Maow II, 2025
Stéphane Foucaud

A small gang in a golf cart moved into our rough neighborhood, rich kids backed by my little cousin because they went to the same high school. "They're straight-up, no 'business'!" he assured me. This term referred to kids who resold half their cannabis purchases to recoup their money. Inexperienced in dealing, they often got caught by the police and got away with it by ratting out honest dealers like me. This arrangement was often handled by their parents' lawyers. I still made a comment to my cousin: "Next time, they'll come in a car, we'll spot them all over the neighborhood with their little yogurt pot!"

Despite the saying, money does have a smell, especially the worn 5,000-franc notes I brought to my nostrils while the blond guys, for their part, sniffed my fresh weed, which was in full "gutation" (sap rising). My little business was booming. I picked up the clients of "Bald Babane," a redundant title for an old dealer with a shiny bald head, whose delivery drones had been intercepted by the gendarmerie. The regulars of Java Pop, named for his ultra-colorful hairstyles and Javanese origins, had also turned to me. Adultery was his undoing: his soon-to-be ex-wife had even gone so far as to guide the cops to arrest him in front of his indoor grow operation.

However, the influx of "stickers" (addicts smoking joints right up to the filter) triggered my paranoia, especially at work, when I had to serve the guys from the BAC (Anti-Crime Brigade) at the pump. My job at the gas station served as a cover and allowed me to solicit customers. I would discreetly offer one of my samples to drivers who were already tipsy and heading out for a party.

Caught up in the euphoria of my rise to power, I couldn't forget the contract that bound me to "Gros," a local kingpin who had just taken over ours. I was using a sort of controlled "business" by distributing his raw materials, thus avoiding the hassles of dealing with a grower-supplier, but in return, I had to give up a percentage of my sales. My reseller status meant I risked less criminally, but a bit more physically: Gros's henchmen would pounce on me at the slightest misstep.

The boss, sitting on his 180 kg, operated from his cat-hair carpeted armchair. I didn't even have the courage to visit my buddy Rico, in his hospital bed, reduced to a jigsaw puzzle after sending the following message to "Big Matou" (his second nickname): "DON'T WORRY, Big Guy, I've got a plan to pay you back next week." Big Guy's gentleness only filtered through his cats, whom he constantly petted on his lap, his big belly, or the armrests of the famous armchair. Each feline was trained to flush out anyone in case of a shady deal or to guide his henchmen to different hiding places every week. The cats would then sit on the packages of drugs to locate them. The creatures always left by taking a different route to lay the trail. Try explaining the real story to the cops when you're caught red-handed. Could we say that a little tiger would have forced us to follow him to exchange ganja for a box of kibble? Gros did not consider direct delivery of the felines to the consumer: he feared too much kidnapping or abuse by certain unbalanced people against his protégés.

Cassandre, my favorite, and also the boss's pet, stood out, perched atop Gros's mop of hair like a sphinx. He was assigned to me for every pakalolo (cannabis in Polynesia) orienteering run. To avoid raising suspicion about a bank account bursting at the seams, at least for a gas station attendant, I spent my profits in the north of the country where cash transactions were more common. Financial outlets were scarce, especially near tribal areas. Then came the day when, in the middle of a mission with Cassandre in a vacant lot, the animal was startled and chased away by a stray dog before we even had time to locate the equipment. And my fugitive didn't return. An anonymous phone call (whose origin I could easily guess) questioned me about my companion's absence. I then explained the unfortunate turn the operation had taken, which did not change Gros's verdict: "It's not just a matter of reimbursing if you don't find the package, you know the punishment for unreliability!"

I searched the vacant lot high and low, but I couldn't find my delivery. I had to act fast, without panicking. However, images of Rico in his wheelchair kept flashing through my mind. Getting hold of Cassandre before her owner was my only bargaining chip. Night fell, and I was still sweeping the surrounding streets and gardens with my spotlight, praying that Cassandre hadn't already returned home. My voice was heard, despite my recent religious conversion. Hearing me whisper, "Kitty! Kitty! The naughty dog's gone!", a young skateboarder called out to me: "Hey! You'd better sweep up the trees and see if your cat's still alive!" Sure enough, spurred on by his survival instinct, Gros's darling was stuck at the top of a tree.

Once I'd freed him, I took the risk of hiding out with my four-legged package in my tribal stronghold. The big guy's gang also had its informants in the North region, local growers involved in his business. I then sent a video in which I pretended to swallow Cassandre while holding him by the scruff of the neck. The big guy immediately negotiated, on his own initiative, the return of Chouchou in exchange for dropping the punitive charges against me. The joint adventure ended for me nonetheless: the stories of the handsome Java Pop, recently released from jail, about the persistence of his sore buttocks, due to prolonged close contact with his fellow inmates, dissuaded me forever.