Scam

Back when the most known scam was the email from the Nigerian prince, scams used to be easy to identify. While some less savvy internet users fell prey to the ruse, most people saw it as a meme representing ridiculousness. Then scammers learned finesse, and they mixed it up. They plotted a myriad of ways to part innocents from their money. They profiled the dupes who readily gave their life savings. Old people. Baby boomers. Our grandparents and parents. Those self-assured, tough-as-nails people that once collectively saved the world. They were the perfect victims, overconfident in their ability to spot a charlatan and naïve to the dangers of new technologies. Melissa’s mother was a boomer. Just ignorant enough to fall for the shady assholes every damned time. Over and over, she’d tell her mother not to respond to any email or text soliciting help or offering a great investment opportunity. Over and over, sure she could recognize a criminal; her mom had taken the bait. Name a scam, her mother fell for it, until none of her savings was left.

Melissa took a final gulp of her bourbon and grimaced momentarily at the burning sensation. She knew she needed to get some rest. She knew she’d regret it in the morning and probably be late to the conference’s first session. She didn’t give a damn. The annual conference had finally returned to New Orleans, the Big Easy. Big Easy. That’s what I should call mom, the Big Easy. Melissa signaled to the bartender that she was ready for another. She had planned on going out with the office to celebrate their first night there; that was before she received the call. Her mother had done it again. Like a lamb to the slaughter. Her mother’s accountant had allegedly miscalculated her tax return. She owed the government three thousand dollars. The IRS representative had been very kind. Instead of calling the police, he’d spoken with his supervisor who’d agreed to give her a week. She didn’t want to worry Melissa, so she took care of it herself. She’d just sent the money. Her mother had ended up needing to call Melissa anyway because that was the last of her savings. Her mother was in dire straits; her electric bill was due in two days, and she’d used all available funds to keep from getting arrested for tax evasion. Melissa wearily rubbed her face in frustration. It was obvious this would never end.

Exhausted from her mother’s seemingly never-ending string of self-imposed crises, she downed her last drink and headed out into the thick night air. She strolled slowly towards the hotel stopping occasionally to window shop. To muse at the plethora of eclectic little tourist-trap stores where you could purchase anything from Tabasco sauce to gothic attire. She came upon one of the hokey voodoo stores. The window display promised methods to obtain your heart’s most fervent desires from love to revenge. Vengeance. Oh, how she longed for vengeance, the perfect comeuppance for the predators who relentlessly pursued her mother. Entertained by the thought and just drunk enough to try it, she entered the store and was immediately greeted by the self-proclaimed voodoo queen herself, Margueritte Aguillard, who introduced herself with flourish.

“You lookin’ for dat gris gris?” the woman’s thick Cajun accent was as thick as the incense that curled up to scent the air. She smiled knowingly at Melissa.

“I’m sorry?” Melissa asked with a confused look.

“Dat gris gris. You wantin’ to make someone pay for doin’ you wrong, no?”

Melissa squinted her eyes accusingly “How did you know…”

“You got dem look, de look of a woman done wrong. De hate, de anga, I sees it. You wantin’ dem to pay.” She pursed her lips in delight, like she could taste the vengeance and it was sweet.

“Yes. I do. I want them to pay for what they’ve done.” Melissa relented. Her pulse quickened a bit at the prospect of satisfaction. She knew this was for her benefit, that she was playing the role of dumb tourist. It didn’t matter. Even the perception of retribution elated her. For all she knew this woman was no better than the scammers. Her name was probably Jasmine and she’d been a stripper in Atlantic City who actually had the accent of someone who was born and raised in the Bronx. If she was a fake, she was a good one. She felt real, legitimate. I’m as gullible as mom is…Melissa thought the irony was hilarious and couldn't suppress the quick giggle that erupted.

“You tink me not real. You tink dis play? No, you gon git dem vengeance.” Margueritte doubled down on assuring her legitimacy. It was eerie that she seemed to know all of Melissa’s thoughts.

Still feeling the bourbon, Melissa dismissed any internal alarms and embraced the charade. “Let’s do it then. How do I get revenge?”

Margueritte went behind the counter and pulled out a quintessential voodoo doll. “Dis. Dis how you git dem ta pay.”

“Of course,” Melissa smiled in amusement. “Why not one of those?” She gestured to the nearby wall which was covered with shelves full of what looked like the same doll.

“Dis hea…dis special. Dis got what you need…the powa ta do what’s ya need.”

Skeptical that she was the one being played, Melissa asked “How much more?” insinuating that the doll from behind the counter was the same and she was being overcharged for nothing.

“No, Chere. Dis de same price. De dolls be all de same, Chere. But dis, I give dis the powa to make dem pay…” Margueritte assured her. “You take dis. What you do to dis, you do to dem dat wrong you.”

“What the hell. I’ll take it!” Melissa’s face lit up with nefarious glee. She knew it was all for her benefit. Just as hitting a pillow purged anger and stress, stabbing at the doll would be therapy. Nothing would happen, but she would feel better from venting her frustrations. She purchased the doll, thanked the queen, and hurried out the door, eager to get to her hotel room and give that doll a taste of her fury.

Amandi took a break from work and went outside to smoke a cigarette. The weather was pleasant, and he wanted to relax in the shade, plus his roommate didn’t like it when he smoked indoors. He and Tayo were going out to celebrate his most recent win. On some weeks Amandi had to contact hundreds of people before getting even the slightest of nibbles. This one, this morning, the old lady from America, she was so trusting he regretted not demanding a greater amount. He would contact her again to implore her to respond to different urgent need. This American was making him a wealthy man! Her three thousand dollars was worth 1.2 million naira and the cost of living in Nigeria was less than half of the cost of living in the United States. He hadn’t played a Nigerian prince in many years, and he was still getting rich from stupid Americans! He extinguished his cigarette and rose from the bench to go inside and wake up Tayo who had the night shift. As soon as Amandi stood, a horrible pain struck his right shoulder. It was so severe, he cried out and fell to his knees. Instinctively his left hand clapped over the pain. Feeling something sticky and wet, he inspected his hand and recoiled at the sight of blood. He had just seconds to wonder What!? How!? before another excruciating pain hit his thigh. He fell to the ground and into a fetal position as he tried to protect himself from the unseen onslaught of anguish. More lightning rods of stabbing pain wracked his body. He felt like he was being perforated by God. His blood now flowing freely as he violently convulsed against the agonizing suffering. A most terrible pain seemed to pierce his very brain. He clutched his skull as if to keep its contents from spilling on the ground. Blinded by the unbearable intensity of pain, he cried out to the universe to be spared, but no piteous relief came. Finally, the pain struck to the core of his life’s blood, his heart. Amandi emitted one final tortured howl of torment before the devil took him to extract the ultimate retribution. When Tayo awakened some hours later, he found his friend, more gore than man, terrified eyes still wide in fear at the horrors he had faced.

Melissa sat the doll on the bedside table. It’s stitched lips and black eyes promised not to speak of the silly impotence of her rage. Her mood was lifted. It had been so magically therapeutic. Melissa sighed a cleansing breath of release and turned the lamp off. She knew it wasn’t real, but it felt so good to imagine it. Vengeance. She lay in bed and smiled at the darkness.