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He reached down and pinched the gigantic roll of fat around his waist. “You, my friend, have to go,” he replied, as he ran his hand through his middle-aged hair. That hair along with the rest of him use to be in tip top shape, now it was just a sad pathetic mess. He couldn’t do anything about the hair, which was receding faster than some of the world’s beaches; but he could do something about his body, so he picked up the phone and dialed the flashing phone number on the ad.
The other side of the phone rang a few seconds later.
He held on a moment longer and just as he was about to hang up, someone picked up the other line. It was an old sounding voice; no not old, creaky is the word I am looking for. It had the feel and sound of one of those old doors that would swing open in a scary house. You know the kind, the doors that need some oil and screech like a demon because of it. The ones that make the goose bumps rise, and the hair stand up on your arms.
“I’m calling about the treadmill,” Bob replied, nervously.
“The one I posted online?” The voice screeched.
“That’s the one. Is it really that price?”
“Do you have twenty dollars?”
“Is it in your hands?”
“Can it be in your hands?”
“Yes, I guess. I need to get my wallet.”
“Get it then,” the screechy voice replied.
“Hold on a minute.” Bob went downstairs and got his wallet. He then went back upstairs and picked up the phone. “Okay. It’s in my hand.”
“Thank you for doing business with me Bob. You will find your treadmill in the garage.”
Bob paused for a moment. “Wait, how do you know I have a garage? How do you know my name is Bob?” The phone line went dead as the money evaporated from his hand. A second later he heard a large bang in the garage. Something had just crash landed on the floor.