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"The Hacker's In the Dell..."

Updated on July 28, 2012
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Chest radiograph showing a Pancoast tumor
Chest radiograph showing a Pancoast tumor | Source

Coffee...(check). Kidney...(check).

There are certain things that occur to a person as they wake up. A way of ordering the day, really. The need to pee. The need for coffee. The dentist appointment that afternoon. It is also a time for reflection...

Like every morning, I was glad that I had not woken up in a bathtub filled with ice, missing a kidney with a cryptic message scrawled, in green Sharpie, on my forearm, advising me to call 9-11…no…I didn’t feel like a victim. Still…I needed coffee…and I needed to pee...

Certain thoughts don’t occur while watching the coffee machine dither about in the conduction of its most vital function…the generation of morning caffeine in liquid form. (Gurgle-slurp-blurb...one drop...) No.I didn’t feel like an addict...

I should imagine that if you scheduled a liquor-store heist following your dentist appointment… it may occur to you that there was a possibility of being arrested that day; but generally speaking, I don’t think most people plan on being arrested when they wake up. No. I didn’t feel like an impending criminal...

Likewise…I rarely expect to fall in love on any given day. Certainly, there is always that hope, however, such things as love should not be planned on. Love is better when it surprises you. No. I didn’t feel like I was about to be handed that certain special set of particular complications and rewards...

These denials aside...like a glob of butter from a smoker’s lung...something was coming up...I could feel it...


A Farm...where farm food comes from...
A Farm...where farm food comes from... | Source
Breakfast fixings...not mine...but...
Breakfast fixings...not mine...but... | Source
A valid breakfast choice...
A valid breakfast choice... | Source

Domestic Bliss Shattered...

My two mental roommates...Creative Voice and Internal CD player were moving about my intellectual kitchen scene as well.

Creative Voice was banging the cerebral cereal bowls while internal CD player was humming an odd choice for our household...’The Farmer in the Dell’. Even odder...he was singing Romania’s version of the famous children’s rhyme, “Ura, draguta mea...”

Farm food did sound good though. Maybe, eggs? A grain item? Toast. Would toast be a grain item? I’m never sure. I looked in my fridge. I didn’t seem to have eggs, toast, bread, dragons, or grain.

My brief survey did reveal coffee and a half carton of half-and-half. Additionally, fourteen empty pizza boxes enabled the physical anthropologist the ability to interpret my dietary sadness by strata and associated flora and fauna growth. This rounded out my meager search results...

(Gurgle-slurp-blurb...one drop...)

My domestic bliss was shattered by Iron Maiden’s “The Trooper.” Cell-phone ring. Boss calling. I didn’t answer it, availing myself instead; of a technology I understood...Voice mail. I did, however, head towards the shower as I knew the resultant message would require me to be far more ready for the day than I currently was...


Source
J. Edgar Hoover and his assistant Clyde Tolson sitting in beach lounge chairs, circa 1939
J. Edgar Hoover and his assistant Clyde Tolson sitting in beach lounge chairs, circa 1939 | Source
The Victim...Attemptedhumour...
The Victim...Attemptedhumour...

The Crime Scene...

Even without my boss’ heads-up, I would have still known something was amiss. There was much gnashing of teeth and rending of breast going on.

Hubbers were running pell-mell, in various states of undress, some...speaking in tongues...others...just using their tongues.

Pandemonium appeared to be driving the bus this morning and he was drifting over the double-yellow lines...

Hugging the wall as the building emptied around me, I was like a salmon fighting upstream, but without the expectant ‘happy ending,’ at the conclusion of my travails. I saw the Children’s Literature Hubs move past...Chicken Little plaintively warning that the sky was falling...

As a seasoned journalist, I knew how to dress and what to bring to a crime scene...

Cargo shorts, t-shirt, flip-flops, computer bag, beach chair, cooler, nail clippers, pencils, my lucky quarter, clean underwear, an empty plastic baggie, four AA-batteries, post-it-notes, and a didgeridoo. I’m a firm believer that your shorts should have lots of pockets and you should have a comfortable beach chair to sit in...

In keeping with the literary nature of our crime scene...I had also brought along a paperback mystery. It was entitled, ‘The Essentials of Grammar.”

The halls were largely empty now. A few panicked Hubbers still running for exits. I could see the flashing lights and crime scene tape strung across a familiar Hubsville office. Its occupant sitting just outside the tape...in a beach chair...

In a mix of emotions I was surprised, happy, bummed, and justified. Although my boss had informed me of an incident...he hadn’t told me the victim’s name, hence the surprise. I considered the man a friend so I was happy to see him, however, I was bummed that my friend was the Vic. Bringing a didgeridoo to a crime scene is a hit-or-miss proposition, therefore, I felt justified that I had brought it today...

The man’s name was Attemptedhumour and he hailed from down under...


Beer...
Beer... | Source
HMAS LST 3014
HMAS LST 3014 | Source
Photo of Rhinoplasty Nose Surgery...
Photo of Rhinoplasty Nose Surgery... | Source
Guarding the secrets of Star Wars...
Guarding the secrets of Star Wars... | Source
One Element in the party known as..."Lash this piffle down..."
One Element in the party known as..."Lash this piffle down..." | Source

The Dirty Deets...

As I deployed my beach chair, Attemptedhumour reached into his own cooler and pulled out a couple of beers and passed one to me.

“Hey mate!” He announced. “Cheers!”

“To the Queen’s health.” I responded in the traditional toast. “So...you got hacked, huh?” I asked surprised.

Settling in, I kicked off my flip-flops, pulled out a pencil and post-it-notes, and readied the nail clippers and empty plastic baggie. I had managed to locate four pizza remnants pieces from the top three boxes in my refrigerator...and I offered a piece (in three parts) to my friend. He declined.

“Right...bloody hackers?!” Replied the typically unflappable Australian. “You had better watch your own stuff...you could easily be next.”

He was a man of secrets...hailing from the other side of the planet... (And the bottom part to boot)...he was an enigma to me. I had once heard that he sailed the seven seas with his nation’s navy, in search of amorous gravy, however, his name appeared on no martial rolls associated with that service...

Distinguished looking, he was sporting a salt-and-pepper thing, red shirt, chino slacks, and boat shoes. Getting back to the mystery thing...I always suspected that he had some cosmetic work done. It’s just a feeling. Not for vanity. No. That wasn’t his way...he’s a humble man. Besides...had it been for vanity, I can’t help but think he would have done a better job...

Concealment, then? Perhaps he worked with their intelligence service...spying on penguins?Maybe he was in the Australian version of their ‘Witness Protection’ program? For some reason...I assume it’s called the Kangaroo Hop...

Conversely...criminal element? I read in my history book that they all came from convict stock. I don’t judge, though. I too come from convict stock...although...local...not imported...

I don’t pry. I believe a man’s secrets are his secrets...even when his toilet spins entirely in the wrong direction upon flushing...which I’m pretty sure...is also some kind of secret...

“CSI guys?” I indicated the swirling activity around his office door. “What happened?”

Indignantly he replied, “Hell if I know! I was merely trying to lash this piffle down and all bloody hell broke loose mate....all bloody hell...!”

Lash this piffle down...

I contemplated the term “Lash this piffle down” and applied the Reno, Nevada usage to the expression before asking...

“How do four lizards, a prostitute, a staple gun, a king-sized bed (with queen-sized sheets), and a hollowed out (but never used) pumpkin factor into this?”

“That’s what you Yanks call “Lash this piffle down?”

“Pfft...That’s what we call Tuesday nights my friend.”


The button that got pushed...
The button that got pushed...
Source
The Didgeridoo...in action...
The Didgeridoo...in action... | Source
Spoons...
Spoons... | Source
Frogs...maybe from Thailand...
Frogs...maybe from Thailand... | Source

I Pushed this one Button...

I explained my presence to Attemptedhumour and he was aghast...

“You pressed the ‘Write this Hub’ button on the Weekly Inspirational Topic??” He asked incredulously,

“You have read Dave Powell’s hub, Nailing Hackers’ Hides to the Wall haven’t you mate? It was brilliant, brilliant! Clarity. Well written and clever...Oh...and let’s not forget...it’s actually informative!”

That last bit was my Achilles heel in this whole Hubsville thing...they seemed to like stuff to be accurate and informative. Worse...they preferred material to be relevant to some type of real topic or Google search.

I pondered a way to write my way out of this conundrum while Attemptedhumour chuckled at my naiveté...I began clipping my toe nails as we waited... (clip, clip)...

“Hey mate,” noted my friend, “Besides for being disgusting...should you really be clipping your toe nails at a crime scene? DNA evidence...chain of evidence sort of thing...”

“I’m well aware of the hazards of throwing DNA samples around a crime scene, good sir. Which is why I brought this.” I hold up the empty baggie...“Oh...you should play this...” I pass across the didgeridoo.

Attemptedhumour stares at me.

“What?” I shrug.

“You assume because I come from Australia that I inexplicably know how to play this thing don’t you?”

“I was hoping.” I nod as I carefully place two-thirds of a big toe-nail in my baggie...

“Damn bloody Yanks!” My friend grumbled before busting out with a haunting rendition of Thailand’s version of the famous children’s rhyme...”The Farmer in the Dell”...

(wuuaa, wuuaa, wua...)

Internal CD player clicks on and begins to accompany him on the spoons.

Considering how many versions of this song he seemed to know...I was impressed by his multi-cultural-ism and wicked spoon playing abilities...

(tippity-clack, tickity-clap...)

(wuuaa, wuuaa, wua...)

I bust out in song...”Why does the frog have a stomach ache...?”

(wuuaa, wuuaa, wua...)

(tippity-clack, tickity-clap...)

(clip, clip)

“Why is the rice wet?” I crooned, “Because it has been raining...”

Attemptedhumour brought it home... (wuuaa, wuuaa, wua...)

(tippity-clack, tickity-clap...)

(clip, clip, clip)

“Because the frog as been croaking...”

Our impromptu jam session comes to a ragged coughing halt as a technician nears the crime scene tape...


The threat...
The threat... | Source
Russia...
Russia... | Source
Source
Leon Trotsky in uniform (Soviet general)
Leon Trotsky in uniform (Soviet general) | Source

Tommy the Technician...

The technician was young-ish...maybe mid-20s. Thin, slight of build, average height, goatee...like America’s hegemony...his hairline was receding fast. Within his eyes there was a light burning...the light of the technical convert. A crime scene pass identified him as Tommy the Technician.

“Yeah. You had a hacker. They were looping a (technical talk) using a RDP into a (technical talk) SBS 03 machine...” he reported knowingly.

“They were from Russia. I basically shadowed their session and every time they created a new user in the command prompt...I’d hit the up key, change add to delete, and delete the user!”He finished triumphantly...

The light in his eyes reflected the confusion in ours...

“Huh, mate?”

“What you say?”

“He was using your server to set up fake profiles on websites to get a person to click on links for naughty pictures...which actually installs malware.”

“How do you know they were Russian?” I asked.

“Was it Russian porn?” Asked (a little too interested) Attemptedhumour.

“Was it called ‘Trotsky’s Trollops’?” I inquired...

Internal CD player...”Brown-chicken, brown-cow...Bow-chick-a-wow-wow...”

“The Gulag Girls of Gorki?” This from Attemptedhumour.

“Um...you know what an IP address is, right?” Probed Tommy the Technician as he attempted to edge away...

“Of course.” I responded. Internet porn?

“Well everyone has one...and this one came from Russia.”

Attemptedhumour confirmed what I was thinking...”From Russia with Love, eh?”

The notion that I had an unknown Internet Russian Porn address had me intrigued.I made a mental post-it-note to check this out when I got home...

I informed Tommy the Technician that (in all likelihood) he was going to appear in a short story and I asked him if he would like to be clothed in super-hero garb...maybe a cape...

“Nah, regular clothes are fine.” Tommy the Technician stated. “And really...you don’t have to put me in any story. Please don’t put me in a story.”

“Are you sure?” I asked...ignoring his request to be left out. “The ladies really like a good set of super-hero undies. Have you actually had super-hero undie sex?”

“The Kremlin Kondom?” Hollered out a still excited Attemptedhumour...

“The Ladies of Leningrad?” I offered back. In a perverted politburo ping-pong match...this went on for awhile. Tommy the Technician slipped away...


Telephone Book...
Telephone Book... | Source
Source
Dave Powell...Writer...Internet guy...
Dave Powell...Writer...Internet guy... | Source

Back at Home...

Attemptedhumour and I had separated after making plans to hit the Hubpub later in the week for a few drinks. He wished me luck on my writing endeavor and I (belatedly) congratulated him on his nomination for the Booker Prize for his Hub...”Don’t We all Hate Unnecessary Punctuation.”

Creative Voice had declined to go to the crime scene with us, citing the need to work on his novel.

When Internal CD player and I got home...Creative Voice was sleeping on the couch and a free-cell solitaire game was displayed on his computer. I woke him up and put him on point to find this Russian Internet porn address thingy...

As he was working I re-read the Inspirational Topic writing prompt. I re-read it again. Wait. It doesn’t ask how I would stop a hacker...it asks what I would do about protecting myself from hackers...that was easy...I reached for the telephone book...I would call this guy...

DAVE POWELL

Writer

Internet Guy

I was tidying up my Hub...making sure all the loose ends were neatly accounted for. I was reviewing the opening paragraphs of nonsensical denials and statements I had made when I was just trying to get words on the page...there was a knock on the door...

“Thought Sandwiches?” Asked the cop standing on my porch.

“Uh-huh.” I replied warily.

“There was an incident in Hubsville today,” he reported, “In the course of our investigation we discovered a bag of toe-nail clippings at the scene of the crime...you are going to need to come downtown and answer some questions.”

“Are you arresting me?” I asked surprised...I hadn't planned on being arrested today when I woke up...


Tommy the Technician's dinner...
Tommy the Technician's dinner... | Source
Superhero undies...
Superhero undies... | Source
Lizards of love...
Lizards of love... | Source

Tommy the Technician...

When Tommy the Technician got home to Reno, he was worn out from the day’s events. He kissed his girl and they sat down to enjoy the loving meal she had created.

In the normal give and take of a healthy relationship, he related the extraordinary events that had occurred in Hubsville while she filled him in on her doings that afternoon.

After a few hours of television and cuddling...they went to bed. The girl was the first to notice...

“Oh baby,” she purred upon seeing him stripped down and wearing only super-hero undies.

“That fucking asshole.” Groaned Tommy the Technician upon noticing what had garnered her attention...

“Baby? I know it’s not Tuesday...but would you like to ‘Lash this piffle down?”

“I’ll make a call to the escort service and get the lizards!” Said the suddenly happy Tommy the Technician. As he was grabbing the pumpkin carving implements he couldn’t help but think that, perhaps, that old guy might have some inner wisdom as regards super-hero undie sex...


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