• Embed Doc
  • Copy Link
  • Readcast
  • Collections
  • CommentGo Back
Download
 
The Horror of Spam~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~by Andrew Nellisbs904@freenet.carleton.cacopyright 1996Bob Goan picked up the pearl-handled letter opener and slit open thestatement from the phone company with practiced grace. His nervous eyesdanced across the paper as he unfolded it, absently tapping an elegantlymanicured fingernail against his teeth. When the whole sheet had beenread, he went through it a second time, for he was nothing if not amethodical man. His eyes came to rest finally on the figure at the verybottom representing the total income from his sex line operation. Heallowed himself a very slight, superior smile.He slid a slim ledger from a pigeonhole on his antique accountant's desk andmade a number of entries. The desk, like the room in which he sat, was old,expensive, and very slightly crass, as if it had been decorated by someonewith the intention of demonstrating a cultured taste that the decorator hadseen but did not understand. With its heavy velvet curtains, walnut bookcases, and a large fieldstone fireplace, the room had more the feel of a denthan an office. The only jarring note to the image was the very moderncomputer, sleek and antiseptic white, perched on a corner of the desk atwhich he sat.As he replaced the ledger in his desk, Robert "call-me-Bob" Goan glanced atthe monitor, a wry smile twisting his bloodless slash of a mouth. Heappreciated the irony that while it was computers which were ultimately thesource of his growing fortune, he neither liked nor trusted them, and keptall his records using pen and paper.Sighing, he flipped on his terminal. He didn't like them, but they were anecessary evil. It had been a long day and he wanted to leave, but he knewhe had better check his e-mail before he did so. He connected to his accountand as he had feared, a message popped up in the window:You have 1 new pieces of mail.He clicked on the e-mail icon, and frowned when he saw the address the mailwas from. He didn't know either the sender or the host address, which wasvery strange. He paid very well to keep his real e-mail address secret. Heread the message.> To: bgoan@secret.com> From: c_chaos@rlyeh.net> Subject: Your unwanted presence.>> Keep your endless sex line spamvertising off of alt.sex.cthulhu or you> will be sorry. You have been warned. Ia Cthulhu.>> The Crawling Chaos.Bob felt a brief moment of fear that lifted the fine hairs on the back of hisneck, but forgot it in the anger that washed over him an instant later. Howhad this, this plebe, this common computer ruffian acquired his real e-mailaddress? Bob didn't understand how these things worked, but he paid a numberof renegade programmers a fair-sized chunk of money to ensure that his sex
 
lines remained able to bombard every newsgroup on the Usenet with impunity.He pushed the buzzer on his desk.The door to his office opened, and his secretary, Laura, entered, starchedskirts swishing against her pretty legs. As usual, his eyes focused directlyonto her breasts, not too large, the way he liked them, with just thefaintest hint of nipple showing through the prim white blouse. It was alwaysto his eternal amazement that she had actually been the best candidate forthe job - though he'd have hired her just for being capable of breathing."You buzzed, Mr. Goan," said Laura, sternly. She had held the job for threemonths now, and was getting tired of being alternately pawed and ogled bythe old goat. She had a BSc in computer science, majoring in businessadministration - and a huge debtload. He was a pig, she thought, but he paidwell."Erm, yes," he said, addressing her breasts. "There's some sort of problemwith my account. I want you to call those people we've hired, whatever theirnames are-""Spamail Solutions," said Laura, jotting a note into her steno book."Right. Get them on the phone and tell them that someone has managed to getahold of my private e-mail address. They assured me that that would nothappen. I want something done about it before the morning alt hierarchybarrage tomorrow."Goan got up from his desk and pulled on his coat while Laura made a last notein her book. She was just flipping the cover closed when she felt him stepbehind her and cup her breasts in his hands.She wriggled out of his grasp and spun around, her hands on her hips, andher face flushed with both anger and embarassment. "Mister Goan! If youdon't mind, I'll thank you to keep your hands to yourself. I've told youthis before.""You're so sexy when you're angry," he leered. "Alright, alright," he said,waving his arms helplessly. "Have it your way. I'm just being affectionate,you know that. No need to go all feminist on me. Don't fancy a drink, doyou? Maybe we can have dinner, then we'll go back to my place and-""No. Mister Goan. Good evening," she said firmly, propelling him out thedoor with a hand in his back.Grumbling to himself, Bob Goan left his office and climbed into his LincolnContinental. He peered at himself in the rear view mirror. Okay, hethought, maybe I'm on the downward side of sixty, but I don't look a day overfifty. Well, fifty-five, anyway. My hair might be a little grey around theedges, but that's, er, distinguished. Maybe some Grecian Formula, he thoughtfor a moment. No, I'm damned handsome as I am, he preened. No sense inletting some frigid cunt who's probably a lesbian get to me. He enjoyed abrief fantasy involving Laura, her putative twin sister, and a bottle ofWesson oil before he shook his head and started the car.The next morning, Goan arrived at the office early. The elevators in thebuilding were not even running yet, and he had to get the security guard touse his passcard to activate one. Sometimes Goan liked to come in veryearly so that he could watch from his terminal while what was known around
 
the office as the Morning Barrage went off. It gave him a feeling of powerto watch as his system posted messages to thousands and thousands of Usenetnewsgroups. His company masqueraded as more then twenty others, all of thempromoting his sex lines. Sometimes he would arrange for certain newsgroupsto be utterly snowed under in advertising, thirty or forty messages in a row.This he reserved for groups that offended his personal sensibilites, likealt.sex.femdom.He would sit before his terminal with the air of a monarch surveying hiskingdom, gloating at the helpless rage of the users in the various newsgroupsas they tried to carry on their pointless conversations through a solid wallof his advertising. He was whistling happily with anticipation when hearrived in his office at last.On his desk was a note from Laura telling him to call Spamail. He checkedhis Rolex and realized that those unbathed simians he employed as programmerswere not likely to have rolled out of whatever soiled mattresses they wereusing as beds yet. He put the note aside for later.Logging into his account, he was pleased to see that he had no additionalmail, and he checked on the process that would launch a fusillade of hisadvertising at the unsuspecting Internet. Less than ten minutes until ittriggered. Unconsciously, his eyes were drawn to the note on his desk.Maybe, he thought, I should remove alt.sex.cthulhu from the list of groupsto be targeted this morning. Just for this morning. I mean, he reasoned,it's probably nothing, but if this guy got my e-mail address, maybe he couldget my real address. There were all kinds of weirdos and nuts on theInternet, Goan knew, because after all, he made his living from them. Heglanced at the countdown timer. Less than two minutes to launch.He remained undecided even as the timer reached zero and the processes beganfiring off like a broadside of cannons, lagging the Internet on the entireeastern seaboard of the United States to a crawl for nearly twenty minutes.Ah well, he told himself, no one ever got hurt on account of a littleadvertising. It's the American way. Anyone who doesn't like it is probablya pinko anyway. He leaned back in his chair and began brainstorming on newtwists for his sex lines.His reveries were interrupted by the chiming tone of the ringing telephone.He waited a few rings, but it was still early and evidently Laura had notarrived yet. "Bob here," he answered brusquely."Mister Goan, this is Ajay from Spamail."Goan was a little surprised, considering the time. "Yes, Ajay, what can I dofor you? Have you checked into that problem I told Laura to explain to you?""What kind of sick shit are you into now, man," said Ajay, obvious distastein his voice.Goan's greying eyebrows lifted. "I'm not sure I like your tone of voice,young man. What are you talking about.""The web site. You know, that Hotpix thing. I don't know if we can dobusiness any more, man. Like, that's some sick shit, y'know? Like, I gottacheck with my lawyer to see if we're, like, liable or something."
of 00

Leave a Comment

You must be to leave a comment.
Submit
Characters: ...
You must be to leave a comment.
Submit
Characters: ...