The other cop answered for Anthrax. `No. The fungus keeps them warm.'
Anthrax swallowed his anger. He was used to racism, and plenty of it, especially from cops. But this was over the top.
In the town where he attended uni, everyone thought he was Aboriginal.
There were only two races in that country town—white and Aboriginal.
Indian, Pakistani, Malay, Burmese, Sri Lankan—it didn't matter. They
were all Aboriginal, and were treated accordingly.
Once when he was talking on the pay phone across from his house, the police pulled up and asked him what he was doing there. Talking on the phone, he told them. It was pretty obvious. They asked for identification, made him empty his pockets, which contained his small mobile phone. They told him his mobile must be stolen, took it from him and ran a check on the serial number. Fifteen minutes and many more accusations later, they finally let him go with the flimsiest of apologies. `Well, you understand,' one cop said. `We don't see many of your type around here.'
Yeah. Anthrax understood. It looked pretty suspicious, a dark-skinned boy using a public telephone. Very suss indeed.
In fact, Anthrax had the last laugh. He had been on a phreaked call to Canada at the time and he hadn't bothered to hang up when the cops arrived. Just told the other phreakers to hang on. After the police left, he picked up the conversation where he left off.
Incidents like that taught him that sometimes the better path was to toy with the cops. Let them play their little games. Pretend to be manipulated by them. Laugh at them silently and give them nothing. So he appeared to ignore the fungus comment and led the cops to his car. They found nothing.
When the police finally packed up to leave, one of them handed Anthrax a business card with the AFP's phone number.
`Call us to arrange an interview time,' he said.
`Sure,' Anthrax replied as he shut the door.