I saw the title in the newsgroup for the 400th time. It was just another
spam, but the assonance of the words caught my eye, and that was enough.
Enough!
I fired up the modem, went to Dejanews and searched for “spam.” Whoa!
10-zillion hits. Hmmm. I tried another, then another. Billions of hits,
and none would help. Then I remembered a piece I’d read in <alt.sex.stories>
and though it didn’t interest me at the time, thought it might help.
I requested “expert search” and entered “mind control” and some modifiers.
I still got several hundred hits but I read every one, and I was ready.
“Hey, John,” I said into the telephone, “you still working on that Java
thing?”
“Sure,” he said. “Somebody perfects this and it’s the end of Microsoft,
Intel, all of ’em. It’ll work on any platform, any computer, any server…”
“I know,” I interrupted. “If it ever works. If they ever develop a standard.
If…”
“Whaddya want?” he asked.
“I’m working on something that has to work on a guy’s computer, except
I don’t know who the guy is, or what machine he uses, or much of anything,
really. Even more, it has to work before he knows it, and…”
“Virus?” John asked quickly. “That’s easy. Course I don’t do that anymore
since I got busted for hacking that Burroughs’ mainframe. I’m still on
probation, and that’s lucky, especially since they caught me blue-boxing
phone calls a couple years ago.”
“Yeah, well, I would never ask you to do that, understand? But maybe you
could help me and it would be just me… just me…” I explained my plan.
John loved it.
It took three months, almost constant work from me, untold hours from
John. I did the research on the lesser known aspects of mind control, John
handled the technical details.
And it was ready. John disappeared, by mutual agreement.
I sat nervously at my desk and logged on.
“Young, Dumb, and Full of Cum”. There it was again, hundreds of times.
Just little spams in an oceanfull, but I had to start somewhere. I opened
the file. A URL. I followed the address to the webpage and found the
“JOIN” button. The screen flickered, and a bunch of boxes came up. I filled
one with my e-mail address, then went to the others: VISA, name, address,
and in the “Notes” section, I wrote:
“We are impressed with your service. We would like to invest in it. We
are a software development firm with proprietary technology to substitute
a user’s “Preference” URL with any of our choosing. We can direct any
computer
user to your webpage.
“We can not guarantee that they will subscribe, but the hundreds of hits
you receive by posting your advertisements in the newsgroups will turn
into millions. We guarantee an immense increase in traffic, and therefore
in subscription revenue.
“Your obvious question is “How much do you want?”. The not-so-obvious
answer: nothing. In fact, we offer to invest in your company, and to
license your site with a guaranteed revenue stream, with our (future)
proceeds to be paid ONLY if your income more than doubles.
“Yes, we will send you a check, *and* build your business. We will be
part owners. We have no interest in the day-to-day operation of websites,
and we are making this offer to less than 25 webmasters.
“Interested? Please e-mail to arrange a meeting. Because of the revolutionary
aspect of this technology, we will debut all 25 sites simultaneously. Please
respond within 14 days, or we will give your slot to another webmaster.
Don’t delay.”
The answer arrived the next morning. I sent an e-mail back, this time
loaded with the code that John and I had so meticulously prepared.
I couldn’t see what happened at the other end when he downloaded the file.
I didn’t need or want to.
First, the screen would begin to flicker. Slowly at first, then more rapidly,
until it matched a harmonic of the frequency that transmitted the image
of the screen to the brain. It would flicker for a full 60 seconds.
Then letters would randomly fill the screen, jumbling one atop another,
cascading in a frenzy that was too fast for any casual onlooker to decipher.
But someone staring at the screen would be mesmerized, almost hypnotized
by the dancing images.
Like a message inserted subliminally in a movie, a sentence popped into
the middle of the screen, froze for a nanosecond, and disappeared. It said
“You will do as instructed. Hit ‘Return'”.
When the key was struck, another message flashed and disappeared. The
phosphors on the screen glowed for just an instant as it said, “Pick up
a pencil or pen. Hit ‘Return'”.
Another key strike, and a new message assembled from the puzzle of dancing
letters. It said “You will never send another spam to a newsgroup, or I
will poke out your other eye. Do you understand? Hit ‘Return'”.
There would be a delay before the computer received its intended response,
but the MCware didn’t care. It could wait forever.
When the last “Return” key was pressed, a final message appeared, and
like those before it, disappeared. It read:
“The screen will begin to flicker more rapidly, causing an autonomic
overload of your sensory system unless you do exactly as you are told.”
This sentence was replaced by another, shorter one:
“You will never spam again, either in newsgroups or by unsolicited e-mail,
or you will lose the use of your other eye.”
And in turn, it was replace by another, even shorter:
“Stab yourself in the left eye to break the link between this program
and your nervous system.”
I never saw the spam “Young, Dumb, and Full of Cum” on my computer
screen again. Of course there are other spammers, but I’m working
on them. I usually only send the message to one or two guys a day.
I’m not enjoying it. I’m not a sadist, after all.