Manipulative Telephonic Gimpery

Manipulative Telephonic Gimpery

Posted on March 23, 2024 at 5:16 pm by Evan Ward

”-To be continued message pops up on screen in a TV show.” Ward said, finishing the sentence he started earlier.

“Dude, I fucking told you this ain’t a fucking TV show.” Trent groaned as he stomped over to the casual cannibal. “What the fuck’s the problem?”

“There’s these guys at the door, in black suits, white shirts and black ties.” Ward explained.

“Why the fuck are they wearing more than one fucking set of clothes?” Trent asked. “Are they fucking idiots?”

“What? No, Trent, the clothes are plural because there’s plural people. There’s the exact right amount of clothes for the number of people out there.”

“Oh, well I fucking well hope they’re wearing a set each. If you fucking open that door and there’s a topless guy wearing three fucking pairs of trowsers and a dude fucking wearing three shirts with his todger hanging out I’ll stab my other fucking eye with a fork.” Trent seemed totally serious, which was unlike him. “Who gives a shit about their fucking clothes anyway? They fucking fashion-baristas or whatever?”

“Urgh, no, Trent, the clothes don’t matter. Stop talking about clothes!” Ward rubbed the bridge of his nose. He felt a migraine coming on. It might have been caused by the psychedelic curry but it was more likely Trent’s nonsense causing it.

“Why the fuck did you make a big deal about it then?” Trent scratched his head, continuing his trend of confusion.

“Because of the implication!” Ward snapped. “If dudes rock up wearing black suits, asking for you by name, it means they’re the fucking feds!”

“Or they’re undertakers.” Trent suggested.


“Undertakers. They fucking wear black suits too.” Trent nodded. “Or kids on their fucking way to proms. Fucking crooners in gentlemens’ clubs wear ‘em too.”

“They’re not fucking tuxedos, Trent!” Ward tapped on the door. “Standing behind this door is the FDA, Trent. The FDA! You know what that means?!”

“Fuck!” Trent exclaimed.

“Yes, fuck!” Ward agreed.

“Not the Funtime Dance Alliance!” Trent weeped. “Any fucking thing but them!”

“Exactly, they-Wait, what?” Ward had to do a double take.

“The Funtime Dance Alliance.” Trent explained, so matter of factly it almost made Ward accept it without further questioning. Almost, but not quite.

“What the fuck is the Funtime Dance Alliance, Trent?”

Trent shrugged. “It’s a fucking alliance of dancers, ain’t it. They fucking dance and have a fucking fun time, but are real cunts about it. They’ve got beef with us fucking metal heads, been getting all up in our shit over how mosh pits ain’t fucking dancing. Stuck up fucking elitist waffleknobbers.”

“Two questions, Trent.” Ward said, leaning his back against the door with his arms folded. “Firstly, why are you getting pissy at a dance troupe?”

“They’re fucking hardcore, dude. Once they came at us with fucking Miley Cyrus blaring outta their fucking boomboxes.” Trent said as he lit up a joint, as was his way when his hands were idle. “It was fucking brutal. Half the fucking moshers needed fucking therapy to recover fucking from it.”

“Riiiiight…” Evan shook his head to clear the cobwebs of Trent’s inanity out of it. “Secondly, why the hell would they be behind this door, asking for me, in suits with an FDA badge?”

“Dunno, I assumed they were fucking doing a bit.” Trent shrugged. “Those fuckers like to put on shitty dollar store costumes to go with the fucking theme of the dance. Any fucking moment they’re gonna start fucking blasting Will Smith and bust out the fucking neuralizer dance.”

“Dude, no, just no. Stop. Please, stop!” Ward pleaded, sounding tortured by the nonsense. As we all know, Evan Ward was a very serious person and would never take part in nonsense and definitely wouldn’t partake in shenanigans. “Those fuckers outside, Trent, are the FDA. The Food and Drugs Administration. You know what that means, right?”

“Ooohhhh!” Trent nodded away. “Yeah, yeah, fucking gotcha.”

Ward waited, nodded at Trent to continue and waited some more. Trent just nodded and grinned back. “And it means….?”

“Yeah, I got fucking nothing.” Trent shrugged. “The fuck do they want?”

“Dude, come on. What do you sell?”

“Fucking food.” Trent nodded.

“And what did you put in the food we just ate?”

“Fucking drugs.”

“And what does the FDA administer?”

Trent frowned, deep in thought. “Food and fucking drugs?”

“Bingo!” Ward snapped his fingers. “And what, praytell, do you think they will do to us when they discover exactly what is in the food we sell in our unregistered food truck?”

“Give us a fucking award?” Trent suggested, his voice full of hope.

“THEY’RE GOING TO FUCKING ARREST US, YOU SHIT SNUFFLING COCK WOMBLE!” Ward shouted angrily, but then was startled and jumped away from the door as the FDA suits knocked on it again.

“This door is like half an inch thick.” A voice came from the other side. “We can hear every word you’re saying.”

Ward turns and opens the door with a condescending smile on his face. “Excuse me, there seems to be a bit of a misunderstanding. You see, I think you’ve mistaken me and my colleague here for people who give a shit.” Ward slammed the door.

“Uhh…” Trent raised a finger. “Was that really a fucking good idea?”

“Urgh, fine.” Ward groaned. He opened the door again with a sardonic grin. “Sorry, we got off on the wrong foot. I’ll be with you in literally five minutes.” He slammed the door again and turned back to Trent. “Right, so what we’ve going to do is get the propane can from the stove and rig it to-”

“Hold the fuck up” Trent raised a hand. “Is your fucking answer to everything to just set a fucking gym on fire?”

“What? No. I’d never do that.”

“You fucking did it last year!”

“Oh… Well I’m not doing it now.” Ward explained. “I’m going to explode it.”

“Fuck off, we’re not exploding a fucking gym.” Trent put his foot down. It went through a rotten floorboard. “Then again, this fucker ain’t standing up to much.”

“Fine. In that case there’s only one thing we can do.” Ward sighed. “We’ve got to do some shenanigans.”

“Yay!” Trent squealed.

“Just follow my lead.” Ward opened the door once again. “Sorry about that, we were just having a slight disagreement. What can I help you with?”

The lead agent walked in and stood by the duo as a dozen of their colleagues swarmed into the gym and began investigating. They dug through drawers, sifted through papers, bagged up samples of curry from the unwashed pan, and started pulling out meat and ingredients from the fridge and cupboards.

“Wow, now there’s even more of you. Multiplying like rabbits here.” Ward commented, surprised at the activity around him. At least there was nothing too incriminating in the building. Except Trent’s drugs. And maybe the mystery meat. The records of cash payments to unsanctioned mystery meat providers. Said mystery meat providers’ personal contact details. Hand written plans on how to turn the mystery meat providers into mystery meat. Death threats to Miley Cyrus with photos of her provocatively getting in a swimming pool in a bikini, though those were Trent’s. Death threats to Trent, with photos of him provocatively getting in a swimming pool in a bikini, supposedly from Miley Cyrus. Recipes for how to best cook people. A questionable browser history. But they surely wouldn’t be able to tie any of that back to Ward.

“Mr. Evan Ward?” Asked the lead agent from behind a pair of very expensive looking shades. He looked every bit the suit-wearing fed he claimed to be. The square jaw. The clean cut, slicked back hair. The stubble free appearance of a man who walks around with a shaver wherever he went to nip at any facial hair the moment it poked its head out above ground. What a bastard. Ward would give anything to be able to grow facial hair fast enough to worry about such things. “I’m agent Smith. We’re with the FDA and we have some questions to ask you.”

“That’s me, what do you need to ask, and why are all these twats digging through my shit?” Ward hoped that asking the question would make him sound more innocent than he was. That always worked for perps in Law & Order, at least until Benson and Stabler flipped the girlfriend of an associate who bragged about their mother giving a blowjob to the perp’s cousin who happened to be the associate whose girlfriend is revealed to actually helped the perp do crimes. Ward had mostly just watched SVU, so he assumed all real life criminal investigations followed the same obnoxiously convoluted pattern.

The agent was stone faced and gave nothing away. “Are you the owner of Evan Ward’s Mystery Meat Curry Truck?” He asked monotonously.

“Cart.” Ward corrected him. “It’s Evan Ward’s Mystery Meat Curry Cart.”

This correction caused the agent to raise an eyebrow. “Is it not a truck?”

“Well, yeah, but we call it a cart.” He explained. “You know, for the alliteration.”

“Hmm…” The agent pulled out a notebook from his breast pocket and scribbled down some notes before returning it to his pocket. A very exact and well practised motion. “And you own this… cart?”

“My name’s on the banner, right?” Ward nodded with a grin, before realising how stupid it was to admit such things to a fed. “Dammit.” He muttered under his breath as he cringed. The agent didn’t seem to notice. Well, he didn’t react, which meant he didn’t notice, right?

“Mr. Ward, we have received numerous notifications that the food you are serving has some rather… peculiar properties to it.” The agent replied. “It is our duty to investigate such claims and-”

Evan held up a finger. “Excuse me, that’s my phone, I’ve got to answer this.” He said as he pulled his phone out of this pocket. It was clearly not ringing. He didn’t even try to hide the fact he was dialing a number on it. He literally typed the number in manually, right in front of the agent. It was painful to watch how many times he had to delete digits and re-enter them, often pausing to try to remember what came next. The agent went to speak but Ward raised the finger again and said “Ahp.” The agent’s mouth moved slightly, the finger moved closer and Ward said .”Nuhp.” Everyone could hear the pulsing tone from the phone as it rang though, waiting to be picked up on the other end.

Trent, meanwhile, was looking at at Ward with a glare which said “Why the fuck are you fucking around with these fuck faces, you stupid little fuck?” and made exasperated gestures and facial expressions to match.

“Oh, hey, Jace, good to hear from you!” Ward said into the phone. “No, no, no, I’m not busy, some dudes have just dropped by but it’s cool, I can talk. Uh huh.” Ward nodded at what he heard from the other end of the line, though no one else could hear even a buzz from the phone, which was odd. “Uh huh. Uh huh. Yeah, like, I wanted to talk to you about that too. Yeah, we’ve got to get our game plan sorted out for the match, right? Totally, totally. We should definitely take out Drew Mitchell first, he’s probably the biggest threat of the three of them, mostly because of that bitch he has in his corner playing conductor to their orchestra. I figure we take her out, get him all rattled and bin him off, then the rest are fair game. Well, yeah, he did beat me the last time we faced off, that just shows what a threat he is! You can’t underestimate the kid, not when he’s got that foghorn of a lady feeding him instructions like he’s a Pokémon. If she’s not there telling him to use Tackle and Chop and rewarding him with a Razberry when it’s super effective he won’t know what to do and that’s when we strike, right?”

Ward strolled over to the wall and leaned against it, twiddling his hair like a highschool girl on the phone to their crush. “Like, definitely, I agree, Jace. Once the three of them are out of action we can soooo throw down at each other, right? Great minds, Jace, great minds. Aww, that’s so sweet of you to say! I’ll beat the shit out of you too, bestie. As long as one of us comes out of this with that belt it’s all good. Can’t have those three feeder-fed chumps stealing the gold from us. Honestly, dude, I’ve totally got your back, we make a brilliant team. Ground Supremacy for life! Catch up with you at the show! Yeah, you too, bud!”

Ward put the phone away and strolled casually back over to Trent and the agent. “Sorry, I didn’t answer in time so I left him a voicemail.” Ward explained, forgetting that wasn’t how voice mail worked.

Trent glared at him. “Seriously?”


“Ground Supremacy? Fucking really?”

“It’s a great name!” Ward protested.

“Does that fucker even know you’ve decided to fucking name a shitty team you’ve fucking created for him to be in?”

Ward shrugged. “I’m sure he’ll find out sooner or later.”

“Christ, the is Christopher fucking America all over again, ain’t it?” Trent shook his head.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Gentlemen.” The agent cleared his throat. “Please focus. The allegations against your business are extremely serious. Depending on the results of our investigation it could have a tremendous impact on the rest of your lives.”

“Sir, we found something.” Another agent, who looked almost exactly the same as the lead agent, just with long, blonde hair. They were also a foot shorter, thinner face, less prominent jawline, less muscular, wore some spangly ear rings and a bouncy pair of tits. But otherwise exactly the same. She handed a plastic food container to the lead agent, who opened it and gave it a sniff.

Evan swallowed deeply. He knew this day would come sooner or later. He hoped later but he could see that wasn’t an option. His mind started running at a hundred miles an hour, trying to figure out an exit strategy. His stomach began to cramp up from the stress. He hoped it was the stress. If not then the alternative could make things worse. Much worse.

“Thank you, agent Smith.” Said the male agent Smith as he examined the container. He reached into his jacket and pulled a regulation spoon out of his holster to take a regulation sized scoop of curry out of the tub and used his regulation approved mouth hole to test the substance. “Hmm, yes, it seems our informant was correct. Agent Smith, please tell agents Smyth and Smiph to collect all remaining samples and take them back to HQ.” He returned the tupperware to his female namesake. “Evan Ward, under the authority of the FDA I am hereby a-”


“You little fucking backstabbing cunt!” Trent exclaimed.

“Agents Smith, restrain him!” The lead agent Smith demanded of two more identical looking agent Smiths, one a fat Hispanic guy and the other a hip looking Rastafarian dude. They grabbed Evan by the arms to stop him thrashing around, though it only made it worse, his feet weren’t touching the ground so they just flailed around, kicking at thin air.

“Right, Mr. Trent, under the authority of the FDA I hereby award you the highest honor of culinary excellence from our organisation.” He pulled out a golden plaque and a novelty check with a very large figure written on it from his jacket and handed them to Trent.

“Oh shit, fucking sweet.” Trent exclaimed, very impressed with the award. To be honest, it looked like a cheap participation award but he didn’t seem to care.

“What what what but but what but…” Ward couldn’t get his words out, stunned into serenity, no longer trying to escape from the agents’ clutches. “This wasn’t a raid? You weren’t here to bust us?”

“Well, you could say it was a raid, of sorts.” Agent Smith (the first) said, adjusting his tie. “We had heard word that your curry was unbelievably, addictively good so we needed to confirm it for ourselves, and we are hoping to gather enough to take with us for our annual conference this weekend. Trent, what you have achieved with this curry is truly a transcendent moment in the field of gastronomy. We are sure it will have entire pages in the history books. The way you blended traditional curry flavours with cutting edge, modern tastes is exceptional.

“Aww, geez, fucking thanks dude.” Trent blushed. It wasn’t often he got complimented about anything, let alone by someone of such high authority.


“51%, bitch!” Trent flipped a middle finger at Ward.

“You could say,” the agent continued, ignoring the bickering. “This curry is the best of both worlds.”

“Hells fucking ye-wait a fucking moment, what did you say?” Trent felt a cold sweat grow.

“It’s the BEEEEEESSSSSSTTT of both worlds~!” Sung the female agent as she took off her shades to reveal her true identity, let down her hair and whipped it around as she struck a dancing pose.

The music hit a boombox one agent had snuggled in and all the agents in the room tore off their suits to reveal spangly street-style dance outfits.

“FUCK FUCK FUCK IT REALLY IS MILEY FUCKING CYRUS AND THE FUNTIME DANCE ASSOCIATION!” Shrieked Trent in even more of a panic than Ward was in when he thought he was going to be arrested.

Trent grabbed Ward under his arm like a rugby ball and charged out of the building, pushing past all the supposed agents as they busted out their groovy moves. Unfortunately for all of them, Ward’s stomach cramps weren’t stress related and the extra pressure on it from Trent hefting him up was too much for his bowels to cope with. Even more unfortunate was Ward’s loose, sweat-saturated sweatpants not being able to keep up with the momentum.

The result was akin to an unobstructed power washer which had accidentally been hooked up to a mud pit. Miley got the worst end of it as she was mid-warble as Ward’s violent shit hole flew past her gaping word hole. The whole ordeal was rather gruesome and by the time Trent, who was in such a panic hadn’t noticed the side effect of his hasty exit strategy, reached the door it was plain to see the dancer association were no longer having a fun time. The next day, after a night in hospital, the FDA disbanded but Miley Cyrus vowed to redouble her efforts to take out Trent once and for all!

Evan Ward also spent the night in hospital due to his overdose of ridiculous curry. Eventually his arse stopped ejecting nuclear curry waste, but did have to stay in a hazardous material wing. He thought maybe he went a bit too far with the amount of curry he ate and probably should tone it down a bit, but figured he needed more research to be sure.