Posts Tagged ‘demon’

I’m having problems with my internet.

Specifically, whenever the ADSL is plugged in, the line goes incredibly noisy. If you pick up the phone it sounds like someone crumpling paper while berating you in one of those African clicking languages. This means the internet drops out – frequently – and doesn’t reconnect, sometimes for up to an hour.

Needless to say, for someone who works from home and who also largely relies on the internet for entertainment and companionship, this is an issue.

So, our intrepid adventurer set out to sort this out.

First, he contacted his ISP helpdesk, who informed him that noise on the line was British Telecom’s issue, not theirs.

So he contacted British Telecom, who (eventually) sent out an engineer to tinker with the cables and the faceplates and to test the line. “All is well!” reported the Nepalese engineer, patting our hero’s little wooden statue of Ganesh on his way out. “In fact, your copper wire is much better than it needs to be!”

For a very, very short time, all was well. Then the problem started again.

Our hero contacted British Telecom again, just to be sure and since they’d done everything else (changed filters, tried a different router, replaced the faceplates and tested the line) and since the problem was coming from the ADSL they bounced him back to his ISP.

While consulting at length over days with the ISP and getting things raised up to engineer level, it emerged that our hero apparently had two different ADSL accounts. Each one to a different number.

“This doesn’t sound right…” our hero said, and so looked into it, this time getting bounced between customer service and tech support.

Way back when, due to malicious phone calls to his home number, our hero had had to change his number from XXX to YYY. He had informed his ISP at the time and there had been no problem. Then, earlier this year when he upgraded to truly unlimited business broadband there was an issue. A repeated issue. Despite the number change the ISP repeatedly set up the new broadband on the wrong number (XXX). Eventually, it was sorted out and all was well, it was now – supposedly – associated with YYY.

But no. In investigating this technical issue it seemed that not only was the XXX account still open, but he had been being charged for both for some time. They’d never closed that account. Furthermore, that legacy account, on the phone number he wasn’t even using any more, was apparently the one he was using for broadband now.

Confusion reigned.

BT disavowed knowledge of the XXX number and insisted it had been deactivated. The ISP insisted that this was the number the account he was using (FakeAccountName) was associated with, while the YYY number was associated with FakeAccountName1.

A solution was wrought, though it would have to wait until the noisy line issue was resolved first. FakeAccountName associated with XXX would be closed and FakeAccountName1 would then be renamed to FakeAccountName.

Long story short, I’m taking a couple of mental health days and staying away from telephones for a while, and my internet and email will be spotty for about a fortnight.


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Sulphur no longer smells rotten to her. It is a perfume now, it calls to her, summons her down the cold concrete steps to the basement. A bright light would spoil the atmosphere, a single bulb is all she allows, low-watt and fly speckled, it makes more shadows than it banishes.

Her feet slap upon the steps, one by one, the silken robe whispering as it slinks after her as though ashamed, caught in her wake. There is a groan, deep and masculine from the deepest of the shadows and she smiles as she reaches the last step, exalting in a sense of her power.

The silk slips from her shoulders and, naked, she gleams in the little light there is. Pale and glorious, standing erect, chin tilted up toward the light. It makes no difference but she’ll show no weakness to her quarry. She melts to her knees and prowls forward across the icy hardness of the dim and dusty floor. Hardened wax crackles and flakes from the floor as her hand brushes it and old lines of chalk and blood are smeared.

It matters not.

‘How male,’ she thinks. ‘How narrow and focussed to desire a thing only for its appearance. To be a woman,’ she muses to herself, ‘is to contain a multitude. To be able to desire for strength or looks, for intelligence, for power, for any and all qualities there are to desire.’

Yellow, cat-slit eyes in the darkness blink and a taloned foot scrapes the floor as it withdraws. She prowls forward, in pursuit, on her hands and knees. Her breasts sway and every movement echoes in her belly, lighting a fire in her dark-ringed eyes.

There’s nowhere further it can go. This dangerous thing, this thing of power, this force she has trapped and bound and made her own.

It shows its teeth, but she knows it cannot bite.

It raises its claws, but she knows it cannot scratch.

It speaks threats and promises, glories and terrors, but she knows it lies.

Its skin, under her fingers is as warm as a too-hot bath, it makes her flush, it makes her faint.

Long nails draw down a scarlet, squamous chest, tick-tick-ticking from scale to scale, until her hands grasp the root of its mockery of maleness and its forked tongue stills.

For she knows its name, and calls it ‘beast’.



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