by Ray Daniel
“Tucker, what are you doing?” Maria was up.
“I’m looking for people on the Internet.”
“Like with dating?”
“No. Not like with dating. What do you want for breakfast?”
It turned out that Maria wanted pancakes. I fished through the unfamiliar kitchen, found the ingredients, and whipped up some pancakes with chocolate chips as a favor to Maria. I’m not a fan of candy for breakfast, but then again I’m in my thirties.
As Maria ate her breakfast, I started searching Twitter for signs of PwnSec. They were easy to find; in fact, they screamed for attention. The @PwnSec account spewed links to manifestos, plans, and—
“I’m going to watch TV,” said Maria.
“Your mom said no TV,” I said, looking at my computer screen.
“What?”
I turned to Maria. “No TV.”
“Why?”
“It seems you’re being consequenced for letting your Facebook account get hacked.”
“What?”
“You are being punished.”
“This is bullshit!”
“Hey! Language.”
“You say it.”
“I’m an adult with a potty mouth.”
“I’m a kid with a potty mouth.”
“Kids aren’t allowed to have potty mouths.”
Maria slid out of her chair and headed for her room.
“What are you going to do?” I asked.
“Use my computer. If that’s okay.”
“Yeah, it’s fine.”
Maria stomped down the hallway to her room. Just before her bedroom door closed she got in one last “Bullshit!”
Well, that was a bad start.
I went back to Googling PwnSec. They had a pathetic track record. While they were good at recruiting others to take part in denial-
of-service attacks, team efforts that overwhelmed websites, they rarely initiated an activity. They were vocal about the #GamerGate battle on Twitter, which mixed a call for ethical standards in video-game journalism with a heavy dose of misogyny. But they didn’t—
“I’m bored.” Maria stood by my side.
A tweak of irritation rippled through my stomach.
“Don’t say you’re bored. Only boring people get bored.”
Maria climbed in my lap. “But I am bored.”
“You must be able to find something to do. You have all those toys in your room.”
“They’re boring.”
“Please, honey. I’m trying to do something.”
“You’re supposed to be watching me.”
“I am watching you.”
“I’m bored!”
“We’ll go out for lunch, okay?”
“What about until then? You said I can’t watch TV.”
“No, no TV.”
Maria jumped off my lap. “This is such bullshit!”
“Hey!”
She stomped back down to her room. Slammed the door.
I went over to Twitter and looked at PwnSec’s account. They had ten followers, which was pathetic. A group of any—
I started wondering what Maria was doing in her room. Got up, walked down, knocked on the door, opened it.
Maria sat in front of her computer, transfixed.
“Whatcha doin’?”
“Computer,” said Maria.
I walked around her computer and looked at the screen. A cartoon llama was having a bad day.
“I thought your mom said no TV.”
“I’m not watching TV.”
“Netflix is TV.”
“No, it isn’t TV. You said I could use my computer.”
Screw Adriana and her arbitrary rules.
“You’re right. It’s not. Enjoy.”
I went back to my computer, back to the PwnSec Twitter page. With only ten followers, anything in the feed had to be useful. I wrote a little script that listed the followers in the order they’d joined. Got a list of names: Eliza, Runway, Tron, Metalhead, etc. Some of these had to be on PwnSec. Now I had to—
“Tucker, I’m hungry,” said Maria.
I looked up at the wall clock. It was 1:30. I had coded through lunch.
“Let’s get lunch,” I said.
We walked over to Neptune Oyster, where Maria devoured a lobster roll while I chowed down on fried clams and tartar sauce. Comfort food di mare.
We finished lunch and walked back to the apartment, where I coded while Maria continue to watch the adventurous llama’s hijinks. By the time Catherine showed up to relieve me, I had a pretty good handle on PwnSec.
Let the doxing commence.
Eleven
I unlocked my condo door, stepped inside. Put my laptop bag on the kitchen counter. Pulled my last Mayflower Winter Oatmeal Stout out of the refrigerator. While I was happy to see the relatively mild winter go by the boards, I’d miss the Oatmeal Stout.
“Hey, boys,” I said to my roommates as I poured the beer. I examined its dark color and creamy head. “See you in November,” I said to the stout and took a long drink. Made a mental note to pick up some Mayflower Spring Hop Ale.
I love living in a place that has all four seasons.
Click and Clack, my hermit crabs, slept in their tank. The crabs, like all things in my life, had maintained a comfortable stasis over the past year, going about their crabby routines without regard to the passage of time.
I sat on a barstool at my kitchenette’s counter. This put me in the dead center of my space, living room at one end and bedroom at the other. I considered calling Caroline Quinn for a date, but it was late and I was bushed. I opted for some solitude instead. Time for supper.
I steamed some leftover eggplant parm, opened my laptop, and continued my doxing of PwnSec. I’d discovered a lot. PwnSec seemed to have four main members: Eliza, Runway, NotAGirl, and Tron. Their Twitter traffic, pronouncements, and threats to the general welfare of society generated a constant stream of self-congratulatory traffic, yet little real action. The only thing they seemed to be good at was life ruins.
Eliza generally spoke for the group, writing posts and tweets that tried to equate the shaming of a young woman with a takedown of the nation’s power structure. The tweets often linked to pictures on 4chan.org/b/. The pictures usually featured a topless young woman with a shoe perched on her head. The “shoe on head” is the Internet way of saying, “I surrender!”
Runway was PwnSec’s own little life-ruin wrecking ball. His favorite trick was to post live-chat logs of his attacks on Twitter:
@Runway: You’re sorry now, aren’t you, bitch.
@HeartBaby: Why are you doing this?
@Runway: You know why. Your boyfriend let us know.
@HeartBaby: I don’t have a boyfriend. Give me back my e-mail!
@Runway: You hurt him pretty bad.
These conversations eventually got around to Runway demanding a topless picture of the girl with a shoe on her head. Runway also posted these to Twitter with the hashtag #missionaccomplished.
The other PwnSec members spent their time doing minor hacks on websites, encouraging others to join in on denial-of-service attacks, and occasionally engaging in their own life ruins.
The results got PwnSec the attention they craved. Friends of the women lambasted PwnSec on Twitter, launched into flame wars with them, threatened to turn them in to the police. The hue and cry reached a crescendo when a student at UMass Amherst committed suicide after an online attack. PwnSec disavowed responsibility for the death.
@Eliza: We didn’t kill her.
@UMasster: Sure. #RememberSue
@Eliza: She had mental problems. No normal person suicides over a life ruin.
@UMasster: Keep telling yourself that. #RememberSue
I looked up from my comp
uter. My eggplant parm sat untouched on its dish, having cooled and congealed into something that looked more like a genetic accident than a dinner. Wallowing around in the Internet left me with a case of free-floating anger and a touch of self-loathing. If you wanted to believe that there is no judge and there is no justice, the Internet was the place for you. It wasn’t the place for me.
I picked up the phone and called Huey. “These PwnSec people are pieces of shit.”
“Yeah, I guess,” said Huey.
“You guess?”
“There’s worse.”
“There’s always worse. You still don’t want me to dox these guys?”
“I didn’t say that I didn’t want you to dox them. I said that this kind of stuff always gets people hurt.”
“Maria was suspended from school because of them.”
“Why do you say it was them?”
“Gut feeling.”
“You do what you have to do, Tucker. Just leave me out of it.”
“These guys nee—Wait, I have another call coming through.”
“Take it. I’m hanging up.”
“You let her watch TV!” Adriana screeched over the phone.
It took a moment for my brain to click back from the Internet to the real world.
“Did you hear me?” she asked.
“I did not let her watch TV.”
“You let her watch it on her computer.”
“That’s not TV,” I said, stealing Maria’s argument.
“You are as bad as she is.”
“Listen—”
“Worse! You’re supposedly an adult.”
“Yes, well, supposed adults don’t get screamed at over the phone.”
“I asked you to do one thing.”
“Yes. Stay home with her. I did.”
“And no TV.”
“That’s two things.”
“You couldn’t back me up on that?”
“I did back you up, but I wasn’t going to ruin my day for you. What’s she supposed to do without a computer?”
“I don’t know. Her homework?”
“What homework? She’s not going to school.”
“The teacher sent some home.”
“She can do it now.”
“There’s too much. She’s going to have to do it tomorrow.”
“I’m taking her out tomorrow.”
Silence. I imagined Adriana fuming. Finally she said, “You’re what?”
“I’m taking her out somewhere.”
“Where?”
“I thought we’d take in a cockfight, then cruise the Combat Zone.”
Adriana held the phone to her chest and started yelling muffled things at Catherine. Then started in again, apparently with a new strategy. “This is no good for her.”
“What?”
“She misbehaves and you reward her?”
“She’s not misbehaving.”
“What do you call bullying the other kids and getting suspended?”
“I call it working shit through.”
Mumbles from Adriana.
“She’s had a rough year,” I continued. “Everything’s gone to hell for her.”
“Taking it out on other kids is misbehaving.”
“Taking it out on other people is what Sal would do. She’s doing her best with what she’s been taught.”
“Hmmph.”
“You’re doing the same thing. There are a lot of apples that didn’t fall far from the Rizzo tree.” I paused. “Switching subjects, I’ve been looking into the guys who hacked Maria.”
“For Christ’s sake. Drop it!”
“They’re really bad people. She’s not the first.”
“And she won’t be the last.”
“I’m telling you that one of them is Peter Olinsky.”
“Where are you taking Maria tomorrow?”
“Haven’t decided. When I do, I’ll let you know.”
Adriana broke the connection. I tossed the phone down, walked over to the kitchen cabinet that held my liquor, and examined my options. Noah’s Mill bourbon with its 114 proof beckoned.
“Yes,” I said. “You’ll do nicely.”
Twelve
I’m a Facebook escapee. A few of us have fled the big blue status machine, and I don’t know one who has ever said, “Boy, I miss being on Facebook.”
I have friends on Facebook. They tell me, “Oh, Tucker, you just don’t get Facebook.” I get Facebook just fine. Facebook is like being at a continuous drinking session with your pals down at the bar where one of them says something stupid and everybody argues about it all night.
“Tom Brady is the best quarterback in the history of everything.”
“No, he’s not!”
“Yes, he is. I’ll prove it …”
“Here’s a picture of a funny cat.”
Then you all throw up on each other—figuratively—if not always literally.
Compared to that, Twitter is like a cocktail party. You say something witty, people chuckle, they give you a golf clap, sometimes they take you aside with a direct message and say something short—140 characters short. Following someone on Twitter is the same as walking up to a group at the cocktail party and giving someone your attention.
I fled Facebook because I wanted to be left alone after my wife died. I stayed off Facebook because I realized that trying to keep yourself private with Facebook’s byzantine privacy system is like trying to catch rainwater in a colander.
Twitter is pretty simple. You tweet something and everyone following you sees it. You put someone’s handle at the beginning of a tweet and only those following the both of you see it. Direct messages are private. That’s it. That’s the whole system.
Facebook is not simple. You post something and only your friends can see it, unless you made it public, or unless you tagged a friend, or unless a friend tagged you, etc., etc., etc. Same for comments. Your political buddy posts something outrageous, so you call him a misanthropic ignoramus. That comment, which you thought was private because you weren’t paying attention to the little audience icon, is actually visible to the world. Keeping things private on Facebook requires a level of paranoid diligence that most of us cannot muster.
I sat in front of the computer, drank high-proof whiskey, and logged into Maria’s Facebook account. I wasn’t going to post anything in her name—that would be creepy—but I was going to invoke my white-hat status as a hacker and fish around her friends’ accounts. Gustav Olinsky was, amazingly, still Maria’s friend. Then again, Gustav had only ten friends, so I could see how he’d be slow to unfriend her. Gustav’s brother, Peter, was one of Gustav’s friends, a Guy Fawkes profile picture among Gustav’s handful of schoolmates and cool adult relatives.
I clicked on Peter’s Facebook account. Peter wasn’t Maria’s friend so I could see only his public information. To his credit, Peter ran a tight ship. I couldn’t see much. His friend list was hidden, a trick he should have shared with Gustav.
Peter had not made any public posts and had hidden most of his photos. He must have thought himself safe, but he had probably never checked to see what his public page looked like. As it was, he missed one of the many Facebook privacy loopholes and doomed himself.
Facebook profile pictures are, obviously, public. They’re your face to the world, and so the world gets to see them. And by default, the world gets to see every profile picture you’ve ever chosen, because each time you change it you create another public post that says, “This person has changed their profile picture.” Then all your friends get to like it and comment.
Peter, for his part, used several profile pictures before he’d chosen the Guy Fawkes mask. His previous profile pics showed an older version of Gustav with cherubic cheeks and a body that had clearly never seen the inside of a
gym. They all featured Peter sitting in front of his laptop camera. Peter sitting in front of his laptop camera wearing a baseball cap. Peter sitting in front of his laptop camera holding a cat. Peter sitting in front of his laptop camera sticking out his tongue. And then, a year ago, the Guy Fawkes mask.
The post that announced the change to the Guy Fawkes mask had thirteen likes and five comments. Four of the comments were variations of “LOL.” But the last comment, from an Earl Clary, was key.
Yes! Yes! Yes! Runway is in the house!
If Peter had been paying attention he would have deleted that comment, and perhaps given Earl a slap in the back of the head. But he hadn’t been paying attention, and now I had proof that I was right. Runway was Peter Olinsky.
I poured another shot of Noah’s Mill high-proof elixir.
It was time to end things with Peter.
Thirteen
In 1988, back when a four-year-old Mark Zuckerberg was considering preschool options, a programmer named Jarkko Oikarinen wrote a program that presaged Facebook, Twitter, and every variation of chats, messengers, and hangouts.
The Internet Relay Chat, usually called the IRC, brought real-time chat to those who had agreed to connect their computers to this new “Internet” thing. The simple system allowed you to communicate anonymously with a tiny but growing circle of Internet chatters.
Today the Anonymous collective used IRC chat rooms to plan operations such as bringing down the Scientology web server by flooding it with page requests, or showing up at a protest wearing Guy Fawkes masks.
I’d finished my second pour of Noah’s Mill and had poured another when I decided to fire up an IRC client of my own and go stalking through the channels looking for Runway and PwnSec. Images of the porn on Maria’s Facebook page, the fights with Adriana, and the disdain on the face of the assistant principal charged my rage battery as I launched the software.
I went over to the Anonymous website and opened up their IRC web client, just to see if Runway was logged in. If he was, then I had a few private chat words ready for him. I used my old handle, Rosetta.
I searched the server, found that Runway was sitting in the channel, and started stalking the conversation. It was like eavesdropping on the kids sitting in the back of the school bus.
