Wednesday, February 27

I knew I was in trouble when the leader of a warring tribe was made to believe that my peaceful tribe had the secret formula for cocaine. He wanted it and he wanted it bad. He threatened all of us. He was a large man, imposing and frightening.

He came into our office--our village elder was standing by me. He was an old man, bald and frail.
He asked for the cocaine recipe and we replied honestly: we don't have it.
He said he'd give us time. A couple of days. But that he'd be back.
And just to show us he meant business he took out a razor and cut a slice out of the village elder's head. He sliced off the skin like you might peel an apple.
Then he grabbed me, took me to another room, and broke my back. I had to ride in a wheelchair after that.

I met with the village wise men to decide what we'd do about the threats. They were sure, they said, that the secret to cocaine was hidden in seashells. If you read the lines and the shapes carefully enough you'd figure it out.

One of the wise men grabbed a shell and started turning it and analyzing it. It opened up in his hand and indeed, inside, it was full of cocaine. He had no idea what he had done, though, or how to redo it.
We could give the threatener a handful of cocaine, but that was all we had.