Mr. Harenthal

"What in the fuck was that?"

Great.

"Seriously. Tell me why I'm calling, Kas. Tell me why I have to call you, and say, 'what the fuck was that.'"

I hate it when he calls me Kas.

"And when I say 'that' I mean "Kitty Kitty", "How He got E", and "Handwerk", what in the fuck was that?"

The back of my neck is prickling, I somehow want to defend these posts he's blasting, but I don't know how. He's right, in any case.

"You have ten goddam followers and that's how you plan to get more? "Kitty Kitty" is how you're gonna bring in the eyeballs?"

Some people liked "Kitty Kitty", I said.

"Oh, right, that's what we need. Cult Classics. Cult-Fucking-Classics will drive this thing right into the red, you fucking retard. You see this thing going straight to DVD? That what you're aiming for? After market? Not going to happen!"

I hoped he couldn't hear me sigh, but there was a pause.

"Now what? You're a historian? Let me tell you something, when people read this miserable shit, they're not going to Google all your vague references. This shit is so fucking vague you're probably making it up!"

I told him I wasn't making it up, but I don't think he heard me, because I whispered it.

"So, we have some time-traveling hit man, ok, I'll bite, sure. But how in Hell would I know that with a title like how he got E. My God I can feel the blood going to my eyeballs! You know what that feels like?! No you don't, you fucking tree-hugging twit! For fucks sake you are useless."

This was bad. I imagined him grasping his chest. Here comes the big one, 'lizbeth.

"Then! Then Handwork, oh no, I'm sorry, Handverk. I thought I was reading a fucking instruction manual for a vibrator that I was going to fuck myself with! Did one fucking idiot who reads your blog have any idea you were making a reference to Nazis?"

Well, after I explained-

"After you fucking explained! Well it's a good goddam thing you only had to make ten fucking phone calls, isn't it!? Oh wait, two of your followers is the same person, and one is you! Did you have to explain it to yourself?"

I pictured him squatting on his desk and screaming into the phone.

"Am I on speaker phone? Am I on the speaker phone, just answer me, please."

No, I told him. He seemed to be running out of steam.

"Please, put me on speaker phone, if you will."

Boop.

"Dorge."

My door is open. Fuck. I can't close it fast enough.

"I'm not trying to be the big bad editor."

They're probably going to hear this clear over at O.A.D.S.

"BUT IF YOU DON'T GET YOUR FUCKING HEAD OUT OF YOUR ASS AND WRITE ME GODDAMN IPHANTOM PART FUCKING 2 YOU'RE GOING TO BE WRITING TWEETS FOR SARAH FUCKING PALIN!"