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Dio is the singer for Black Sabbath
Atc_Xtreme — no, he’s not
Henrik Nordmark — yes, he is
Sassycat8 — doesn’t anyone want to talk about Jewel?
[Saintdameon has entered the room]
Saintdameon — my balls really itch when I fuck fat chicks
Atc_Xtreme — that’s just gross
[Atc_Xtreme has left the room]
Sassycat8 — I’m leaving. This chat room sucks . . .
[Sassycat8 has left the room]
Henrik Nordmark —
Henrik Nordmark —
Saintdameon — so Henrik, what do you have to say for yourself?
Henrik Nordmark —
Henrik Nordmark —
Henrik Nordmark —
Saintdameon — nothing?
Henrik Nordmark — I am obsessed with Jewel
[Saintdameon has left the room]
    Henrik departed the internet café even more upset than when he entered. His boring conversation had made people flee his presence. Were there any depths lower than the one to which he’d just sunk? Henrik headed straight home and turned on the television again. He watched a cooking show with Rachael Ray, considered masturbating to her segment about making goulash, then heard her thick New York accent and suddenly fell limp. He changed the channel to Jacksonville’s Religious Crusade. Henrik watched this show with eager fascination. One after another guests came on to explain what an incredible impact Jesus had made in their lives. The outdated hairstyles and grainy film quality made Henrik suspect he was watching a rerun. But there was a 1-800 number at the bottom of the screen. Henrik was willing to try anything — even giving up his life of brazen heresy. He’d never considered becoming a religious zealot before. It did seem to have its advantages. The sense of righteous indignation and the promise of an eternal life were both alluring. Henrik couldn’t really think of a third reason, but he repeated the first two in his head and decided they more than justified his looking into this.
    He picked up the phone and called the number.
    A woman with a southern accent answered.
    “Hello, this is Mary Jo. Would you like to donate to Jacksonville’s Religious Crusade?”
    “Actually,” Henrik said, “I’d just like to learn more about your religion.”
    “Would you like to subscribe to the Jacksonville’s Religious Crusade newsletter?”
    “Yes, I would.”
    Unprompted, Henrik gave the woman all his personal details — address, birthdate, social insurance number, bank account number and his PIN numbers.
    “Sir, I don’t think we need all of that information.”
    “Is there someone I can talk to about Jesus now?” Henrik said.
    “You would have to call a different number for that,” the woman said. “I work primarily in the donations department.”
    There was something funny about this woman. Her accent was inconsistent. It wavered from Deep Southern, to Southern Baptist, to something altogether foreign. Norwegian, maybe?
    “So there’s no one there that I can talk to about religion?” Henrik said.
    “I’m afraid not, sir. You would have to call a different number.”
    “Do you have that number?” he said.
    “No, I don’t. Not in front of me.”
    “Oh.”
    There was dead silence on the line. Finally, the woman spoke. Her southern accent suddenly disappeared and was replaced by another accent altogether.
    “Listen, sir, I have to level with you,” she said. “My name isn’t Mary Jo. It’s Parminder. The Jacksonville Religious Crusade outsourced their financial calls to India three weeks ago. People were getting really angry when they heard my Indian accent, so I started faking an American accent. I’m sorry to have misled you.”
    “Outsourced?” Henrik said.
    “Yes, you know how things are with the global economy and whatnot.”
    “And you answer all of Jacksonville’s Religious Crusade’s calls?”
    “I sometimes also pick up calls for the Ab Lounger Deluxe.”
    “Does that machine really work?” Henrik said.
    “No,” she said. “I don’t think it does.”
    “How much do they pay you?”
    “One hundred and forty-five rupees