My phone beeped at me, telling me that it was fully charged. I picked it up and scrolled through my contacts, looking for Glenda. I found her right above Frog-Man. His name was an alias, of course, borrowed from his favourite superhero. Frog-Man the superhero didn’t have much of an origin story, or any superpowers to speak of, apart from the electric leaping coils in his frog suit and his extremely good luck. As far as superheroes went, he was one of the clumsiest, and to that end, one of the funniest. He was also very obscure, with less than twenty appearances to his name, all of which were bit parts in the narratives of other more established superheroes. He was a comedic sideshow in the form of slapstick, and that’s about it. Frog-Man the drug dealer, however, was nothing like that, and I found the irony disturbing. He wasn’t clumsy, and he definitely wasn’t funny. Nor did he have the anuran body; no potbelly, no skinny arms and legs. He was ripped from head to toe as a result of a daily workout regimen. And there was nothing froglike about his eyes, either. In fact, it seemed like they were an afterthought, like he didn’t really need them in order to see what was happening around him. He rarely ever looked at people when he talked to them, and yet he was always two steps ahead of everyone, including the cops. Maybe he gathered the majority of his sensory information from some other source. Maybe he had second sight, or a crystal ball. Maybe he was a warlock of some kind. All I knew was that he seemed rather omnipotent in his chosen profession. No drug was beyond his reach. He could get what you wanted when you wanted it, and the quality was top-shelf; which is why I ingratiated myself to him. Well, that and the fact that he could hold conversations on wide-ranging subject matter; from Anarchism to Zoroastrianism. What really drew me to him, though, was his refusal to stomp on his product. If he cut his dope, then it was too pure. He knew that having a reputation for premium product was a license to print money, but he did not want a string of overdoses drawing the eyes and ears of the drug squad. He was cagey. He was well-read. He was sadistic. If you were reckless enough to have incurred a sizeable debt with him, then your well-being became precarious. You were constantly looking over your shoulder when you left your house. If you didn’t leave your house, then you locked your doors, closed your curtains, turned off your phone, and maybe even your lights. He could have hired guys to break kneecaps and fingers, but most of the time he did it himself; relishing the chance to teach valuable life lessons to his willfully insolvent clients. I understood this, and that’s why my name never made it into the pages of his black book, which earned me his trust, and the privilege of being his delivery driver. He even allowed me to do deliveries for his girlfriend, who was agoraphobic. I was always picking things up for her and bringing them back to their posh west-side apartment. She was a real sweetheart, and genuinely funny. They could not have been more different.