#I swear I’ve been watching this replay for an unknown amount of minutes…
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okay so…..
#credit to video owner!!!! if you know who took this lmk!!!!#I swear I’ve been watching this replay for an unknown amount of minutes…#this is how he’d look up at you if you came up while he was playing#i’m going to scream#Sam kiszka is literally the most beautiful man I’ve ever seen#does anyone get it#I’m about to have a breakdown over this#sam kiszka#josh kiszka
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hee hoo i wrote a tma fic in the form of frankies statement to the institute
words: 2245
warnings: none, except for phil collins and thrown staples
pairing: oc (frankie james)/jonathan sims
[[MORE]]
FRANKIE JAMES:
-That a tape recorder? It's so cute! We've been trying to get one for the station, just so we can say we have one - y'know, to impress the hipsters - but they're well out of my budget. How did you get one?
ARCHIVIST:
I - Uh, it was here when I got the job, it was my predecessor's.
JAMES:
Wow, well, I'm jealous. [GIGGLES] A little tempted for thievery…
ARCHIVIST:
...Right. Would you like to begin your statement?
JAMES:
Oh, yeah, of course.
ARCHIVIST:
Alright. Statement of Frank James, radio DJ at -
JAMES:
Frankie.
ARCHIVIST:
[PAUSE] Frankie James, radio DJ at Tranzishon Rock, London, regarding…?
JAMES:
Uh, a series of...obscene phone calls from an unknown person.
ARCHIVIST:
Recorded direct from subject by Jonathan Sims, head archivist of The Magnus Institute, 21st of September, 2019. Statement begins.
JAMES:
Ah, so, okay. [SIGHS]
ARCHIVIST:
...Are you alright?
JAMES:
Yeah, I just… [SIGHS] I have a hard time...getting words out. I'm not...articulate.
ARCHIVIST:
Would I be able to help?
JAMES:
How would you? It's in my head.
ARCHIVIST:
[SIGHS] You'd be surprised. [PAUSES] When did it start? The phone calls.
JAMES:
On my show. I have a radio show at Tranzishon, late nights, 7 till 10, every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. Towards the end of the show, from 9 till 10, we do a requests hour. Listeners call, or text, or tweet, or send a carrier pigeon, to ask us to play songs. The last one is only if they're fancy.
ARCHIVIST:
[SNORTS]
JAMES:
[PAUSES]
ARCHIVIST:
[PAUSES] Sorry. You were saying?
JAMES:
[LAUGHS FAINTLY, A LITTLE BREATHLESS] Ah, yeah, erm… [AMUSED] I can't quite remember where I was…
ARCHIVIST:
The requests hour?
JAMES:
Yes! Okay, so, er, I was announcing the requests hour, reading out our phone number and the twitter account, and as soon as I had finished reading the phone number, we got a call. I- We've got a small team of techies - well, two - that handle incoming calls, texts, tweets, whatever. One, Paul, looked up from the switchboard at me and put me through to the listener, and I did my usual spiel. Y'know: [RADIO VOICE] You're listening to Frankie at Tranzishon rock, dear listener, what's your request?
[NORMAL VOICE] And they didn't say anything. There was dead air for a couple of seconds, then as I began to say 'Anybody there?' my headphones are blown out by the sudden high volume. The person on the other end must have been right up on the mic, because there was an immense amount of feedback and white noise. I'm sort of thankful for that, 'cause it nearly covered up what they had to say.
[PAUSES] [DEEP BREATH] I... don't want to repeat what they said. Suffice to say, the techies had some lightning speed reaction time when they cut off the line. There was more dead air as I tried to recover from the shock, I think I made a joke about them wanting the number for Babestation instead.
ARCHIVIST:
[LAUGHS]
JAMES:
[PAUSES] [LAUGHS, WEAKLY] Yeah… Ah, so, w-we banned that number so they wouldn't call again, and I ended the show with Pretty Fly (For a White Guy) by The Offspring. Because I cope with bad experiences by burying them with humour.
[UNDER HIS BREATH] Give it to me, baby. [EVEN QUIETER] Uh huh, uh huh.
[COUGHS]
Uh. Anyway. I went home, had my day off, and went back into work the next night and tried to forget about what happened. And for the most part, I did. The first 2 hours passed without incident, and then when I announced the requests hour, I joked about the caller the other day. My techies looked at each other nervously as I laughed. I gave them a questioning look, but said nothing. I'd ask them after the show. I read the number and twitter and waited for the requests to roll in. Again, we had another phone call straight away. I said my spiel, and my heart was in my throat as I waited for the caller to speak. I looked at my techies. Sheena, my other tech, shrugged at me. I sighed, about to give them a signal to cut them off and answer someone else when the feedback returned, louder and more harsh this time. I threw my headphones onto the desk in front of me, but I still heard the words spilling out of them.
[SWALLOWS] Y'know that scene in Silence of the Lambs? Where Lecter asks Clarice to repeat what that other inmate had said to her? Y'know - [SOUTHERN AMERICAN ACCENT] 'He said, I can smell your cunt.'
ARCHIVIST:
Good lord.
JAMES:
Yeah. It was a bit like that. There was a lot more...squelching with mine, though. Ugh. The techs cut the call, as I knew they would. I was more than a little pissed off. I started playing a song someone had tweeted and turned off my mic, turning to my techies. I asked them, why didn't you ban them like you said you would last time? Sheena said she did, that she guessed they were using a payphone or something to harass us. Paul tentatively asked if we should inform the police, and I told him to F off. We've had no help from coppers in the past when we had Nazis and TERFs flooding our lines calling us all sorts of shit, why would they help now? Cops avoid gays like the plague unless its for propaganda. So, Paul backed down.
Before the song ended, I quickly mentioned that maybe we shouldn't take calls anymore, just texts and tweets. I didn't want it to come to that, not really. I ended the show again with a song from a small local band, earning me a shoutout on their twitter. That felt good, at least.
I went home, picking up a 6-pack of Stella on the way. I wanted to make sure I slept that night. As I sat on the tube, a good 20 minute journey to my flat, my phone began to ring. At that moment, it didn't strike me that it shouldn't have been able to get any reception underground, yet there it was, ringing in my hand. I was more annoyed at it interrupting my music, but I answered anyway. It was the same fucking caller. I couldn't hit the 'disconnect' button fast enough. But I still heard what he said. [LAUGHS SHAKILY] At least the guy has some imagination. Never the same thing twice. [VOICE BREAKS, STUTTERING] I looked around the tube to see if anyone would be witnessing my quickly approaching panic attack, and finding no-one in the compartment with me, I broke down. The next 15 minutes passed with a blur, and then I reached my station, tears stopping as fast as they had came.
I stepped off the tube and started walking in the direction towards my flat, and my phone started ringing again. My breath caught in my chest as I froze on the pavement, phone vibrating away in my pocket. I picked it up, screen lit up and facing toward the ground. Slowly, I turned it up, half shutting my eyes, as if the person on the other end wouldn't be able to see me if I couldn't see the phone. [SIGHS] Stupid. It was my mum's phone number. I answered, talked with her for a little bit - she lives a ways away, I don't get to see her a lot - and said goodnight when I got to my flat. I got blackout and passed out on my couch when I got in. Yeah, I know I'm a lightweight. When I woke up at 12pm, my TV was still on, replaying the DVD menu for Black Christmas - the 1974 version. I guess in my Stella-crazed state I was desperate to watch it again.
The entire day, I left my phone switched off. My boss won't be too pleased with me, especially after 2 shows of mine had very explicit profanity, thanks to our mystery caller, but I didn't care.
[PAUSES]
Listen, I-I know, alright? I know it sounds stupid, I know I probably sound like a pearl-clutching housewife, how scandalous that I'm terrified of a few dirty phonecalls, but...you didn't hear them. You wouldn't want to hear them. Paul, Sheena, and I certainly didn't. At least they only heard them at the station…
Thankfully, on the Friday, we had decided not to do requests hour. Yeah, a few listeners would be upset, but the more loyal listeners would understand when one person ruins it for everyone else. We just settled for the last hour of the show to be requests from Paul and Sheena. Strangely enlightening, but I don't wish to hear any more Phil Collins than is necessary. And with Paul, he seems to think 10 songs is necessary. It isn't.
ARCHIVIST:
[OFFENDED] What's wrong with Phil Collins?
JAMES:
Apart from the fact that we're a punk rock station?
ARCHIVIST:
Fair enough. You were saying?
JAMES:
Okay, so, ah… I was on my way home again, and had all but forgotten the mystery caller. We'd figured it had just been some weirdo that got bored of us cutting him off. But as I was walking from the tube station from my flat, I heard that ear-splitting feedback again. Doubling over in pain, I reached up to pull my headphones off, only to find that I had left them at the radio station. I pressed my fists to my ears, crumpling to the ground as the whine of someone being too close to a microphone pierced my eardrums. I felt something cold trickle out of my ear. I didn't have to check my hand to guess that it was blood. I hyperventilated as I lay on the ground. Something was shouting, screaming at me, screeching slurs and threats of what it wanted to do to me, what it will do to me. I remember vomiting, and then blacking out as the overlapping cacophony reached a fever pitch.
I woke up not too far from where I had passed out, £10 and a phone lighter. It was probably some homeless guy who took them, and honestly, I'm not too bothered. I'm more angry no-one took me to a doctor or something. I think, the last thing I saw before I passed out was someone standing in the distance. Staring. Yeah, it could have been some rando, but the image stuck with me.
They were silhouetted against the bright signs of the takeaways on the street behind them, hands stretching too far down, a little too tall. I might have been delusional or in the throes of oxygen deprivation or something, but I swear I saw it smile as I lost consciousness.
I haven't been back to my flat. I've been staying with Sheena for the past couple of days. She's alright, but I can tell she wants me out. She doesn't want what's happening to me to happen to her.
ARCHIVIST:
Statement ends. ...Are you alright?
JAMES:
[SNIFFS] Er, I - Uh, I should be, in a bit. Thanks for, uh...I don't know. Listening?
ARCHIVIST:
It's my job.
JAMES:
Is that it then? What happens now?
ARCHIVIST:
We'll get in contact with you if we find anything out.
JAMES:
Oh! Then, you'll probably need this then. [SCRIBBLING]
ARCHIVIST:
[SHOCKED NOISE] Wh- What are you doing?
JAMES:
Giving you my phone number, what's it look like?
ARCHIVIST:
Well, I'm sure you can give it to me on paper, not my hand! And didn't you say your phone was stolen?
JAMES:
[SCRIBBLING STOPS] Oh. Yeah. Well, if I ever get it back, then. You know where to call.
ARCHIVIST:
R-Right. Goodbye, Mr. James.
JAMES:
Frankie.
ARCHIVIST:
...Goodbye, Frankie.
[CLICK]
[CLICK]
ARCHIVIST:
Mr. James -- Frankie's behaviour was certainly... strange during our conversation. He kept looking at me, pausing and then quickly looking away again, having to restart his sentence whenever he did so. Maybe he realised that he had virtually no evidence to back up his testimony. The only witnesses we have are this Sheena and Paul, and they can only back up the instances of the phone calls happening at the radio station, not anywhere else. Conveniently, Frankie does not appear to record his mobile phone calls, so we have no evidence the phone call on the tube happened. Assuming it even could happen.
Furthermore, his constant stuttering only made me think he was making the whole thing up. Maybe he just wants a story for his show. He --
TIM:
Knock, knock. Was that Frankie James?
ARCHIVIST:
Yes, i-it was -- Tim, saying 'Knock, knock' is not a good substitute for knocking.
TIM:
Did I hear you saying that he was making it up because he was stuttering?
ARCHIVIST:
Well, yes. It's a common tell for lying.
TIM:
It's a common tell for a huge goddamn crush.
ARCHIVIST:
What?
TIM:
Oh, come on. You didn't notice?
ARCHIVIST:
No, n-no, I didn't.
TIM:
Jon, he was the colour of a tomato. He wrote his phone number on your hand! Look, he even drew a heart, for god's sake.
ARCHIVIST:
[MUTTERING] Hmm, yes, I suppose it does look like a heart… No, don't be ridiculous, Tim.
TIM:
[IN A SING-SONG VOICE] Jon has got a boyfriend, Jon has got a boyfriend!
ARCHIVIST:
Are you twelve?! Get out! [SOMETHING CLATTERS ON THE GROUND]
TIM:
Ow! Stop throwing staples at me!
[CRASHING SOUND]
[CLICK]
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