#wcc fran

[stab-the-son-of-a]

“Thank you for calling 877-W-H-M-P-NOW, the whump hotline. How may I direct your call?”

“Oh God, oh God, there’s so much blood.”

“I see, I take it you’ve accidentally stabbed your whumpee?”

“Yes! Yes- oh fuck, it’s all over the carpet!”

There comes the sound of distracted typing and the distant crunch of a potato chip. The operator swallows both the food and a sip of water and clears their throat. “Alright, I’ll provide some basic troubleshooting now before I transfer you. How’s that sound?”

“I don’t care, I just need help!”

“Yelling doesn’t solve anything, thank you. Let’s be polite to one another. Now, can you tell me where your whumpee is bleeding from?”

“The- the stomach. I - fuck, I didn’t mean to!”

“I know,” the operator says patiently, commiserating, drawing on their own experiences with their first over-enthused attempts with a knife. They examine a bit of dried blood under their nails and pick at it. “No one ever wants the fun to stop, and I’ll make sure it doesn’t. I’m going to have you apply pressure to the wound, can you do that for me?”

The caller makes an audible noise of disgust. In response the operator rolls their eyes and switches the phone over to their other ear, taking the moment to place another chip in their mouth. It never fails, always on their lunch break.

“I know, the messy parts are always less fun. You could use a towel, or blanket, or other absorbent material.”

“I have their shirt?”

“Is it sentimental to them?”

“Uh—“ A brief pause. The caller whispers indistinctly to their captive. Excitedly, they answer, “It belonged to their deceased parent!”

“That is *perfect*! Nothing quite like taking something cherished and ruining it for them.”

“Okay... okay I’m applying pressure. What now?”

“Now I transfer you to our Human Resource Management department. Please hold.”

“Wait what—”

The operator clicks the hold button with a triumphant smirk, toying next with the curls of the phone cable. Humming under their breath, they wait a few more minutes, another few bars. That’ll give their caller plenty of time to relax. Next, they dial the number for HR.

“Fran, honey, please tell me you have something interesting for me. I’m positively dying of boredom here.” Case in point, the distinctive slap of flesh on rubber, then the wall, tells the beleaguered operator that in their boredom, the HR lead has resorted to throwing a ball against the wall.

“‘fraid not, Gladys.” They take another sip to hide their amusement. The mental image is clear, of Gladys from HR leaning back in her chair as far as she can without overbalancing, tossing the ball up in the air idly. “I have another knife amateur on line two whose whumpee accidentally sprung a leak.”

“Oh my God, can’t these fools use WikiHow once in a while? Or practice first?!”

“Sorry, baby girl, you know I’d give you the fun ones if I ever got any.”

Gladys lets out a long suffering sigh. The legs of her chair hit the ground with rhythmic thuds. “Okay,” she whines. “Transfer them. Maybe next time I’ll get lucky.”

The operator laughs. “And maybe one of these days I’ll be able to have a lunch break in peace.”

“Babe, you’re a riot.”

“Annnnd... transfer.”

Before they hang up, Fran hears Gladys greet the client with a chipper and practiced, “Thank you for holding, this is the Human Resource Department, how may I help you?”

Fran sighs and returns to their lunch. Just another day at WHMP Call Center.

#1-877-WHMP-NOW #knife mention #blood mention #nooooo this isn’t inspired by that one post going around about the inexperienced whumpers #WCC series #WCC Gladys #WCC Fran #Crack whump

[theroleofimagination]

So not only is the Women's World Cup all over the sports pages, and sometimes in the main section, but it's even got into the Guardian's Pet Corner on the puzzles section of the G2!

#😂 #happily doing the sudoku and who should i see! #brilliant #all over the guardian #fran kirby #cody #lionesses #engwnt #wwc19 #fifa wcc 2019

[stab-the-son-of-a]

Whumptober No.4 - Taken Hostage

TW: Guns, off-screen assumed character death, sexist character, smoking

Taglist: @whumpers-inc

There is a surprising (and hand-cramping) amount of paperwork that goes into working at a call center, even one as unconventional as 1-877-WHMP-NOW. An annoying, several hour, several stack amount. Bianca will never forgive whoever it was in HR or accounting (the only two departments who actually seem masochistic enough to enjoy bureaucracy) that suggested all these extra reports and encounter summaries and redundancy measures.

In the same way you tune out the world while enjoying a nature walk and only begin paying attention again when your unconscious mind notices something dangerously wrong, Bianca pauses in her muttered curses to the paperwork gods and listens.

“Why of course she’s in today,” Fran says in a tight tone. “I’ll just transfer you right to your personal whump-passionate care coordinator, Dom.”

Not Dom. Not that irritating, overly stuffed up crock of shit again. Dom had run through almost the entire call center, leaving Bianca the only person who had yet to swear to walk if they were forced to deal with the self-impressed asshole. Jerking her head up, Bianca stares Fran down, like a deer willing a semi-truck to change paths. She shakes her head, desperately miming cutting across her throat with a rushed flail.

Their gazes lock. Fran continues to dial, even as they watch Bianca’s distressed pantomime with all the impassive finality of a monarch’s sentence.

“Don’t you dare, Fran,” Bianca hisses. “I swear by all that is good and holy if you transfer him--”

Her line rings, and she answers it with a chipper grin that doesn’t touch her glare one bit. “Well hey, sugar!” If looks could kill, Bianca would be in a whole other line of work right now as she tosses an eraser at Fran’s head. “What can I do for you today, hun?”

Well, she can already tell this isn’t going to be a pleasant call, not if the sirens are any indication.

“Brianna,” Dom cries, “I’m too handsome for jail!”

Bianca mouths to Fran, “I’ll kill you,” even as they duck their head and pretend to be oh-so invested in their latest call report. She tosses another eraser and this one hits the mark, bouncing off the back of their skull.

“Hello! Brianna! I need you to put down the Covergirl or your nail file and do your job, sweetheart.”

Rolling her eyes, she returns her attention to Dom. “I’m awful sorry. What did you say your emergency was?”

“Thank you for the urgency,” he spits.

Bianca waits for him to elaborate. The sirens on his end of the line continue blaring, the voluming growing as they grow closer.

“Did the line cut out, sugar?” she prompts, carefully sterilizing her tone with a thick layer of honey.

“I tried to rob this small town little podunk town store and took this girl--” Dom lets out a short cry of pain and kicks at something. He corrects himself, ”This bitch. And someone had the nerve to call the cops on me!”

At the sound of gunfire- too close to the gun to be from any policeman, Bianca raises a single brow in silent question of his intelligence. In her humble, professional opinion wasting ammo on puerile displays and a lead tantrum is useless, but again, she’s just a professional. She only graduated at the top of her class and has years, if not decades, on Dom in terms of experience.

Of course, Bianca says none of that.

“Have you taken the girl hostage, Dom?”

“Yes! Jeez, do I have to spell everything out for you people?”

“It’s very helpful when our clients are clear and precise, Dom,” Bianca returns, an almost feral edge to the too wide portions of her smile. “Have you read our informational brochure, ‘So You Want to Take a Hostage’? Or perused our FAQs for whumpers?”

“Why should I?”

A year ago maybe Bianca might have been surprised. Now she’s just glad Dom can’t see the various mocking faces and mouthed insults she indulges in due to such a response. That doesn’t mitigate the desire she feels to bash her head against her desk until her mental faculties match Dom’s. Instead, she parrots, “No. Why should you.”

“So, what do I do?” Dom asks, impatience clear in his tone. “How do I get out of this?”

“Well, Dom, could I speak with your hostage for a hot sec?”

Completely ignoring her question, Dom muses aloud, “What if I just went out there with my guns and just started shooting. There’s only one car out there. I can take out some backwater donut cop.”

She loves her job. She loves her job. She. Loves. Her. Job. She may be a masochist.

“That course of action might not work well, sugar,” Bianca says carefully.

“Why not?”

Just as she’s about to answer, said aforementioned cop starts in with the megaphones and the offers for surrender. Quickly, she traces the call while Dom yells back about assholes and what he deserves and specifically what the cop deserves, involving his megaphone and uncomfortable places.

That ‘podunk’ little town is more of a small city, and even if there is only one cop currently there, there are bound to be more en route, and rapidly at that.

“Are you listening to me, sweetheart?” Dom demands. “There’s only one of him and I’ve got two guns. It’s fool proof.”

Oh, it’s something to do with fools alright. “So, to clarify, you’ve got a gun in each hand?”

“I just said that, honey, put your listening ears on and try to keep up.”

Over her ten plus years working with the call center, Bianca has heard plenty of stupid shit in her time but trying to go out dual wielding guns is… a new one. She quickly shoots Fran a short text reading, You SO owe me, Franny.

“What about your hostage? How are you going to keep control over her? Is she bound?” Bianca tries to reason with Dom, the apparent Blade wannabe, even if it’s futile.

“I’ll bring her with and put the gun to her head. Easy.”

Easy. Yes, so easy. Fran returns her text. ‘You’re the absolute goddess of dealing with BS I am not worthy.’

“Dom, could you be a dear and let me speak with her, please? Thank you sugar.”

“God what is it with women always needing to yap yap yap?” Dom complains as he rips the gag out of the hostage’s mouth.

“FUCK YOU!” She howls immediately. “I’ll bite your fingers off, you small dicked piece of shit!”

So, Bianca had admittedly harbored suspicions that the ‘girl’ was actually a grown woman, considering Dom’s typical behavior, but this certainly confirms that. A wistful sigh builds as Bianca listens to the hostage chew Dom out and insult his manhood and intelligence.

‘Damn straight. I expect pumpkin spice brownies and a latte on my desk tomorrow morning.’

‘It’s June.’

“It’s DOM.’

‘Pumpkin spice brownies gotcha.’

A solid, but wet crack jerks Bianca’s attention back to the matter at hand. The hostage is eerily quiet. Waiting for a response from either Dom or the hostage, she picks at the dry skin on her lips and taps her foot.

“Oh shit,” Dom whispers.

Screwing her eyes shut as if that will change what his answer is, Bianca asks, “Dom?”

“Yeah?”

“Did you just pistol whip your hostage?”

“Yeah.”

Nope, this is officially the stupidest, most asinine, bass-ackwards call from a client she’s ever had to suffer through. Clearly having overheard, Fran twists around to get a better vantage point to watch as Bianca places her head in her hands and fights back a scream of frustration.

Collecting herself, Bianca chirps, “I’m sorry, sugar, but you really ought to have read our guide. The first rule of a hostage situation is to keep your hostage alive as leverage. Now, as it stands, you’re a murderer surrounded by... “ She counts up each little blip. “Four cop cars and another two on the way. You have to understand, honey, that it goes against policy to stay involved.”

“What? No! You can’t do this you bitch!”

Bianca grins, sharp and vicious. “Oh, Dom, I can, and I will.” With that, and Dom still shouting injustice, she hangs up.

“I’ve wanted to do that for forever,” she breezily admits to Fran.

They match her smile inch for inch, and then some. “Bee, you’re my hero. I’m throwing in maple walnut fudge pancakes just for that.”

“Of course we’ll have IT burn the connection and remote into Dom’s phone before the incident gets too close to home, blah blah blah, and we’ll look into whether that lady remembers anything after the whole gun to the head thing,” she dismisses, “but for now, I need a smoke break or twenty. Toodles!”

#whumptober2021 #no.4 #taken hostage #oc #fic #guns #off-screen character death #smoking #sexism #wcc series #wcc fran #wcc bianca #hostage situation #pistol whipping #food mention

[stab-the-son-of-a]

Whumpers Only

I wish I could explain how this got away from me but I have no words. Not quite a caretaker, so, sorry anon, but here you go.

CW: Brief drug and alcohol mention

The itemized call history that crossed Detective Vance’s desk is deceptively extensive and several pages thick, despite being only for a few months’ span of time. Forensics still have their hands all over the cell phone itself, and the detective has a few choice words they could say about the forensic team’s work ethic, but they’re not in the practice of layering their insults in honey. Their bread and butter is to to dig and root around for information, like some sort of truffle pig, and their tongue is regularly knotted. The detective finds themself quite defective when it comes to spinning the same pleasant, nuanced banter, certainly not enough to keep up with the man down in forensics with the sugar sweet smile.

So, itemized call list it is. It took the detective an obscene amount of time to cross reference the numbers against every possible database and to confirm the pattern to the suspect's behaviors and narrow down which numbers are legitimate. Most of all, which of these numbers matches the spurious rumor of a hotline.

A ‘whump’ hotline. There are many, many similar mentions in certain circles and apparently coded messages sent through various forms of advertising, and yet, this is the closest Jesse has come to interacting with that sphere. They’re not sure, but they think that might be why they still can’t bring themself to finish dialing.

The information has always been there, readily accessed in the same sort of way drugs and alcohol are accessible - a thinly veiled barrier, a little social based pressure to avoid or partake depending on the circles. For years, Jesse has been a teetotaler and avoided whump content in any respect, and kept that influence from their life.

It’s odd to abandon that part of their life, that internal badge of never having indulged.

It’s for a case, however, so they finally stop their waffling and dial.

Not long after, on the second ring, someone picks up. “Hello and thank you for calling 1-877-WHMP-NOW, the whump specialist hotline.” The person on the other end, an operator of some sort, offers a friendly greeting.

Off balanced by just how cordial the other person sounds, Jesse hesitates a moment to collect themself. They just have to pretend to want to be a whumper. That couldn't be too hard. “Um…” they mumble, then clear their throat. “Um, hi, I... want to learn to whump. My name is-”

“Oh. Excuse me, I’ll have to place you on hold while a representative finishes with another client.”

The cheery hold music is far more underwhelming than anything else and Jesse frowns at the phone, as if it’s the device’s fault, before sighing and settling on their couch, one leg tossed over the arm while they wait.

And wait.

And wait.

Eventually they start mirroring the words of the automated voice recording, interjecting with their own commentary in the brief pauses between statements.

“All our lines are busy at the moment.”

“And here at Whump Corp or whatever these moments last a lifetime,” Jesse snorts as they try yet again to find another position on the couch. Their curly hair serves little by way of cushioning from the carpet as they sit upside down. The phone sits a few inches away from their head, speakerphone enabled, and Jesse crosses their hands over their stomach and their ankles behind the back of the couch.

Undeterred, because of course, the message continues, “Please remain patient. Your time is very important to us. We will be with you momentarily.”

“Momentarily means for a short period,” Jesse corrects under their breath. It’s a small pet peeve, something that normally wouldn’t have drawn their attention either, but as they hear the same spiel for the dozenth time, it’s like getting the last final small pebble thrown in their face- just enough to burst the dam. "Not in a short period of time."

“We are currently experiencing greater than usual call volume. Continue to hold the line, and you will be connected as soon as possible.”

“How many people can there even be calling at 11am on a Tuesday?” Gravity draws Jesse’s blood into their head until the pressure and dizziness build uncomfortably. They roll off the couch and root around in their mini fridge for a drink. At this volume, they can hear the same three bar hold music repeat yet again, despite the distance. Cracking the seal on their iced tea, Jesse settles cross legged beside the cellphone. “Don’t whump on company time, guys, jeez.”

“Just a moment please, the next available team member will be there for you shortly.”

Letting out a drawn out groan, Jesse lies back and stares up at the ceiling. It’s been hours. “Starting to think I’m waiting for the next available team member to be born.”

Click. Jesse bolts upright, fumbling with the phone and nearly yeeting it across the room in their haste.

“All of our employees are currently busy assisting other clients,” the new voice announces. The faint static and electric tone warns Jesse that they’ve simply stumbled into another robot. “Your call and phone number has just been noted and a representative will call you back as soon as possible. We thank you for your understanding.”

“What?” That doesn’t make any sense. Jesse runs a hand through their curls, only to freeze as the line goes dead. “What?! No! I did not just sit through hours of happy fun time hold music just to get hung up on by a robot!”

Except that’s exactly what just happened.

They stare down at their screen in acute betrayal. What now? Try again? Their number is now in a whump call center database of some sort.

-

Half an hour after the call disconnected, Jesse still hasn’t moved from their position. Their mind is a blur as they try to figure out what it is they really ended up doing- if they would have to explain themself and the call to anyone- their family, friends, service provider, work. They don’t even know if anyone will know, let alone if they will care.

The house is absolutely silent, the muted television still playing in the background as they’d forgotten to turn it off or to return the volume.

Silent until the phone rings. Shock and no small amount of recklessness has Jesse answering the unknown number.

“Hello, and thank you for holding!” It’s the operator from before- Jesse recognizes the faint impediment or accent that sharpens the glottal sound of their h’s.

“I wouldn’t call that holding,” Jesse grumbles.

Either not hearing them, or not addressing their commentary, the operator continues, “At this time, I'd like to let you know that this call may be recorded for quality assurance and training purposes. Please answer the following survey questions.”

“I’ve been on hold for hours and you want me to perform a survey? About what? I haven’t even gotten helped!”

“I’m sorry you feel that way, friend. Were you highly satisfied with your service experience?”

Bewildered, Jesse cries, “No!”

“I’m sorry to hear that. Did you receive the result you needed from your service interaction?”

“What interaction?!” Are they in the Twilight Zone? Are they still speaking English? Did they have a stroke and now they’re mumbling incoherently? What sort of madness was this, an elaborate prank?

“Thank you for your response. Did you receive friendly service?”

“I didn’t get any service! Rude would have been preferable!”

“Your feedback has been noted.”

Jesse groans again and scrubs their face.

“Was our service timely and convenient?”

“Not on your life!”

“Thank you for your responses. Now, would you recommend our service to others?”

They can feel their head pulsing and pounding, a twitch behind their temple and their eyebrow jumping, but as soon as they hang up, their blood pressure begins to lower with a rush of relief.

Their iced tea now room temperature and bitter, Jesse takes a few more sips and leans against the couch, resting their neck against the cushion. “What a disaster,” they sigh.

After a few seconds of blissful silence, their phone goes off again. Swiping the decline button with a vicious smirk, they return to enjoying what more of their day they can.

Said enjoyment ends with another call, and another.

“Fine! Hello?”

“I’m sorry, it seems we were disconnected. Please finish providing your feedback so we can improve our services.”

“My feedback is that this was an exercise is madness! You kept me on hold for over two hours, but you’ve repeatedly called me for a stupid survey when before you couldn’t give me the time of day!”

“I’ve very sorry you were not satisfied with the level of response and attentiveness. You are welcome to try calling again tomorrow-”

“Absolutely no-”

“As I was saying, Mx. Vance, you may call the hotline again tomorrow during regular business hours. Thank you for completing the survey and for calling 1-877-WHMP-NOW. Have a whumpderful day!”

“A pun?” Jesse tosses their phone to the couch and storms off to the bathroom to wash the rage and boiling heat from their face. “All that for a stupid pun?!”

-

Over at the call center, Gladys and Fran sit huddled around the phone, Gladys actually sitting on the desk and perched precariously on the edge. The speaker button still flashes from the abrupt disconnection.

“Did you hear them?” Gladys roars with laughter, holding her aching ribs. It took everything in her willpower and then some to keep quiet, both while listening to the detective while they were on hold, but especially while Fran spoke with them. Now free, she lets loose, uncaring of who else hears her. “Oh God, oh man, I’m gonna bust a rib. Babe, you’re the best.”

“I’m actually proud of that pun. Like, really proud.” Fran takes out their pen and quickly scribbles that one down.

“Uhhh, Fran, I’m pretty sure Craig in finance already-”

They raise up one finger imperiously and continue to write. “Let me have my moment, Glady-girl. Just this once.”

Smiling, she rolls her eyes and slides off the desk. “Since you gave me the best lunch break surprise ever, want to head down to the cafe?”

Fran takes a final quick look at their work space, how messy and disorganized it is now that it’s no longer Gladys’s chair, considers the amount of time left in their shift and how long this high of a well played prank might last, and wheels back from their desk. “Lead the way!”

“Oh, no, you’re my hero,” she insists, dramatically bowing to allow them to go ahead of her. The angle is perfect for a quick peck on the cheek before they make their way down the corridors.

#wcc series #wcc fran #wcc gladys #wcc detective jesse vance #alcohol mention #drug mention #anonymous #kissing cw

[stab-the-son-of-a]

oh look visuals

Hello I come bearing picrews. Link here.

Fran

(not pictured, their wheelchair. Pictured: buff upper body)

Gladys

(not pictured: ridiculously complicated coffee order in hand)

Jesse

(included: yoted phone that was involved in prank call crimes)

Jesse times two

(AKA Jesse please it's been thirty years, let the 90s go)

#wcc series #wcc gladys #wcc fran #wcc detective jesse vance #picrew art