With a different passport and a beard going grey from too much white noise. I am so happy, and we swapped stories. I had nothing to say. He did. A lot.

I am narrating one here. B21 had kept his Chinese cell phone on top of an Indian teakwood table while making himself a cup of Italian coffee. Which he intended to drink with the delicious immorality that only coffee lovers are capable of. As the coffee was about to sing, lulling B21 like a java siren singing to sailors, the Chinese cell phone rang.

And ran and rang and rang.

And kept ringing. Angrily, insistently and whiningly. Like a bell gone mad. Like a gong gone cuckoo. B21 left the java girl alone, much against his better instincts, and picked up the Chinese 5-inch, full flat screen, colour LED motherfucking intrusion.

B21: Hello?

Voice at the other end, the deep end of the notion: Hello sir. I am calling from fuck knows where and my name izzz Mizz Bitch Plizz. Can I talktalk to you for a mini minute plizz?

B21: Ma’am, I am a little busy and I …

Mizz Bitch Plizz: This will only take a mini minute Sir. Minier than mini mini. Minier than the teeny weeny you-know-what of Minny Mouse. Would you like a fucking anything, Sir? We have a discount running on our latest range of fucking anythings. And your name was suggested personally by our Chairman, Mr Glare Man.

B21: Ma’am, I am on the DND list. It means Do Not Disturb and it specifically prohibits tele-callers and people like you, selling stuff on the phone without invitation.

Mizz Bitch Plizz: Don’t worry, Sir. Today is your lucky lucky day. Whoopie. Guess what, I am just checking my DND list and we have a fantastic discount on our latest batch of DNDs. Absolutely gorgeous, just come in from our organic farm out West in Wank county. Fresh and juicy DNDs, Sir. How many crates would you like?

B21, by now mildly curious about the lady’s childhood: Ma’am, I admit I am not in the market for whatever you are selling. I am sorry, but could you please hang up?

Mizz Bitch Plizz, by now convinced that she can close this sale: That’s a great decision, Sir. To not go to the market. Why should an impotent person like you need to go anywhere? You should just come. I am going… to ensure that. And don’t be sorry at all. I will send my customer delight laxacutive to meet you first thing tomorrow morning and he will take care of all paperwork, so you don’t have any pain-in-the-ass shit thing to do. Umm, just tell me your name, address, waist size, mother’s lover’s name and your internet banking password in all caps.

By now, the java girl had left. In cold tears and with a stained regret of what could have happened. B21 watched her leave with silent sadness, while Mizz Bitch Plizz was making suggesting noises to indicate that she was a busy gal after all and cannot be expected to spend the whole day chatting up with a guy who may not buy.

B21: Goodbye, ma’am. It was nice to know that you are eager and ambitious. It is also very nice to be reminded why I left this cunting world in the first place.

Mizz Bitch Plizz: Sir, you really should make up your mind about what you really want. You are real lucky that we have a great range of cunting knives and they are so deeply discounted that you won’t believe how deep they can go. Or come. Shall I send my customer delight laxacutive right now with a pair of cunting knives to you?

B21 gently disconnected the phone. By tapping ever so lightly, like one taps the fevered forehead of a loving friend, the angry red button on the Chinese 5-inch, full flat screen, colour LED motherfucking intrusion.

He was thinking of love. But could only spell it as loss.