Voldemort calls tech support.

“You have GOT to be kidding,” said the tech support agent who just answered the call. “Who is this again?”

“How many times must I tell you?” the customer roared over the phone. “I am Lord Voldemort!”

“THE Lord Voldemort? The Dark Lord? The one whom they call You-Know-Who?” the agent gasped in amazement.

“Yes,” replied Voldemort with a voice of strained patience, “Can we PLEASE cut the formalities and get to the root of the problem please?”

“How can I help you?” the agent said after regaining his composure.

“It’s my Internet service,” Voldemort replied. “I was told that I would be getting the fastest speeds available in my area but it’s slow as slugs!”

Voldemort leaned over to look at his phone outlet and saw live slugs oozing out of his phone line, then shook his head before sitting back up.

“I am sorry to hear that,” replied the agent, “but according to our records we dispatched a technician this morning and he should still be at your residence now. Did he not resolve your problem?”

“No, your technician is still here,” Voldemort snarled, “except he’s in the bathroom puking his guts out, which is not bringing us any closer towards resolving this issue!”

“Well then, there’s really nothing we can do until the technician figures something out.”

“So? Are you just going to leave me here with my service the way it is?” Voldemort raised his voice.

“No sir, but the technician is-”

“INTUS!” Voldemort roared into the phone.

“NOOOOOOOOOO!” the agent screamed as his entire body turned inside-out.

“INCEN SLUGS!” Voldemort roared again.

Live slugs began oozing out of the inside-out agent’s headset and began crawling all over his shirt and then on to his desk, much to the repulsion of the nearby agents.

“Now,” Voldemort said into the phone, his voice much calmer. “Where were we? Oh yes, my slow speed issue. Pinning all your hopes on some Muggle technician to try resolving the issue at hand isn’t going to make me a happy customer! After all, the customer is always right, RIGHT?”

“Yes,” the inside-out agent whimpered.

“WRONG!” Voldemort yelled again. Tapping his wand to his phone’s mouthpiece, he roared, “EXITUS SCAENA JUS!”

The inside-out agent’s chair jarred violently to the right and accelerated towards the wall at full speed with the terrified agent still seated and hanging on for his life. The phone cord to his headset was stretched so tightly that the cord snapped in half and seconds later the chair smashed into the wall, sending the inside-out agent crashing through layers of sheet rock before rolling on the floor outside the call room.

“Awww, he hung up,” Voldemort said mockingly into the phone before hanging up. “POOR customer service.”

Then he thought of the technician still in the bathroom. After hours on the phone with tech support to set up a dispatch with a technician who couldn’t stand the sight of slugs, Voldemort’s face wrinkled with anger and disgust as he gripped his wand. He knew just what to do.

On the 8th and 23rd days of every month at the final hour before sundown, the students at Hogwarts line up at the windows of their dormitories for a truly impressive sight. There in the sky to the west, high above the trees, they can clearly see the motionless form of a technician drifting above the clouds, followed by his toolbox and lastly, his truck, all following each other across the early evening sky to serve as a grim reminder of what happens when Voldemort himself gets lousy customer service.



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