(original transcription of his call, courtesy of Jezebel, for reference)
Hi Julia? It’s Paul calling again, the guy across the street in the bushes? I called you 2 years ago. I don’t like leaving second messages, but you’ve very elegant and have a long neck like a giraffe you see in the zoo and very attractive eyes, like golf balls, but, you know, I don’t play that game. I know your friends and the FBI told you not to return my calls, you’re playing games like I see in Silence of the Lambs or Along Came A Spider or Deal or No Deal. So here’s how it’s gonna work – it’s 3,40am on Wednesday morning and I’m across the street dressed as an urban ninja – I can kick my own head height if I wanted to and can jump over car hoods almost in a single bound like a beautiful black gazelle. I know you’re probably asleep at the moment, or huddled in your panic room wishing your answering machine tape was full while you hug a pillow and pray for daylight or the cops to come. But if I don’t receive a phone call back from you by 6am Wednesday morning I am no longer interested in hunting, I mean – I am no longer interested in pursuing you, I mean, pursuing a relationship with you. I’m extremely single for reasons I cannot fathom without years of psychological questioning, I’m very intelligent and can work out my own share of the cab fare while being modest. I’m great in bed – I can do almost 100 push-ups without dislodging the pillows or catching my toenails in the sheets, and I make great money at the photo-processing factory where I look at the happy faces of the families on holiday especially the wives with the long necks who look really elegant when you can see the jugular vein pressing against the exterior of the skin. I’ve only been single for 15 years – I had a long distance relationship for about 10 years with a woman who glanced at me when I was on day release from the compound, but it’s very tough to maintain that, especially when she changes her number, and address, and hair colour, and name, and when her parents have to go into hiding. There is nothing wrong with me that chemical castration cannot help. As a matter of scientific interest, I’m one of the few men in the city that has nothing wrong with him. There’s nothing wrong with me. There’s nothing wrong with me. I must repeat – there’s nothing wrong with me. My mother always said so – my pets would have died some day, anyway. So I’m giving you the 6am deadline. There’s nothing wrong with my watch. I have two watches. One is for the daytime and the other is for night only. There is nothing wrong with that. If I don’t hear any police sirens by 7am, you lose my number and forget I ever saw you passing by me in the subway and that I followed you to your place that day. My day watch timed your walk and told me you walk fast for someone with such an elegant neck. I’m erasing your number now, along with battery acid on my fingertips so I don’t leave any marks on this dumpster I’m hiding in. You won’t be hearing back from me. There is nothing wrong with me.
So that’s it. No cops by 7am (on my day watch), or you can just forget it. I don’t care about your neck because there’s nothing wrong with me.
I understand you have other issues, maybe you’re not playing games and the swat team was for real but I wasn’t home when they called well I was but I was hidden in the walls of my house trying not to giggle. Maybe you were bitten by a tiger when you were a little girl? Maybe your mother wasn’t like my mother who screamed at me every day I killed something slightly larger than the previous day. There is nothing wrong with me. Are you on medication? I used to be on medication but it made it difficult to look at all my watches at the same time and I couldn’t hear the voices coming from the basement and I felt alone. Maybe there’s another issue I’m not aware of? But nobody says “Go away”, runs down the street screaming and then doesn’t return calls. I love plastic sheeting. You should look that up – plastic sheeting, it’s really handy when you don’t want to ruin your mother’s carpets even though she can’t see the stains where she is now. You let me know, by just thinking your voice into my mind, if you’ve got issues, or if you’re on any medication for anxiety attacks while being stalked by someone you only glanced at on the subway. There’s nothing wrong with me. But if you’re psychologically normal like me – there’s nothing wrong with me – and you haven’t called me because something horrible happened in your life like all the neighbourhood cats disappearing then all the stuff that happened at the playground with Gemma, then if that’s preventing you from returning my phone calls or seeing me in the bushes across from your home, that’s fine. Don’t call me, Okay. Bye. But call me!
VirusWithShoes: Redux 