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 computer. 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.”