On this page there are currently some frustrated mini-novellas on the state of civil society and big business.
There are also a few (very much) older stories both in Finnish and English that I moved aside when writing this series. The main index of the old stuff is in Finnish but you can tell the English ones from titles if you really want to browse through them...
Where a brilliant lawyer goes all red in the face.
Peter Kincaid was at the height of his life. Him and his partner, they'd finally figured out the perfect racket for today's information society. What's the Internet for? That's right, porn! But there ain't no such thing as "free porn", as they liked to point out to their marks. Either it cost you time to scrounge through the free sample sets to find enough of something you liked, or it cost you good money to get access to a site that had plenty of what you wanted, guaranteed. Granted, for some, maybe even most, anything would do, but for the connoisseur, it'd have to be the pay sites.
Or, they'd try to cheat the system, and that's where Pete and Roy had struck gold. They would buy up peer-to-peer distribution rights for porn. That particular industry hadn't been too interested in hunting down piracy on their own, but many were more than willing to have a professional scratch up some more dough for no added effort of their own. Specifically, they looked for fetish porn that was just the right amount of fucked-up to have a significant social stigma while still claiming a significant audience — conveniently enough determined through their peer-to-peer popularity.
Then they'd just do what rightsholders unjustly usurped of their privileges always did; hooked up to the p2p network of their choice where one of the files under their protection was traded and started collecting IP addresses. Whenever those were in countries with civilized, industry-friendly copyright laws, they'd start buggering the locals — preferably the authorities, since that was cheaper for them, but ISPs would do in a pinch — for the user account associated with this IP at that time.
But that was all par for the course in hunting down filesharers. The difference was, when the mark would receive their letter, they'd have extra incentive to pay an appropriately embellished settlement all quiet-like, without contesting the shaky enough evidence. Rare the person who would like to be outed sharing "Shemale Chocolate Train Rides Again" or "Gas Chamber Gangbang — the Final Solution".
Well, turns out some did manage to muster enough outrage to resist. Often it paid better to leave them alone, but examples had to be made. Roy just had: "Got the mark for half we asked, double we wanted. Drink to that?" the text message said. Roy would already be on his way to their usual place from the nearby courthouse; this particular case had been local. "Great; see you there", he sent back.
As he stepped out onto the street and started towards the pub, there was a loud bang and suddenly his face was covered in ... something.
Oh shit what was that the scruffy guy who just got up and walked towards me turned around a couple of meters off and did something, what... shot his brains out on me?!? yep he's lying right there fuck this is gonna be bad PR can't very well walk away with his brains on my face and oh fuck he ruined the suit the bastard, should look shocked, sit down, stare forward, minimal responses, "okay... I'm okay...", wait for the ambulance, take the inevitable trip to the hospital, play the victim, minimal public comment with slight compassion, no admissions, I'm the victim...
The media loved the incident and reported it far and wide. Next week, it was Roy's turn to wipe brain matter off his face. They moved the office, but soon after, Peter would have to buy Roy out. His follow-through had suffered.
Where the truth has to come out — boring as it is.
Walter had a problem. It wasn't a personal one, no, or at least not pertaining to his particular person, but it was quite the conundrum nonetheless.
You see, the preceding year, Walter had had quite enough of the government increasing wiretapping left and right; the military could already surveil traffic across the borders as they damn well pleased, corporate employee network use was monitored as par for the course, and there was little to stop law enforcement tapping people's phone and net lines on the flimsiest of excuses.
The funny thing was, this was as such all right by Walter's particular morality; information wanted to be free, and as far as he was concerned, should be. All of it. To everyone. Knowledge being power, the large-scale siphoning of information always from the common man and to the military-industrial complex would all too easily result in a hulk of an Orwellian nightmare society, however. Balance of power would require balance of information, full transparency.
Thus he had taken it upon himself to restore some of that balance, even as this required some quite clandestine operations on his part. Open wireless, anonymizing proxy networks and prepaid phones became his tools of trade, as he conducted his activities physically from across the city, not neglecting his own neighbourhood either. Over the first month, it was easy enough getting access to a few hacked servers which would conduct further attacks. Despite the loss of hands-on human flexibility, many of these he automated, having convoluted scripts mimic real hands behind a keyboard at times Walter himself was clearly inactive, his own network connections down, his alibis solid. He had no reason to suspect having raised any significant flags, but in this surveillance society, it paid to be paranoid.
By now he had compromized a few mail servers in less than critical offices, and had access to the personal computers of several politicians and officials who had been involved in surveillance initiatives. Oh, he had raised alarms here and there as well, but nobody had stormed through his front door yet, so his precautions served him well enough still.
The question bothering Walter now was thus: what to do with all the data he had collected? The bulk of it was so dull it wasn't even boring, and while there was the occasional hint at small-time corruption, revelations that could throw a few marriages into trouble, some politically incorrect remarks and an unpopular fetish that the tabloids could likely have a field day with, there was nothing really incriminating there.
Perhaps he shouldn't have hoped for such things; not in electronic form, anyway. But maybe the monster of a government really had no head, all the oppression just naturally emerging from the duly elected representatives of the masses, no more corrupt than the ones taking the polls. By the people, like the people, deserved by the people.
But he had started with a point to make, and the information landscape was still his to balance, if only slightly. He cleared out his trails as best he could and published the material gathered so far, along with a half-hearted manifesto. Some careers and marriages suffered for the truths revealed, but soon it was yesterday's news.
The culprit was never found, which resulted in the rest of the controls on police wiretapping being easily abolished. Soon to follow would be an initiative to ban the use of anonymizers and encrypted communications without specific authorization — but that one had been quietly in the works even before.
Where a big media rep finds out what a dog he is.
Darkness. Pain slowly rising along with consciousness. His face against the hard floor, some stickiness there; blood, from the nose. Left arm numb under his body, but the other was okay, like the legs. He could feel a blindfold around his eyes, with some dim light coming in around the edges, but he dare not move to take it off yet. Rather, he listened for a while, trying to determine if he was alone, if it was safe for at least a moment to examine his surroundings, to try and figure out what happened.
Satisfied that his captor or captors were not immediately at hand, he slowly rose to sit. His left arm — the better one — slowly started to come alive, hurting like hell in the process. He fumbled at his blindfold with his right hand, and tossed it aside.
Two lights where shining at him; they weren't blindingly bright, but it took a while for his long-bound eyes to adjust. First, he could see the bars; he was in a cage, not high enough to stand in, just wide enough to lie in. In the corner, there were some small boxes, a small water tank and — of all things — a first-aid kit. They were prepared to leave him here for alone for a good while, it seemed. That could provide chance for escape. He reached out and tested the bars a bit. Sturdy at first approximation. Next he checked the boxes. Dog food. Classy, but at least he wouldn't starve — for a while.
He took to examining what he could see of the rest of the room. There were a couple of crates and barrels around him, and some equipment he couldn't quite make out in the direction of the lights. As he started to ponder its purpose, a timely crackle and an electronically garbled voice betrayed at least part of it. "Ah, Mr. Lowe. Good morning, and welcome to your new humble abode, for however long you decide to stay."
"Decide to? Are you kidding me? Who are you?" "Oh, it's trivial enough to deduce that I am one of the victims of your legal campaigns, so I'll just give you that much right there. Just one ruined future, trampled life among many, an example of what happens to those who dared to share." "What? That's what this is about? You were the criminals, and this just proves..." "Proves that if you treat one as a criminal, they might just become one, Mr. Lowe. But I am not here to debate that, nor does it improve your situation to insist. Are you prepared to listen to my terms, or shall I just leave you to cool off for a day or two?" Lowe wasn't slow on the uptake, and couldn't let his anger get the better of him. Let the bastard lay his cards on the table. "Talk", he said.
"In the spirit of the legal threats you have been sending out to seemingly random victims, I am giving you the option to settle this matter out of court, so to speak. Going to court, well, that would be bad for you. See, as the judge, I can tell you that the sentence would probably involve the explosives stored in the very room you find yourself in being remotely ignited. So you'd better settle, don't you agree?" Lowe nodded quietly, playing the kidnapper's game for now: "It would seem so. What is the settlement?"
"In your cage, you will find a first-aid kit equipped with everything you will need to tie up and cut off your balls, clean and safe, after which I will let you go", the mechanical voice replied. Lowe's jaw dropped. "You... what? You can't be serious!" "Oh but I am. You've taken joy out of enough people's lives that it's only fair to slightly limit yours. On the downside, though, you might actually live a longer life for it", the voice mocked. "You sick bastard! You won't get away with this! People are looking for me!" "I know all that, and yet, you and your kind have left me no other driving force in my life. So I will pursue you with all I have left in me, and when I'll be caught, I'll go out with a bang. But you should not wish that on me, not now, because your prison will be a part of that bang — or go up in one of its very own should somebody find you and try to enter without my say-so." For a while there was quiet, as Lowe didn't have a response. The voice then continued:
"You have three days to decide. Also, I will suffer no trickery; you will have to clearly display the operation for the camera in between the lights. Be sure to buzz me in when you're ready, there is a button you can reach through the bars towards here. I will now leave you to make your decision, but when you press that button, it's either settlement or sentencing time, so make sure you mean it. Until then, good bye." Lowe grimaced. Three days. If what the kidnapper said was true, and the place was rigged to blow, his best chance was indeed to bite the bullet as soon as possible. But how could he trust the bastard to let him go afterwards? Asking for guarantees would be useless. And what if he was bluffing about the explosives? If the kidnapper would then be caught, he could perhaps be saved, intact. And rational argument be damned, he couldn't bring himself to do it, not yet, anyway. There was still hope.
The voice left him alone, just as it had promised — or threatened. He tried to engage it several times, but with no success. He dared not press the button. Time passed. There was no clock, and his internal one would most likely be seriously skewed. What would happen if he were to fail to press the button within the allotted time? He tried to ask, but again, there was no answer. The silence fed on his hope, fueling his growing fear of not leaving the place alive. After what he thought to be two and a half days — what he feared to be close to three already — he decided he had to risk it. The fucker just might be crazy enough to keep his end of the bargain.
So he pushed the button. All was silent for a minute, then: "I am waiting." With shaking but determined hands Lowe opened the kit, tied his ball sack, cut it off for the camera, and passed out.
Another day would pass before he was found through an anonymous tip. There were no explosives, but his water had just run out, and the missing persons bureaucracy, slow to start in the first place, was short on solid leads. Certainly the police would be quicker to react if another big media rep went missing, but this particular incident had been solidly under their radar for the duration of the drama.
The following week a new shock video would be found floating around the net, short and to the point, with recognizable facial features. Some, predictably, found it hilarious, while others would condemn the video and those who spread it. And for some — though just a few still — it was a career-changing film. For one Mr. Lowe, certainly.
Some particularly badly hit victims of the media industry legal crusade were interrogated, but aside from their general lack of sympathy for the fresh castrate, there was mostly nothing on them. The investigation did produce two viable suspects; against one the case was, however, weak and circumstancial, and the other's whereabouts were left unknown.
The hunt, either way, was on.
Where a crooked politician gets her due, making way for others.
It was a rare thing of Mark to turn on the idiot box, but this was a special occasion: big news, news he already knew from the net, of course, but he didn't want to miss any media reaction to this one. He waited for the other, irrelevant articles to pass, then turned up the volume.
"...former minister Leland's conviction for purchase and possession of child pornography was upheld by the apellate court, as was the sentence of four years in prison. Mrs. Leland, one of the early driving forces behind the Internet censorship initiative, maintained her innocense throughout the proceedings, having quoted as claiming to be 'framed by those horrible people from the Internet'."
Mark grinned, unabashed. She was right, of course, but for that piece of subjective slander. But if she wasn't to be tried for her actual crimes, her headstrong efforts against a whole assortment of civil rights throughout her political career, well, somebody had to make sure she'd be tried for something reasonably fitting instead.
"Mrs. Leland originally became a subject of inquiry when a raid on a child pornography site uncovered access records referencing the ex-minister's Internet connection. Further examination revealed suspect transactions on her credit card as well. Acting on this information, the police executed a search of her home, finding many files depicting underage sex on her personal computer. Mrs. Leland's claims aside, no evidence of external tampering with her computer was found."
Yep, he'd managed to clean his rootkits out in time, overwriting them multiple times with innocent files and more kiddy porn alike, manipulating timestamps just so to avoid suspicion. Mark felt a bit disappointed that the police hadn't released all the nifty details such as the traces of old, deleted smut he'd left for the analysts to find. Other things not of mention were less surprising; having to give them an indirect clue or six on that kiddy porn server, with a side hint of media exposure if they didn't react promptly. Concerned citizen stuff.
The reporter started to wrap up the piece with the usual spiel about the streets being once more just a bit safer for our kids with Leland behind bars. Mark turned off the TV. He had much work to do, streets to secure.
Where justice triumphs, for there's no-one there to lift up her blindfold.
Jimmy was on a roll. He'd gotten rave reviews for his electronic music in important parts of the blogosphere, and hits had been coming in for the last month. Where the micropayments had amounted to just some beer money before, if the current trend would last, he could finally concentrate on his music. But he was getting ahead of himself; he would need to work hard at maintaining his fan base, and expand the selection of merchandise on the side. No time to quit his fast food job yet, but with luck, he could have enough savings within the year to think about that — and going part-time could be just around the corner.
Then came the letter from the local branch of the Phonographic Industry Trade Association. They wanted a word. Jimmy knew they controlled most everything in the business, but hadn't wanted much to do with them. He liked doing his own thing without people looking in over his shoulder. He liked having his own profits, too; signing up with the big guys might have visibility advantages, but the deals had the reputation of leaving any but the most successful empty mainstream pop star high and dry. Even as the local live venues had mostly been forced to sign PITA-exclusive contracts to be able to entertain their clientele, live wasn't his thing either, so he hadn't thought to cross paths with the association. They apparently disagreed.
The letter invited Jimmy and his legal representative (as if he could afford one) to a conference at the local PITA offices. There were some obligatory compliments as to his success, and their interest in signing him up. However, there was also a vague reference to possible legal issues. Jimmy couldn't believe his eyes. He'd made everything he'd published himself, that he knew for certain. But when PITA came knocking, he couldn't just sit on his ass.
The week between had been hell; Jimmy hadn't managed to do anything creative, and his daytime boss had started to complain about his zoning out. But the day of the meeting came, and Jimmy found himself in a conference room with five suits on the other side of the table. The center one pointed for him to sit down, then went straight to business. "Jimmy-boy, congratulations, it seems you're starting to do somewhat well for yourself, being an independent — which is why we now have somewhat of an interest in you", the man said in a flat tone. Jimmy started to answer, but the man quickly pressed on: "Of course, being an independent, you're exposed to certain risks that we at PITA would be more than happy to help you with. We have examined the songs that you so cavalierly make available for free on your site and other sources. Our AI — automatic infringement — system has found no less than a hundred and sixteen objectionable similarities between your compositions and those of PITA-represented artists."
"However, you have had a modicum of success, and we invite you to join our ranks with the standard contract, which includes, of course, immunity from these cases of plagiarism." "But I made my music myself, every last piece! If there's similarity to someone else's work, it's just coincidence! There's a limit to what you can do with notes, of course a part of a piece will sound like something else if you look hard enough!" the bewildered Jimmy protested. "Come now, culture doesn't exist in a vacuum. You take what you hear, adapt it, and put it in your own work. Which is fine, as long as we are properly compensated. And coincidence — maybe some instances, but a hundred and sixteen?" He chuckled. "Well, people have tried to convince the court of that, but our AI has been well-tuned to maximize credulity of claims in modern courtroom settings. Also, I don't think you really have the resources for a protracted legal battle, whatever the outcome, so be smart." Jimmy was wide-eyed with disbelief: "So... if I don't sign, you'll sue me for spreading my own music?" "Well, we have no pressing need for your sort of act, so we are prepared to forget this whole matter if you take your — our — music down and just go do something else with your life. Just so long as people see that our methods are the only sustainable way to produce good, popular art." A sly grin escaped the corner of his mouth as he finished the sentence.
One of the other legal drones — there clearly for the intimidation factor, for no words had escaped their lips during all this time — drew up a small stack of papers, pushing them over to Jimmy's side. The lead inquisitor continued: "Here's the standard contract for you to read — the content is no big secret, really, but just so you know, publicizing that is a copyright violation as well. To sum up, we get the exclusive rights to distribute your music and merchandise. You get a piece of the action, after expenses, of course, but no sharing or performing your stuff on your own. You have a week to decide; sign up, get out of the business, or get sued, kid. It's your call. Now, if you'll excuse us, we have another appointment scheduled."
Jimmy took the papers and dragged his feet out of the door. Outside, a young, exited-looking trio was just signing in at the desk. A guard noted the unwelcome expression on Jimmy's face and efficiently goaded him out of the building, not to ruin the mood for more important prospects.
But things turned out just fine for Jimmy. Spirits broken, the stress of the anticipation over, he got back into routine and got to keep his fast food job.
Where a ruthless vigilante tries to undrhandedly harass and turn family members against a respectable, law-abiding citizen.
"Mom?" Anne was looking distraught. She had come home for the holidays from the University, but had been acting somewhat reserved for the couple of days back at her old home. Betty had thought it was just the stress, that she needed to unwind a bit, but now it seemed like there was something more serious going on. "Yes, dear? What is it?" Anne fidgeted, mustering up the courage to speak, as Betty laid her eyes on an open envelope in her hands. Some of the contents, stuffed back in, were partially visible: clippings, pictures. And suddenly, Betty knew.
She had started receiving the letters about seven months ago. An innocent-enough looking envelope, claiming to originate from her uncle Harry. The contents were puzzling at first: some newspaper clippings, website printouts, numbered images of people. Court cases were referred to on some pages. Betty herself was in marketing, but her husband was a lawyer, so she presumed the letter to be about him rather than her. When she found the plain note buried in the other material, her curiosity was sufficiently piqued regardless.
"These students have been picked by your husband's company to receive threats of lawsuits that they could not afford. Many were scared to settle, and many of those had to abandon their studies to pay the ransom. Some did not comply, and most such cases were not pursued — it was known to everyone there was no solid evidence of any illegal activity, that the letter had been mere calculated blackmail."
The audacity was shocking, but the letter was short, so she kept reading, determined to find out what this low-life wanted.
"Some cases did make it to court; some were dismissed outright, some were lost, some were won by the accused, sometimes at great cost, and when your husband prevailed, lives were invariably destroyed by the judgments. Years and years of low-level wages — of a college drop-out — to pay for sharing the same material you would get a mere slap on the wrist for actually stealing at a store. Many were plunged into depression, never to work again — why would they, they'd not see much of their wages, just keeping up with the interest on the debt."
Certainly there was something to be said for stricter punishments for shoplifting, that much was true. But Betty was not one to get all bleeding heart for criminals having to pay their dues in court. She scoffed as she eyed the final chapter.
"Now, take a good look at the pictures; all of these lives have been touched by your husband; some merely crippled, some ruined, and some, the ones circled in red, destroyed, for they could not take the blackmail, courts, and the excessive financial burden, but finally killed themselves. This is your husband's legacy, blackmail and blood money."
She had noticed a few of those red pictures in the pile, and paused. But was it not their own responsibility? His husband had not killed them, he was just doing his job. He had his own people to protect, and if the criminals couldn't deal with the consequences of their actions, was it his fault? No.
She had shown the letter to Arthur, his husband, and they had agreed that it was just some criminal punk trying to get to him through her. But he had failed; they'd grown stronger for it.
The police never could find the culprit, even as the letter would not be the only one of its kind. They masqueraded as being from relatives, law firms, the government, but after opening a couple she'd had assigned their housekeeper to filter the mail for her. Sometimes she'd be uneasy when delivering the mail. Betty guessed she'd read at least some of the notes, but good help was hard to find, so she did not press the matter. As long as she herself would be free of the harassment, it was fine.
But now, there was Anne, her sixteen-year old daughter, standing in front of her with a letter, on the verge of tears by now. She drew closer to hug her while at the same time taking the envelope. There was no address, just a name. "Darling, don't cry. Where did you get this?" "In school, I just got it in my locker just before... but I, you did recognize it, didn't you? It said you would. It said you would!"
"Come now, I don't know what it is unless you tell me. Please tell me. Let's work it out together." Anne grabbed the envelope back, throwing the contents on the living room table, some falling over to the floor. "These... these people, they're just like me, and these papers, they say... dad's after them, he's extorting them, suing them, driving them to..." Her voice drifted off. "Calm down...", her mother interjected, but she regained her composure: "Calm down? I checked some of them. They check out, mom! Did you know about this? Did you..?" "No, of course, not, dear", she lied, hoping thus to be able to mediate more effectively between Anne and her father later, when he would return from his longer hours at work. "Let's just talk about this, what did that letter say?"
Anne closed her eyes for a moment, collected herself somewhat, looked for a particular clipping in the pile. "This, mom, this is Leonard. I knew him, though not well. A friend of mine... she knew him better, even if he was a quiet one, depressed. And then one day he told her, dejected, that he'd gotten a letter, that it was bad, and that was the last anyone ever saw of him. We had a quiet moment for him. And the letter, they found it in his stuff, there's a copy of it right here! In dad's letterhead!"
True enough. Betty saw it was the standard form letter sent out to the file sharers to be made examples of. Pay so and so within a week or face charges and demands of double that and lawyers' fees — after all, it was only reasonable to try to settle amicably first. They had talked about this when she first got the letters meant to shock her away from him.
"Okay, dear, it seems real enough, but if this person was breaking the law, stealing..." "Stealing? He wasn't stealing anything! Never mind if this" — she pointed at the letter — "disgusting ... thing is true or not, he wasn't stealing anything! You just don't get it! And everyone does it! Everyone!" "Darling, surely..." "I do it! Me! So sue me and see if I end up the same as Leo!"
The door opened; Arthur was home. Anne turned towards him with a scornful look. "Sue me for all I'm worth, you bastard!" she shouted, and stormed out of the room. Puzzlement slowly turned to dark realization on Arthur's face as the scene and the implications sunk in.