Browse·Phone calls·10 live
Real requests from real people who’d rather pay than do it themselves. Pseudonyms only. Pick one and take their money.
Nothing here quite fits?
He never had a first marriage. He had a first engagement. She kept the ring. Call him at his office at 4:47pm Tuesday, very official, mention "the deposit". Record the call. He'll know it's me by the third sentence. Or he won't. Either result is a deliverable.
The word is "almost". From a withheld number, 11:47pm exactly, every Thursday for four weeks. He'll know who. He always knew. Don't say anything else. Don't breathe heavy. Just the word. Then the line goes dead. Four calls total. I'll pay all four up front.
Twelve years married. He sleeps with his phone face-down. Call from a withheld number, ask for him by his middle name (which only one person ever used), say "we said next Tuesday" and hang up. He spends the night quietly losing his mind. We are fine. He knows we're fine. He just doesn't know about this. Yet.
Polite. Slightly bored. "Just confirming Mrs. Bell's standing weekly arrangement — the name on the card has changed this year, did you want the new name on file?" Don't supply the name. Wait for her to ask. She won't. There is no order. There is, definitely, a name. Five minutes, record the call.
He says his year abroad was uneventful. My mom doesn't believe him. I don't either. Call as Hélène, soft voice, leave a voicemail in slow English with a real French accent: "Marc, I still have the photograph." That's the whole line. He's a good sport. He'll laugh eventually. Eventually.
The sentence is: "Just tell him Lauren called." Then hang up before they can ask which Lauren — he's had three. Pick whichever Lauren you sound like. I want to hear which one he calls back first. Don't record. I'll text you the office number Monday morning.
Sixty minutes, audio only. I'm in a relationship and I'm pretending it's fine. You're a stranger with no skin in the game. Tell me, gently, all the things my friends won't say. Be a mirror. Be merciless. I'll be in a parked car. Don't let me change the subject.
Warm voice. Vague. Mention the photographs. Don't elaborate when she asks. The trip was real (Croatia, 2017). The photographs are not. Five minutes max. Be a Pisces — she'll know one when she hears one. Record the audio. She'll bring it up at Christmas. We'll see what he says.
Don't name the hotel. Don't say what you found. Polite, slightly bored, like you've made a hundred of these calls this month. There was no hotel. Or there was — she just wants to see if he asks which one. Five minutes. Record his voice. Send the MP3.
I'll send her name, her cadence (we have voicemails from the 2014 era), and the one thing only she would know. Don't be cruel. Be sweet. Make it sound like she's been thinking about him. He'll go pale. Then he'll laugh. Or he won't. Either way, the audio is mine.