UNDERGROUND

‘I’m down. I’m down,’ Anthrax strung her along.

Anthrax disconnected the operator from the conference call. Then the phreaker who lived near the ice-cream parlour announced the street had been blocked off by police cars. They had the parlour surrounded and were anxiously searching for an injured fellow officer. It took several hours before the police realised someone had played a mean trick on them.

However, Anthrax’s favourite prank was Mr McKenny, the befuddled southern American hick. Anthrax had selected the phone number at random, but the first prank was such fun he kept coming back for more. He had been ringing Mr McKenny for years. It was always the same conversation.

‘Mr McKenny? This is Peter Baker. I’d like my shovel back, please.’

‘I don’t have your shovel.’

‘Yeah, I lent it to you. Lent it to you like two years ago. I want it back now.’

‘I never borrowed no shovel from you. Go away.’

‘You did. You borrowed that shovel of mine. And if you don’t give it back I’m a gonna come round and get it myself. And you won’t like it. Now, when you gonna give me that shovel back?’

‘Damn it! I don’t have your goddamn shovel!’

‘Give me my shovel!’

‘Stop calling me! I never had your friggin’ shovel. Let me be!’ Click.

Nine in the morning. Eight at night. Two a.m. There would be no peace for Mr McKenny until he admitted borrowing that shovel from a boy half his age and half a world away.

Sometimes Anthrax pranked closer to home. *The Trading Post*, a weekly rag of personals from people selling and buying, served as a good place to begin. Always the innocent start, to lure them in.

‘Yes, sir, I see you advertised that you wanted to buy a bathtub.’ Anthrax put on his serious voice. ‘I have a bathtub for sale.’