Sunday’s Wandering Thoughts

Spent part of yesterday & today answering friends’ call for help.

Short story: someone was on the net and was duped into some ‘click here’ bait. A warning sprang up with an number and a directive: call here for help. Social engineering took over after that.

Sometime in the course of being fleeced, the user awoke to something nefarious happening and shut it down. The resulting question was: how bad was it?

He called his daughter and SIL in LA for help. They enlisted my assistance as hands and eyes on the infected machine. I picked it up, did some top level examination of what’d been downloaded, installed, and accessed. Worse culprit was the Supremo app. That’s an app that let’s others remotely access and control the machine. Downloaded but never installed, I trashed that thing.

Then I set it up so that the SIL had remote access by installing an IT app that he requested I install. He sorted through files to confirm nothing had been seriously compromised. Some banking log in information had been compromised. Fortunately, the new location wasn’t recognized and the log in was challenged and denied. That two-factor authentication paid off.

Bottom line: fresh and clever scams are out there. While others have tricked people with banking issues or special offers, this friend was tricked into clicking on an offer to see what new childhood classmates had been found. On my end, I was tricked through a offer for flowrs for Mom’s birthday.

With so many scams hitting us, remember to be careful out there.

The Missing Piece

A piece was missing. The scowl hardening in his mind crossed boundaries, cementing his face into a likeness of dark irritation. A piece was missing! He’d tried every damn piece that he could find. None fit. None.

Well, that just ruined the jigsaw puzzle. Ruined it. It could never be finished. That meant it was ruined.

He clenched his fists. That’s why he despised buying used puzzles. They set you up for the chance, like this, that you would fail. (Well, it wasn’t him that failed — the piece was missing, so he didn’t fail), but it subverted any pleasure he could achieve, stealing the tangible joy of solving a puzzle. That wasn’t to be this time, which wasn’t fair. In fact, it was cruel.)

Vignettes of how this travesty may have come about began quiet visits. The people who’d donated the puzzle had lost the piece. They found it later, after giving the puzzle away. “Oh, look,” the husband said, picking a piece up off of the floor. “We missed a piece.” He looked around. “One of the cats must have been playing with it.” (Of course a cat had been involved.)

“Oh, no,” his wife said, hand to mouth. Reality sank into place. They’d taken the puzzle to the Goodwill over a month before. Maybe two. Nothing could be done now.

He would hunt them down. All he needed to do is get their DNA — probably some on the puzzle pieces, wasn’t there? — and access to a DNA database that had their DNA (hmm…that might be trickier, but he would find a way), and then —

“Found it.” His wife applied the piece with a flourish, pressing it down until it clicked solidly into place.

“How? Where was it?” Disbelief waxing like a warm sun, he stared at the piece. He’d literally tried every piece in the box, taking them out one by one, trying each piece, and then putting the eliminated pieces into a bowl. There was no way…

Well, there was one way. He eyed her. “Did you hide it?”

She giggled. “I’ll never tell.”

The Start

You’d think the start was when the body was found. That’s the beginning of the crime investigation. It isn’t, of course, the crime’s beginnings. For that, you need to slip into a wayback machine and ride time to when the killer was young and beginning their career, back to before the victim and killer had ever met, back to a nascent moment when everyone was happy and oblivious to the future.

After all, the killer just wanted revenge. Their victim had killed first, but the body hadn’t been found. At least, that’s what the killer believed.

They were always one to act on their beliefs.

Floofceny

Floofceny (floofinition) – a housepet’s unlawful taking of personal property with intent to deprive the rightful owner of it permanently.

In use: “When Aspacia began her day, she discovered evidence of floofceny. A floofen had stolen her checkbook and torn out all the checks during the night.”

h/t to Aspacia S. Bissass

Floofen

Floofen (floofinition) – a housepet who commit crimes, often involving food, toys, or escaping.

In use: “The floofens worked together as a team. The dog distracted the people while the cat pulled food off the table. Both shared the spoils. Pizza was their favorite. Pizza was never safe from the floofens.”

What I’m Not Watching

I’m not watching “19-2.” Season four is over. It remains a beautifully written, produced, directed, and acted television series. I look forward to it, and then must ration myself to make it last. It’s always worth the time. Episode one, season two, about the school shooting, remains one of the most gripping pieces of electronic fiction I’ve enjoyed, vividly drawn and executed.

I’m not watching “Rake,” either. I’m not referencing the American version, but the Australian original. Sorry, but Richard Roxburgh is Cleaver Green, that rake. After the shocks of last season – hell, every episode on every season offers a shock – I’m looking forward to the next one.

Naturally, I’m not watching “Game of Thrones.” I’m not watching “Code.” Code is over. I didn’t find year two as interesting as year one, but then, year one was hellagood. No, I’m not watching “Red Rocks” out of Ireland, restlessly awaiting its continuation, or another Australian show, “Miss Fisher’s Murder Mysteries.” I’m not watching “The IT Crowd” – the original U.K. series, with Chris O’Dowd, Matt Berry, Catherine Parkinson, and Richard Ayoade, or “Misfits,” nor the mischievous, cheeky “Raised By Wolves.” And of course, I’m not watching “Gavin and Stacy,” “The Killing,” “Happy Valley,” “The Vikings,” or that crazy, silly show, “Red Dwarf,” either, or “Prime Suspect,” “Cracker,” or any Wallender or Case History shows.

No, they’re all done, or on hiatus, leaving me to wait to see what the world comes up with next. The world is pretty good at surprising me.

The Detective Dream

In another dream last night, I dreamed I was a police detective. After the dream progressed, I realized that I was actually a television character, except that I thought I was real. This confused me, because I wanted to solve the crime, and there was an actual crime, but I was being told not to do it, because I was an actor. When I did understand what I was being told, I was irritated that I was being told to not do something that I should be doing.

I didn’t remember anything about the crime, or greater details. I remember seeing the television cameras, and that the television series seemed to be set in the early seventies in the United States. I had big hair, a big mustache, and was wearing a wide tie, and wore a suit with bell-bottom pants. I think I drove a red Pontiac Firebird.

Crazy.

At Night

I usually hear things at night but I didn’t hear things last night. I didn’t hear a window being broken.

I didn’t hear a neighbor screaming for help.

##

The dry day’s burning heat had carried into a hot night. Ninety at nine PM, I kept the windows closed and the A/C humping. My wife retired to read at 10:30, leaving me to finish watching Inspector Lewis (consultant) and Hathaway on my own. A cat joined me, per the Cat Rules. I settled onto the recliner. Tucker curled up on my lap.

Lewis ended. Silence ruled as I considered, “What next?” Then I turned on an old sitcom. They usually knock me out faster than light.

Noise arose outside.

That’s not unusual. Nature abounds, and with it, raccoon skirmishes, deer foraging, cat fights, dogs barking, or an infrequent bear or cougar. Besides them, people often walk up and down the street, talking and laughing loudly. That’s what this kind of noise sounded like.

Tucker jerked his head up to look. I muted the television and listened. “It’s Barb,” someone shouted. “Help.” The voice was outside my window and rising.

Tucker and I leaped up. Someone hammered on my front door. I rushed out, flicking on lights as I went, unlocking the door and throwing it open to Barb, my eighty-eight year old friend and neighbor from across the street. Tears hiding in her eyes’ corners, voice quavering, she said, “A man broke into my house. He showed me his penis. I think he’s chasing me. I think he wants to rape me.”

##

My wife arrived from the bedroom. We hustled Barb in. I grabbed the house phone to call the police and headed outside, thinking, if he’s chasing her 

No one was outside. Dogs often bark well into the night. Nothing tonight. Reaching the police dispatcher, I stood on my front walk and began a dispassionate explanation of who I was and why I was calling, answering questions she injected them. As this transpired, astonishingly, a man left Barb’s house and trotted up the street.

I watched, torn between pursuing him and remaining where I was, deciding on the latter as I told the dispatcher what was happening. Moving out toward the street, I watched him go up into the darkness forty yards up the street. I swiveled back to my house. Our phone is VOIP and needs the Internet and the wireless connections. The dispatcher was telling me, “You’re breaking up, sir,” so I headed back for a better connection.

The streetlight up the street is motion activated. As I repeated where I thought the man went, I was looking in that direction. The streetlight came on. A second later, I heard running foot steps. Watching with amazement, I saw the intruder run back down the street and return to Barb’s house.

WTF?

I told this to the dispatcher. While doing so, the man left the house and trotted back up the street as I watched and relayed the information. He’d just reached the street light as a police car arrived. The dispatcher and I said good-bye.

By my guess about eight minutes had passed. How different it was from television and movies, the writer’s partition of me noted.

##

I told the officer everything and answered his questions. Another police car arrived. Spotlights illuminating the night, the second car headed down the street where I’d seen the runner disappear.

Amazingly, no other neighbors had opened their doors, turned on their lights or looked out. No dogs barked. No cars, runners or walkers passed.

The night remained quiet, save our ongoing drama.

##

The first officer took my statement, clarified information and then inspected Barb’s house, walking around it with a flashlight while I went back to my walk. Knowing the neighborhood configuration and worrying, I went into my backyard, turned on the outside lights and looked around. Finding nothing amiss in the backyard, I left the lights on. Returning inside, I checked our rooms and ensured all the windows were shut and locked. Then I visited with my wife and Barb. Barb was calmly telling her story. I headed back out.

The officer returned to me and asked to speak to Barb. I took him in. Barb gave her statement.

“I was in the bedroom, on my bed, with my check book, when I heard a loud noise. Not sure whether it was the television on or something else, I went out into the hallway.

“A man was walking down the hall toward me. He had his penis in his hand. I gave a little shriek. He said, ‘How would you like me to give you some of this?’ He waved his penis around. I looked him in the eye and said, ‘No, thank you. I don’t believe I would. I was married and my husband took very good care of that.’

“The intruder said, ‘Well, how about if you suck it for me?'” Barb said she replied, “I don’t want to do that, either.”

She said he then turned. Thinking he was leaving, she rushed about, locking doors. Then she heard a loud noise and realized he’d returned. Now feeling frantic and scared, she ran out the front door and across the street to my house.

##

They didn’t find the man. I guessed he was slender, wearing black shorts, white, with short dark hair, about five foot nine inches tall. I guessed he was in his twenties. Barb agreed.

While I stayed at home, the police, my wife and Barb returned to Barb’s house to determine if anything had been taken. Later reports said nothing was missing. A great deal of blood and broken glass was in the living room. He’d thrown a ceramic planter through a window and climbed through, cutting himself. Bloody palm and fingerprints were on several walls and surfaces.

The police recovered a cell phone from Barb’s backyard. Our theory is that the intruder left, realized he’d lost his phone, and returned to find it, but didn’t, fleeing again as the police arrived.

I’d called Barb’s daughter and told her what happened. She arrived about 11:10, about thirty-five minutes after it seemed to begin.

##

Barb accepted an invitation to stay the night in our guest room, and was shown to her room at midnight. This morning, talking over coffee at seven thirty, she was remarkably calm, cheerful and graceful.

It was all sobering, frightening, thought provoking. Barb realized she’d left her patio door unlocked, and that’s how the man entered. He’d later broken the window attempting to re-enter the house.

A lot of lessons were reinforced. Never let your vigilance lapse.

Never.

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