POSTS
Anything’s possible
By hisham
Riffaz had more crap on his face than a city pavement.
“I didn’t know you could pierce your eyelids,” I said.
Anything’s possible,” Riffaz said. His eyeballs almost dislodged from their sockets as he spoke.
“Yes,” I said. Yes. That’s all. Yes, and nothing more. I didn’t know whether Riffaz realized the humor of this situation.
In my ever so innocence, I have faltered to identify myself with my new acquaintance.
About six days ago I met the proverbial friend of a friend who was in need. The need itself was nothing short of insurmountable. It was like hoping that an elephant jumps, or the end of all wars or . It was seemingly impossible.
“I need to get my record cleared,” Riffaz said. “Can you do it, mate?”
The second story flat I was in had a dry consistency about it, its walls in dire need of Head and Shoulders, and it smelled of piss.
“Uh, well, you see…”
“What? Are you not too sure about your skills?”
“No, it’s not that, err…”
“Riffaz, name’s Riffaz. Mick said you could do it, he said you might not want to at first, but we could make you do it.”
Was that a threat? Did he threaten me? This was ridiculous. “I…I can do it, but I’ll need some time, like at least five days. It’s all about research and planning.” I was nervous as hell and it showed. My forehead perspired.
“Right then, here’s what we have,” he said, handing me a manila envelope. “All the docs you need are here. Keep this with you at all times. I need it back once you’re done.”
Later that night I examined the contents of the packet. I didn’t know what I was getting myself into, but nothing else in my life mattered at that point. Stace left, I pawned all I had, and all I could do to pay the rent was do double duty at Luca’s Pizzeria down in Islington. If it wasn’t for Mick setting me up for this gig, I’d probably have been contemplating what the Thames tasted like.
If anything, the information handed to me by Rufus proved that it can’t be done. I cannot break into the system. Even if I could, a trail would be left, a very long and obvious trail. “I can’t do this, I can’t do this!” I said out loud, slapping the desk with both hands. That’s when it occurred to me. Frogs. Frogs!
Frogs was the answer. Plastic psychedelic frogs to be precise. The sort you find in shady, off the map places. They’re usually sold as souvenirs in African countries. I had a few from Mali a few years back. They’re trippy. Quiet heady stuff I’d say. The sort of buzz they give you was akin to that of eating LSD-dipped marshmallows and catamine (I wouldn’t know though, I only tried the two separately.)
It’s not about getting high, though. The frogs I needed where the kind of thing that would make Rufus realize that his coolness was lacking true conviction. One that only came from the inner chasms of the West African tribe of Bambozali. A tribe known since time immemorial for their gourmet mixtures of potions that “bringeth the soul closer to the man, and bringeth the man closer to the soul,” in the words of Shaman Bambali himself (who was reputed to be over three hundred years old.)
Besides, Rufus wouldn’t know the difference between Wikipedia and Britannica. The interweb, as he called it in his quaint luddite manner, was the modern day gospel of utter and absolute truth.
For the next three days I worked day and night. The fake Wikipedia pages were crude at best, but then again, I was dealing with a person who looked like he had more than his share of accidents with staple guns.