Epiphany Jones by Michael Grothaus Page A

trying to enslave the lower classes.
    Halfling initiates a direct IM session.
    ‘You’re not going to believe this,’ he types, ‘I think I found out who just killed Bill Clinton.’
    ‘No one killed Clinton. He’s still alive,’ I type.
    ‘That’s a duplicate. An imposter,’ Halfling types. ‘The real Clinton was murdered in 1994.’
    ‘Look,’ I type. ‘I don’t have time right now. I’m on low battery. I need a favour.’
    Halfling, he can go on these rants forever. He’s one of those people who can suck you into his theories, because you just need to show him how wrong he is. We have that kind of relationship, the kind where we end up bickering about menial things and by the time we’re done we’re on the opposite sides of the argument from where we started.
    ‘Look at his policy shifts in his second term,’ Halfling types. ‘No one changes like that. They killed him. Set up their own guy. Put a lookalike puppet in the White House.’
    I type, ‘I really don’t have a lot of power.’
    Halfling types, ‘You know who else is running out of power? The middle class.’
    I type, ‘No it’s not.’
    ‘And it started when they killed Clinton and put a puppet in the White House and the country fell for it.’
    ‘That’s stupid,’ I type. ‘No one, NO ONE would be able to pull that off.’ Then I add, smileyface.
    Even though I have an overwhelming desire to correct him, I remind myself to keep it lighthearted. I still need his help.
    Halfling types, ‘You’re right, it’s only just ALL OVER the internet.’
    ‘No it’s not,’ I type. Grumblyface.
    ‘It’s all over the sites I go to,’ Halfling types.
    And I type, ‘I’m sure not everyone reads the sites you do.’ And then I add, winkyface.
    Winkyface.
    ‘You’re totally brainwashed, like the masses,’ Halfling types.
    No winkyface.
    We’re going to be here all night if this keeps up.
    So I type, ‘Look, you may be right. I read the same thing once onYahoo’s homepage. But then it was pulled like they never wanted anyone to see it.’ I type, ‘I didn’t want to believe it.’ I type, ‘It’s just hard to accept…’
    And Halfling types, smileyface. He types, ‘That’s how I first felt when I was alerted to all this.’
    And before he gets carried away with his theories again, I type, ‘I need a favour.’
    ‘What?’ he types.
    ‘A big favour.’
    He types a confusedface.
    ‘A stick-it-to-the-man favour.’
    And I ask if he still works at Kinko’s? I ask if he still makes fake IDs?
    ‘Of course,’ he types. ‘How do you think I make money? You can’t make a living from being a corporate wage slave.’
    So I ask if he could make some fake passports.
    Halfling types, ‘Easily.’ Bigsmileyface.
    He types, ‘But you’ll need to keep them in a passport holder. I can make them look like real ones, but they won’t feel exactly real if you touch them. The card stock won’t be perfect. They won’t have the digital chips inside them.’
    I type, ‘Will that be a problem? If we’re going by bus?’
    He types, ‘Where?’
    ‘Mexico.’
    He types, ‘I don’t think so. Buses don’t have airport-like security. NAFTA made sure of that.’
    I want to type that I don’t think NAFTA had anything to do with transportation, but I don’t.
    And then Halfling types, ‘We?’
    And I type, ‘Yeah, I’ll need two. Is that OK? I don’t have money, but I can give you my passwords to all the Adult Empire sites.’
    ‘That’s fine,’ he types. ‘But I’d do it for free. Anything that shows them they don’t have all the power.’
    And I type, ‘Thanks.’ Smileyface.
    ‘So who’s “we”?’ Halfling types.
    ‘Just this person,’ I type, not knowing how much I should say.
    ‘OMFG!!!’ he types. ‘IT’S A GIRL ISN’T IT?!?!?!?!?!?’
    And I don’t type back.
    ‘Where did you meet one?’ he types.
    ‘It’s a long story,’ I type.
    ‘Is she hot? Does she do anal? What are breasts really like?’
    ‘It’s