Scam Stories

The world of spam isn’t just inhabited by junk-mailers tapping away at Project Gutenberg crafting spam texts to legitimise their viagra ads. No. You’ve probably heard of the 419 scam, whereby crooks try and exhort folk out of thousands of pounds in money transfer ‘deals’. Some people, on receipt of such emails, try to play the scammers at their own game by replying and leading the crooks a merry dance. There are even websites dedicated to this ’scam baiting’, like the highly entertaining 419Eater.

So the other day I decided to give it a go. I had received an email from a ‘Ken Bena’ asking me for money to fund a poetry scholarship. Interesting. I decided to write back asking to see a sample of his work, and he sent me this. Truly bizarre:

The Internet

The internet is a realm where a strangers smile
Precedes a panther strike
It is a place where dreams are wooed
And made pregnant
By the virile promises of con men and women
But if your heart could hold his breath like
An hiv postive, straining to hear the footsteps of death
She would  hear the tormented whispers
Of pregnant hopes
Held in death-throes of still-birth

The internet is a cul de sac
Where even trust get scared to  take a walk
For in the shadows they lurk
Perverts,fraudsters,and murderers
All dressed in the deceptive cloak
Of civilised words

I plead guilty to none
But one, i am a thief!
But i come not to steal things that glitters
But come to lay siege on the city of your heart
Though doubt and distrust
Stands sentry
Yet the soft lullably of my devotion
Shall lure them to sleep
For i come not to take your heart a prisoner
But to set it free.

Did he write that himself? It’s really quite profound. I particularly like his ‘hiv positive’ simile, and his rather cheeky allusion to ‘con men’.  He has talent, I’ll give him that.

The Jaffa Boatmen

A choice bit of spam this afternoon from ‘Carriaga Taran’:

A whimsical young man decides to help his friend avenge her attackers.

The Jaffa Boatmen

Taran sighed. He raised his thoughtful face to the stars, studying the galaxies that spread across the sky.

“I hope to become an astronomer one day.” he said dreamily.

Beside him, Miss Carriaga came to hope, to beg, that Lady Clonbrony had brought him no closer to this goal. At last, she spoke.
“Do you still have a tutor?” she asked.

“Yes. A worthy man.” Taran said. “He gave me a piece of cloth which I wore for a cap. I hold it between my cheek and my pillow when I sleep.”

“And do you still attend church?” Miss Carriaga asked.

“Indeed not!” Taran exclaimed, looking at her askance. “How, indeed, does one become possessed of religious fervour when one knows the intricacies of the skies?”

The two of them came to a small wooden bower and seated themselves on the several seats. Taran turned to Miss Carriaga with concern.

“And what of your suitors?” he asked.

“Suitors?” Miss Carriaga blustered. “I have none.”

“Have you no friend of your own?” Taran pressed.

“What need do I have for friends?” Miss Carriaga said. “I am happy with my horses. Excellent steeds.”

Endued with the speed of daring, Taran asked what he had been wondering for years.

“Miss, is it true that you were abused by the Jaffa boatmen?” he whispered.

Miss Carriaga gasped. “Such impertinence!”

“You must eschew fear and lies.” Taran told her. “The eternal curse in the insistence upon these two factors.”

“Those we may meet are Christ’s foes as well as ours.” Miss Carriaga snapped.

“Giving supremacy to fictional deities is against the rescissory act.” Taran declared.

“Not when you operate chiefly in the religious world, as I do.” Miss Carriaga shot back. She shook her head defiantly and one of her earrings fell down onto the deck. Cars dragged aloud on the road nearby.

“You must report the Jaffa boatmen to the authorities.” Taran said. “I dare you to do it!”

“I cannot!” Miss Carriaga said, close to tears.

“Let us make a bet.” Taran suggested.

“But we are in danger!” Miss Carriaga twisted her parasol handle nervously.

“He who casteth off what he the hours of darkness usher in, shall be a greater man!” Taran cried.  “Accompanied by my wife, I will help you bring the Jaffa boatmen to justice.”

“But it is winter here. The boatmen have gone up river now!” Miss Carriaga protested.

“Another young man would have given up by now, but I am determined to see justice done.” Taran said. “Did you ever meet my father, the exalted leader? We can ask him for assistance. Come on!” He grabbed Miss Carriaga by the hand and pulled her along in the direction of the town.

What Really Happened to Dove

Spam mail today from ‘Witthuhn Ariola’ with the rather menacing subject line ‘>:-(’.

The text was as follows:

 

Two friends discuss the recent death of Dove Griffiths, a young parishioner.

 
What Really Happened to Dove

“Dove’s parents were badly affected by her accident.” Mr. Within said.

“They never really got over it.” Ariola added.

“Still,” Mr Within said. “I must say they’re generous enough.”

“I wondered a bit, though.” Ariola mused. “Was it a road accident or something else?”

The two of them were sitting in a bower of green leaves and flowers.

“Such as we are good, honest people, we play no games nor mess about with emotions.” Mr Within said. “It isn’t our place to wonder what really happened to Dove.”

“She was the happiest creature imaginable.” Ariola lamented. “I would hate for her to have been killed unlawfully.”

“Don’t try to play Miss Marple.” Mr Within snapped. “You would have made a great charge against Dove’s father if I hadn’t stopped you.”

“But I suspected that he killed her!”Ariola protested.

“Your maiden coyness and love of liberty might make favour with the king, but it holds no water with me.” Mr Within said sternly.

“I just wanted justice for Miss Griffith.” Ariola insisted. “She was going to spend winter at the Belgrave Hotel at Llandudno with the Girl Guides.”

“Yes, I’m perfectly sure she was.” Mr Within said impatiently.

“That’s why I was surprised that the Minister wasn’t held as a suspect, regarding the correspondence he’d had with Dove.” Ariola said hurriedly, talking volubly. “When he strode by the scene of the accident, he was paid no attention. It got me thinking.”

“Please, this is all so tedious.” Mr Within sighed.

“No, listen to me!” Ariola raised her voice. “I was at the hall that day, helping Dove with the decorations for the jamboree. I knelt down at the grate and replaced the wood with coal. As I turned to look, I saw Dove and the Minister walking off towards the woods.”

“Nonsense!” Mr Within exclaimed. “I’ll hear no more of it!”

Trouble at the Theatre

Spam mail from ‘Hans Frohwein’ (how beautifully Bavarian) today, offering tips on ‘How To Give Her Absolute Pleasure’.

The randomly generated text seems to borrow heavily from the Vedas:

so I made it into a scene from Frohwein’s Theatre in Bremen, where a young actor, Hans, is rehearsing for a performance of an old Sanskrit drama. Hans’s sexuality has been the subject of rumour in the town, and Frohwein fears that the theatre’s name will come into disrepute.

 
Trouble at the Theatre

Frohwein and his chorus mistress, Nielsa, were watching the rehearsal from the wings. Young Hans was hamming it up as usual, flinging himself around the stage. Frohwein shook his head.

“He oughtn’t to be so flamboyant.” he tutted.

Nielsa shook her head. “Let him dance! And if the papers find it out, so be it.”

“But it will ruin us!” Frohwein hissed.

Nielsa pursed her lips and didn’t reply, putting her hands to her slender waist defiantly.

“Let me know, if you can,” Frohwein went on. “Why I should have to justify my actors’ own conduct by showing tolerance to this sort of behaviour?”

“Christ, do whatever you think best for your theatre.” Nielsa said impatiently. “I don’t see how Hans being gay should be a problem. I, myself, in the deepest recesses of myself, have been hungry for my own gender.”

Frohwein raised his eyebrows at the revelation.

“But,” Nielsa went on. “After a long time, I realised that the facet of God’s personage called chastisement would work against me. Thus, I suppressed my desires. Why is it that we should place less importance upon the objects of our love, and more on the wishes of some false deity?”

“Blasphemy!” Frohwein muttered.

“Through repression, one falls away from the torrents of one’s essence.” Nielsa said, and the two of them fell to a prickly silence, turning to watch Hans begin a soulful soliloquy.

“This impetuous onset of rain is marked by the gods, the Gandharvas, and the Pitris!” he cried. “Behold, sinful wretches, the virtuous king Yudhishthira! He spends his days in great joy, in the company of Duryodhana whom he loves.”

Hans finished his soliloquy with a flourish, and the rest of the cast burst into impromptu applause.

In the wings, Nielsa looked pointedly at Frohwein and flounced off.

The Lady Papillion Affair

I got a spam mail this morning from a ‘Skemp Papillion’ offering to show me how to ‘Prove Your Lovee!’. A useful skill, I’m sure you’ll agree… The spam text was your bog-standard mish mash:

 

I turned it into a short scene in which two Victorian ladies discuss the murder of a local celebrity.

 
The Lady Papillion Affair

“Is that the man you were talking about?” Miss Skemp whispered, gesturing to a fellow who was looking up from under his overhung and tufted brows. His hair was long and dark.

“Oh yes!” said Anne. “That’s him. Lizzie likes him very much.”

The man came over.

“Good afternoon, ladies.” he said. “My name is Mr. Roger Merton.”

“Good day, sir.” Anne said. “We were just discussing you.”

“We know a friend of yours.” Miss Skemp explained.

“I see.” Merton said. “I have just returned from working abroad. I was sexton of the cathedral of Lustadt, working beside the body of Lady Papillion.”

“You mean you were there when they found her?” Anne gasped.

“Yes.” Merton cleared his throat uncomfortably. “The trial wasn’t short. It went on for much longer than we expected.”

“The murder of Lady Papillion captured our imaginations, I can tell you.” Miss Skemp said. “I know her poor husband.”

“She has known him for years.” Anne added.

“I have it under good authority that Mr. Massey was the murderer.” Merton said.

Just then there came a loud knock at the door and Miss Skemp’s young son Adam appeared with a plate of food. The adults went and sat on the terrace overlooking a ridge of mountains extending to the horizon. The plate had loaves of bread and slices of tongue on it, then a quarter pound of excellent caviar.

“You’ve always had expensive taste, no?” Anne teased.

But Miss Skemp was eager to talk more about the Lady Papillion case. She leant towards Anne and Merton.

“Wouldn’t it be a good idea to try and solve the murder once and for all?” she whispered.

“Please, hush!” Anne hissed, for the child’s eyes were on her.

Two Influential Southerners

I got a spam mail today from ‘Cardoza Andries’ with a puzzling title:

Don’t Blame Turkey For Post-Feast Nap.

The message was slightly less charming:

“Ha, ha, ha!! With a peniss of your’s it’s only ppossible to fuckk a TThumbelina! Go ffix it right now!”

Harsh.

Thankfully the randomly-generated text was worthy of a Spam Story:

  

 Two Influential Southerners

“What was James like?” Cardoza asked.

“Ah, James!” Reichardt laughed. “When he had provisions and a small supply of tobacco, his passion for anything printed was insatiable.”

“He liked books?” Andries wrinkled his nose.

“He loved them.” Reichardt said. “He would wonder what you were all like, not loving literature!”

“I can’t imagine that we would have got on well.” Cardoza said.

“What a wonderful cynic you are, Miss.” Reichardt said to the girl.

“Oh dear, Mr. Reed,” Cardoza turned lachrymose. “I forgot to tell you. Tom Simmons is dead.”

“Dead?” Reichardt exclaimed. “How so?”

“He just keeled over, an’ sung out his death song.” Cardoza lamented.

“Was he your lover?” Reichardt asked. Cardoza demurred a little, but knowing that Reichardt’s wife knew the Simmons’ butler, she closed the door so no-one would overhear. But there was yet one sliver of space between the lintel and the door.

In the hallway a man was creeping towards Reichardt’s study, holding out one of his hands. It was Vandeloup. He pulled the door open a little further, the better to hear the conversation within. He looked up and saw Gwythyr, the son of Greidawl, walking over. Vandeloup put one finger to his lips to silence the newcomer.

“Eh, I suppose Reichardt knows the truth.” Gwythyr whispered. Vandeloup nodded. The latter was about to speak when the shriek rent the air close beside them.

The two influential southerners had come to Reichardt’s estate to compete in an open air horse-racing contest, the prize for which was a golden apple. Vandeloup’s horse wasn’t so sure-footed any more, and they were living at much less expense than people thought.

“You were actually in the restaurant?” they heard Cardoza shouting in Reichardt’s study.

“Yes!” the man shouted back. “I want sum of one hundred thousand pounds in cash if you want me to keep it a secret from Selina.”

Behind the door, Vandeloup turned to Gwythyr with a thoughtful expression of countenance.

Of Drugs and Money

Female viagra is all the rage among spammers these days. I got a junk mail today from ‘Perkowski Bosten’ offering me a way to get ‘any wooman into bed’…

This was the addendum:

Some of it seems to have been taken from ‘Main Street’ by Sinclair Lewis, so kudos to the spammer for that. I turned it into a scene in a Boston cafe in the 1920s.

 

Of Drugs and Money

“The love of money,” Perkowski said, stirring his coffee. “Is the root of all evil.”

Lewis shook his head. “But wisely directed, money may do a lot of good.”

“Interesting.” Perkowski mused, pleased that Lewis had voiced his opinion then and there before matters had gone further.

Just then, their journalist friend Rosie appeared. “A thousand apologies for being so late.” she said.

“Don’t worry.” Lewis said. “Please, sit down.”

“I was held back at the office reporting on the debutante ball.” Rosie explained.

“We were just talking of money.” Perkowski told her. “I am thinking of giving away my fortune. Lewis will help me to make a donation to charity.”

“Pride would not allow him to do himself.” Lewis teased.

“Are you not afraid he will squander your money?” Rosie joked to Perkowski.

“Indeed not.” Perkowski laughed. “If he tries, I know where he is. His social security number is 419458460.”

“I’m thinking of heading north with some of the money.” Lewis said. “Wanderlust is one of my original characteristics. I want to see if any more Lashmars are buried near the magic tree in Maida.” He kept his voice from trembling with anticipation and longing, smiling to himself.

“Did you see the aqueduct show last week?” Rosie asked. “I hear it was quite a party.”

“Yes, I did.” Perkowski said. “The organisers made and strategically manufactured a new drug called Skasvin.”

“How is it taken?” Lewis asked.

“You fry it in sweet butter, and being fried it puts out a gas which can be inhaled.”

Rosie nodded. Then she asked “I wonder if you have noticed the difference in clientele here at Rauscher’s Confiserie.”

No sooner had she spoken than four debutantes clattered in, giggling.

“How wrong it is!” Perkowski exclaimed.

“I’m afraid it’s the way of the world these days.” Rosie sighed. “Think what it has done to us all.” She turned and looked disdainfully at the noisy arrivals.

“I intend to travel to the foliated hill with my friend Harold.” Lewis continued with his reverie. “His high ideals are ever the same as mine. At Zeppa we ascended the Sugarloaf Mountain. It would not have been possible without funding from Perkowski.”

Rosie, bored of his musings, looked around the cafe. The figure of Alexander the cook was visible through the glass partition. He was sharpening large kitchen knives. Life seemed to be at a standstill.

Recovery

Another viagra spam mail from ‘Gulati Menas’ entitled ‘filmset burps’. I found the tagline quite interesting:

The randomly generated text is pretty standard:

 
Gulati is undergoing rehab in a clinic which doubles as an old people’s home. He is talking to his friends Menas and Filippe about his experiences.

Recovery

“I’m glad you made the decision to seek help, Gulati.” Menas said.

Gulati nodded from his armchair. “I’m feeling a lot better.”

“Good.”

“But I was manifestly near to breaking.” he confessed. “I mean, what if someone was to see this?” He handed his cup to Filippe and rolled back his sleeve to display a prison tattoo on his forearm.

“You certainly led a fast life.” Filippe said.

“My festivities were curtailed owing to the recent crackdown on the drug trade.” Gulati lamented.

“What’s it like here?” Menas asked, keen to change the subject.

“It’s fine.” Gulati said. “I was in a relationship with old lady Hartingfield until she died.”

Menas and Filippe exchanged a glance.

“She wrote me a poem before she died.” Gulati reached into his cabinet and took out a sheet of paper. Clearing his throat, he began to read.

“My love now sweeps up from the water’s edge, and takes from the Pelasgians the custom of having been blessed by waters and by forms of love that lightened out the reasons why war is ever necessary.”

Menas cleared her throat and pointed out of the window. “There are some gorgeous old trees and shrubs out there.”

“Her death was a blessing in disguise.” Gulati went on. “If she’d had a lot more nights with me, our love may not have lasted.”

“Where is Billy?” Filippe asked, referring to a friend of Gulati’s whom they had met during their last visit.

“Billy Potter?” Gulati said. “He’s sat with a granny in the livingroom.”

In The Broom Cupboard

No spam for ages, then this comes along:

 

 

 

 

 

from ‘Lucia Serie’ with the subject ‘pirhouette udal’.

Surprisingly coherent as spam texts go. It wasn’t too difficult to turn into a brief scene in which a couple discovers that an old friend has spiralled into insanity.

In The Broom Cupboard

And Robert Curtis found himself once more alone in the house next door as we passed. The night was black, and he was staring out at us from the hallway.

“Why were you in the broom cupboard?” Lucia asked him as we entered.

“Aunt Jane?” Robert whispered nervously.

“No, it’s me.” Lucia said and threw me an anxious glance.

“Aunt Jane is coming!” Robert cried. “She will rage against any woman she thinks is her rival.”

I looked at Lucia and raised my shoulders in helplessness.

“The problems of Jane’s life began Egypt.” Robert raved on.

“I didn’t know anything about that.” Lucia said.

“If the bitter taste in your coffee is only coffee, you’re lucky. It means Jane hasn’t poisoned you.” Robert manoeuvred himself back into the broom cupboard.

“What is his problem?” Lucia whispered to me.

“I don’t know.” I frowned. “He didn’t say exactly what was going on in the few letters I had from him…”

Among the Ascenzos

I got an email from ‘Zuehlke Ascenzo’ today entitled ‘thesis eyrir’. It was a picture:

                                          

followed by a paragraph:                 

 

Among the Ascenzos

“I studied the Ascenzo tribe for my doctoral thesis.” Professor Eyrir said to his son Tom. “They struggled in battle. They were all slain by the son of Zuelhke.”

Tom, weary of hearing his father’s tales, turned to leave.

“I want to tell you something before you go.” Eyrir called.

The boy frowned. They were in a desecrated church of the earliest Norman style at the end of the dim prairie.

“When I was living among the Ascenzo people I witnessed many frightening things.” Eyrir said. Tom sighed and steeled himself for another tedious story. “At the temple of Kurujangala the veil was swept across,” Eyrir continued. “And the priest performed a sacrifice.”

“You’ve already told me this.” Tom yawned.

“My fellow anthropologists and I had parked our cars on the side of the road by the temple.” Eyrir went on. “And the threat of the enemy loomed large. There had been a drought and there was no rabbit to hunt. Luckily we escaped and got on a boat back to England.”

Unbeknownst to Eyrir, Tom had sloped out of the church. The professor carried on talking. “But when we found ourselves back in Oxford Street our master directed us to get the ship on her course again, and head straight back!”