Cameron and the cold-caller.
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Thursday evening, 1736 hours. Cameron, Catherine, Emily and Joe were about to sit down and enjoy a repast prepared by the two cyborgs. They loved meal-times, they were sharing, warm and full of love.
Mozart (Cameron's pet cat) could smell turkey, and was looking around hopefully, knowing Cameron would sneak her some treats.
They were, 'at table', the food steaming, enjoying the anticipation, when the telephone rang, shattering the harmony.
Emily started to get up, Cameron beat her to the reciever. "It's okay, Emily, I got it." She smiled.
There was a half-second delay, while the computer caller found someone to begin the sales patter. Cameron wondered where they found humans willing to do such vile work. She pitied them, but that wouldn't stop her terminating the calls coming in. They distressed Emily, and it was time to stop. Finito.
She listened carefully to the initial pitch. She clicked open her laptop with the tracenet software. While listening to the sales-person drone on, she recorded the male sellers patter and voice pattern. The software successfully traced it to a call centre based in Boca Raton.
Cameron tuned out the patter and listened to the background chatter that is the cacophony of call centres. The software gained access to employment records and she identified the caller by his voice and name.
"So, can I sign you up for this fabulous offer today, Ma'am?"
"Michael, hold on, I'm thinking. A beat. Large purchases like this need to be thought about, don't you agree?"
Michael's brain did a quick flip. How did the punter know his name? He hadn't told her, he never did.
A cold drip of water started down his back. Man, the AC was too cold in this place. How come? They cheese-pared everything else.
Cameron's computer had finished its location services, she now had the company, the employee and both addresses.
Responding in the callers own voice, Cameron said. "Michael Carswill, this number is on your do not call, list. I refer you to Do Not Call file reference, DNC12345567."
"Sorry Lady, sometimes it takes-" Carswill heard his full name with shock and real, crawling fear. He was conditioned to carry on babbling, but was halted by the authority in Cameron's voice.
"Michael Carswell, of 123 Pleasant Hill Dr SW, Boca Raton, Fl." Cameron permitted a delay for the full import of her words to sink in. "Spare me the bullshit, you miserable toad."
Camerons voice froze down the line. "Listen closely. Do not call this number again. If you, or any of your organisation call this number again, I will come to Boca Raton and kill you, and every one of your friends and family."
There was a shattered squawk from the other end of the line, as Carswills bowels filled with fire-ants.
"Was that a yes, Ma'am. I understand?"
"Yes Ma'am. I understand."
"Okay, go and do something proper with your life. Idi i vpred' ne bolyee*." Cameron left the Russian phrase to stir round in Carswill's mind as an ear-worm. She knew he would have to find out what it meant.
Cameron replaced the reciever, there would be no more more sales calls. She smiled in glee, clinked glasses with the host, "Let us have dinner."
Michael Carswill punched his ticket that night. He went home, and told his wife he had quit. The following day he found a job as a janitor at a defence contractor. Zeira Corporation were new to the town and he hoped to get in on the ground floor.
No fate...
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Russian *go and sin no more
иди и впредь не более
