Identity Theft - Blog Posts

I honestly have no words on this whole situation, but in the words of Dean Winchester, demons I get, people are crazy. Like this was practically identity theft, even if it’s only on social media. Glad that Arty can get her named cleared though.

my name is ellie. I’m 24, I live in london, and I’m the person who had masqueraded as @artyandink from the 31st of november to the 17th of december. I have been on tumblr the past few weeks, and I am the one who stalked dahlia’s accounts after making my own. after everything, arty met with me in person and told me to tell everyone the truth.

I have been arty’s irl friend since sixth form in secondary school, when she let me be her friend since I was a transfer student. we both went to separate universities, but we still kept in touch by meeting almost every weekend. on november 30th arty got a call saying that her grandfather had a heart attack and was supposed to go in surgery for a heart bypass, so arty took the first flight to india. she’d mentioned her password to her socials, so I went and logged in to her accounts after she mentioned on a reblog that she wouldn’t be on her account because she had to take an emergency flight.

I logged into her discord, instagram and tumblr accounts including her microsoft and started acting like her. I checked her drafts and through the information I got from the discord channel, I changed the look of her posts and gave them gradient text as well as copying the aesthetic of others. I messaged people on discord pretending to be her, and for fun I copied @/floralscented and blamed it on ‘autism’ and ‘depression’, also acting like I was in arty’s place and had everything she did, like her boyfriend and things about her life that I already knew after being friends with her for seven years.

I was the one who sent an anonymous ask to dahlia telling her to khs. I was the one who sent the anonymous asks shit-talking arty and trying to get them to drop her. after that didn’t work, I created the persona of dani thinking that they’d like her more than arty. it didn’t work, so I got removed from the discord server and everyone thought arty was a psycho.

when she came back from india on the 10th of december she needed to take a week to rest, but she was still tired as she was calling her family every day to check on her grandfather. when she logged back on she found almost all of the fics she had in her drafts posted, bots on her c.ai that were previously planned in her word document posted, along with ones that were set to private. everyone thought she was a psycho and when she found out it was me because she knew how I texted and got paranoid with people she texted me asking why I did it.

I did it for fun. I did it because I hate people being more successful than me. I hated the fact that arty went to a better university, had more friends, a better life so I did the same thing on tumblr and discord for her instagram account as well and sent people horrible messages that she only saw when she came back.

I’m sorry for hurting dahlia, kari, oct, breezy, jemma and lastly arty. I made it impossible for her to talk to anyone she didn’t already know on here. I’m sorry for acting like a psycho, and I’m now receiving psychiatric help for what I did to her, and this is why I’m exposing what I did. I’m the psycho, I’m the insane one, I’m the stalker.

Copiers are full of your secrets!

Copiers are full of secrets.

Did you know that modern copiers have a hard drive that digitally retains every (or nearly every) document copied on that machine and the vast majority of those machines are without any mechanism to erase or encrypt the data.  As a result when you sell or trade in a copier you are probably sending all kinds of private information that identity thieves can then get their hands on.

In addition, lawyers conducting discovery should be aware that an individual's copier or a company's copier may be a source of information relevant to an on going law suit.

One law firm I spoke with purchased what was represented as brand new copier and its hard drive was full of documents from and accounting firm. 

For a brief primer check out this video from CBS News that aired in 2010.  

http://www.cbsnews.com/video/watch/?id=6412572n

Rollentausch im Knast / role reversal in jail

Ich habe einmal vor langer Zeit eine lesbisch-erotische Geschichte geschrieben, über einen Rollentausch zwischen einer Gefängnisbeamtin und einer Gefangenen ... . Das erste Kapitel findet ihr unten. Ich weiß aber nicht, ob hier überhaupt Interesse daran besteht, daß ich die restlichen Kapitel auch veröffentliche ... ? Wenn Interesse besteht, freue ich mich über entsprechende Nachrichten. Vielleicht möchte auch jemand selbst Ideen einbringen, wie die Geschichte weitergeht ... ?

Rollentausch im Knast

Kapitel 1

„Was zum Teufel … ?“ Michelle fluchte lauf auf, als sie die Standtafel im Abteilungsbüro des Zugangsflügels des Frauengefängnisses mit einem schnellen Blick überflog und die Standzahlen mit dem Standbuch verglich. Sie hatte vor wenigen Minuten ihren Nachtdienst angetreten und war jetzt die ganze Nacht alleine für die etwa 25 weiblichen Gefangenen des Zugangsflügels verantwortlich.

Da Sie erst vor wenige Tagen von einem anderen Gefängnis hierher versetzt worden war, hatte sie ihre hiesigen Kollegen noch nicht wirklich kennengelernt und auch ihre Kollegen kannten nur ihren Namen auf dem Dienstplan, wußten aber nicht, wie  sie aussah. Deshalb mußte sie sich auch beim Betreten und Verlassen des Gefängnisses an der Torwache zur Zeit noch mit ihrem Dienstausweis ausweisen. Bei der Torwache befanden sich auch die Schließfächer mit den Gefängnisschlüsseln.

Als sie heute das Gefängnis betreten hatte und sich bei einem ihr unbekannten Kollegen ausgewiesen hatte, war ihr aufgefallen, daß das Passbild in ihrem Dienstausweis nicht nur schon relativ alt war, sondern auch kurz davor war, von ihrem Ausweis abzufallen. Der Klebstoff, mit dem es angeklebt war, war eben schon alt und klebte nicht mehr richtig. „Wenn ich nächste Woche Tagdienst habe, muß ich dringend einen neuen Dienstausweis ausstellen lassen“ hatte sie sich in dem Moment fest vorgenommen.

Sie verglich noch einmal die Angaben im Standbuch mit den Zahlen an der Standtafel und stellte, jetzt doch leicht ärgerlich, fest, daß die Zahlen tatsächlich nicht übereinstimmten. Laut der Standtafel war eine Gefangene mehr auf der Abteilung als laut dem Standbuch. „Wie kann das sein …?“ fragte sie sich verärgert und durchwühlte die übrigen Papiere, die sich auf dem Schreibtisch stapleten.

Sie war jetzt kurz davor, nach dem Telefon zu greifen und einen Alarm auszulösen, als ihr „Einlieferungspapiere“, die in einer Ecke des Schreibtisches gelegen hatten, auffielen. Nach Prüfung dieser Einlieferungsunterlagen war ihr klar, was passiert war. Kurz vor Schichtwechsel war eine von der Polizei bei einer Razzia festgenommene Prostituierte in das Gefängnis eingeliefert und in den Zugangsflügel auf eine Gemeinschaftszelle verlegt worden.

Aus irgendeinem Grund waren die Aufnahmeformalitäten, also Gefangenenfotos, Fingerabdrücke, Abnahme von DNA-Material für die Registratur als Prostituierte bei der zuständigen städtischen Gesundheitsbehörde, Aufnahme in das Standbuch und Erstellung der Gefangenenpersonalakte im PC, nicht durchgeführt worden. Natürlich konnte sie die Papiere bis zum nächsten Tag liegen lassen und sich über Nacht mit einem „Schmierzettel“ behelfen. Aber sie war Perfektionistin und wollte sich ja auch bei ihren neuen Chefs für eine Beförderung empfehlen. Also beschloss sie, die Gefangene aus der Gemeinschaftszelle ins Aufnahmebüro zu holen und diese Formalitäten schnell selbst zu erledigen.

Fortsetzung folgt ... ? Das kommt auf euch an, soll ich die Fortsetzungen posten ?

A long time ago, I wrote a lesbian-erotic story about a role reversal between a female prison officer and a female prison inmate. You can find the first chapter below. However, I don't know if there's any interest in me publishing the remaining chapters here. If there's interest, I'd be happy to hear from you. Perhaps someone would like to contribute their own ideas about how the story could continues.

Role Reversal in Prison

Chapter 1

"What the hell...?" Michelle cursed loudly as she quickly scanned the board in the department office of the access wing of the women's prison and compared the numbers with the register. She had started her night shift a few minutes ago and was now solely responsible for the approximately 25 female prisoners in the access wing for the entire night.

Since she had only been transferred here from another prison a few days ago, she hadn't really gotten to know her colleagues here, and even her colleagues only knew her name on the duty roster, but did not know what she looked like. Therefore, she still had to show her Police ID card at the gate when entering and leaving the prison. The gate also housed the lockers with the prison keys. When she entered the prison today and identified herself to a colleague she didn't know, she noticed that the passport photo on her Police ID card was not only quite old, but also about to fall off. The adhesive holding it in place was already old and no longer adhered properly. "When I'm on day duty next week, I urgently need to get a new Police ID card," she had decided at that moment.

She compared the information in the status book with the numbers on the status board and, now slightly annoyed, realized that the numbers did indeed not match. According to the status board, there was one more prisoner in the department than according to the status book. "How can that be...?" she asked herself angrily, rummaging through the remaining papers piled up on the desk.

She was about to reach for the phone and raise the alarm when she noticed "admission papers" lying in a corner of the desk. After examining these admission papers, it became clear to her what had happened. Shortly before shift change, a prostitute arrested by the police during a raid had been admitted to the prison and transferred to a shared cell in the access wing. For some reason, the admission formalities—involving prisoner photos, fingerprinting, DNA sampling for registration as a prostitute with the relevant municipal health authority, entry in the prison register, and creation of the prisoner's personal file on the computer—had not been completed. Of course, she could leave the papers until the next day and make do with a "scrap sheet" overnight. But she was a perfectionist and wanted to recommend herself to her new bosses for a promotion. So she decided to bring the prisoner from the shared cell to the admissions office and quickly complete these formalities herself.

To be continued? What do you think???

PORNS IMPOSTERS DISGUISED IN STOLEN BODIES

I burst out laughing

Absolute favorite. A brutal story written masterfully

End of Shift

Similar stories and bonus material on my Patreon.

My life is over. I’ve been playing a high stakes game, and somehow landed on one side of the odds all the time, but my luck was bound to run out sooner or later. I guess I should be happy that it turned out to be later, but it sucks no less. I got sloppy. I was looking through the items near the cashier, as always, trying to mostly use reflective surfaces to see what was going on, as always. I need to be within 15 feet or latency becomes an issue. Some old lady still using the old wallet was buying KokaKola and a pack of Ziffs. This would be easy, as always. I discreetly pressed my watch as she was ready to make the purchase, activating my EM-swiper. I wouldn’t take much, a few credits more. She probably wouldn’t notice it, or think the store stiffed her, or think she bought two packs of Ziffs and lost one. I’m not stealing to get rich, just to get by.

As the EM-swiper went off a high pitched beeping starts behind me. I barely have time to turn my head enough to see the charging police officer, before he slams me into the side of a KokaKola fridge. Shit, I hadn’t done a survey pass through the store as I always do. I could barely register what he was screaming in my ear. “Drop it,” I realize, and let go of the magazine. He must have thought I had the EM-swiper in my hand. He told me to put my hands against the wall and performed a pat-down. It’s only him, so he must be off duty or not on a real patrol. He empties my pockets on the cashier table. Nothing of value, and certainly not something incriminating. I may not have been fortunate enough to afford academy, but I’m not stupid.

“You are detained under suspicion of committing proximity fraud. Do you understand?” he asks me in that commanding yet bored tone of a laborer having to recite corporate bullshit, only in his case it is in the pretense of justice. “Yes,” I answer him. He doesn’t have anything on me or he would have arrested me right away. Probably. “Put this on to acknowledge you’ve read the Citizen Rights Act and agree to an investigation in this matter.” He hands me a pair of handcuffs to put on. I hesitate for a second. He is behind me and in the way of the store exit. I can stall for time and tell him to recite the CRA, but that immediately counts against you, as it is your duty to know it. I have no choice but to put them on. It’s the latest model. I haven’t seen any up close before. Light, thin, all metal, no key hole. Probably opened remotely or only inside a police cell or some shit. I put them on.

“Turn around, pick up your stuff, and exit the store.” I do as told, turn around and begin to pick up my stuff and put them back where he took them. It’s an older police officer. None of them young, jacked up types. Perhaps he is one of the fair ones. But then I am the criminal, so what good would that do me? There’s a small, black duffle bag by his side. So he is on his way home. Perhaps he is tired. Perhaps I can shake him. Have Leo remove the shackles and then stay low for a fucking long time. Or this just doesn’t amount to anything more than a slap on the wrist. I walk towards the door, him behind me.

“Nice watch,” he says, pointing at my wrist as I reach or the door.

He knows. Unless I can get away now my life is over. All I can think of is the monstrosities the state churn out as punishment. Equal part labor force and sadism. I open the door as little as possible and as soon as I am through I dash down the block. I don’t dare look behind me, but I don’t hear him in pursuit. Halfway down the block I swerve into the alley that cuts across the building and out on the block on the other side. If I can cross that block and then down south I’m in the park and there are plenty of places to hide there.

My hands are not on fire. This surprises me as I look down on my hands, screaming in pain. There is a high pitched sound coming out of the handcuffs, like capacitors charging, but it is continuous. The pain emanating from my hands is something unlike anything I’ve ever experienced before. My legs buckle. I know I need to move, somehow, somewhere. It’s just so difficult to think of anything but my hands that are not on fire. It would probably be a good idea to not scream my lungs out, but I don’t really have a choice in that.

Just as suddenly as it started it stops. I’m still writhing in pain, but my hands are not on fire in a much more comforting way. “The payment proxy is in your watch, is it not?” the policeman asks, standing a few steps away. I’m panting, I realize when I attempt to answer him. Panting and sweaty. I can’t manage to speak. I just nod my head.

“The state vs. item RK-220553 finds the defendant guilty to breach of contract with the state, executed by judicial AI 5” he reads off his handheld screen. I’m confused to what just happened. “No trial?” I manage to wheeze out. “You entered into a cooperation contract when you put on the handcuffs, as you are aware of as you claimed to know the Citizens Rights Act. Disobedience at that point allows for immediate trial by AI as long as no forensic work is needed.” He sounded like the same bored cop as he was in the store, reciting memorized text for the thousandth time.

I struggle to get up on my feet. Not only am I shaky, but having my hands locked together makes it surprisingly difficult to get up. “You know, this is bad timing,” the cop starts. “I was on my way home and don’t have all the standard gear. It’s supposed to be a swift punishment, for deterrence, but there is really only one thing I can do.” Why is he so apologetic? He opens the bag and pulls out a fucking tactical human transformer. I’ve never even seen one in person before. He turns it on, selects something on the screen, and points the device towards me. “No, I can…”

This time I am on fire, if only so briefly. There is a blinding light, a pulse of heat, and the smell of burnt plastic. As the transient heat subsides it keeps falling colder and colder. I’m naked. All my clothes have been singed from my body. My watch is gone. My shoes are gone. Underwear gone. And, I realize, my hair is gone. The cop keeps punching in selections in the menus of the devices. I manage to get up on my feet. “Stay on the ground,” he tells me. Not so much as an order, but as an advice. I sit down again and he trains the device on me.

I don’t know how to describe it. It’s not pain exactly. There is something about rewriting the code and cellular structure of your body while your brain is engaged that makes it give up in disbelief. “This can’t be what’s actually happening,” it thinks and gives you completely nonsense sensory interpretations. But it also gives up on all other tasks. Time becomes irrelevant. Critical thinking put on hold. When the device stops you are utterly confused for seconds. Possibly by design, but it makes sense that you can’t rewire the brain in flight without some glitches.

“I want you to stand up,” the cop says in a firm voice. “Who?” I ask, still dazed, just to make sure. “You. Get up on both feet. Take this.” He throws an orange bundle to me, and I feebly grasp for it but my one arm yanks the chain to the cuff of the other arm. The bundle brushes by and lands on the ground next to me. He looks disappointed, more at himself for thinking it would work than on me for not catching it.

I look down at my hand and see something orange in my grip, but it is not the orange that interests my but the grip. My arms, thin from lack of food and nimble from grabbing P2 storage modules out of vendor racks. are enormous. Big, well defined muscles with popped veins going up and around them. They look longer than before and even the hands are larger than they used to be. I can see that not only my arms are different. My chest is all lean and strong-looking as well, the legs have these weird lines showing different groups of muscles under the skin, and I can almost bet that the ground is further down than it used to be. Orange! I’m holding something orange in my hand.

“I only have an emergency kit with me, so not very many options for you I’m afraid. If you had come with me I think they would have found some better use for you, but as I said, I didn’t have much to chose from beside himbot,” the cop said while putting some beat-up looking boots from his bag next to me. He grabs the chain between my cuffs, and both of them pop open instantly, and he folds them up and begins to place them back into the cuff holder in his belt.

There was something he said that was important. Like, really important. I feel cobwebs like I had just been awakened from a deep sleep. “Put on the jock,” he tells me, and again I am confused, but of a different kind. It’s like I urgently need to know what he means, somehow. “You’re holding them in your hand.” I again look down at my hand and see the orange piece of cloth, which obviously is what he meant. I flip it around in my hands and finds it to be an orange jockstrap with a generous pouch. Looking down I also see the reason for that, since my dick and balls are large. Much larger than I remember them to be. I don’t want to keep him waiting, so as quickly as I can manage, with my balance a bit off, I manage to place one leg in each loop and pull up the jockstrap. It neatly collects everything in front into a large orange ball.

Himbot! That’s what he had said. It’s like the government robots but human. What was the I and M now again? Wait, those are just mindless sacks of muscles roaming around doing whatever menial task is available.

“Himbot?” I ask him. “Yes, you are a himbot,” the cop answered. “Put on the shirt.”

I immediately grabbed the orange bundle from the ground I assumed to be the shirt. To my delight I was right and with just a few tries I managed to get it on me. It isn’t a real shirt, but one of those without arms, whatever they are called. Quite a lot of skin showed. The shoulders were bare, as were the sides and the nipples unless you positioned the strings just right. Stringers! It’s called a stringers, or something close to it. I feel so tired thinking of words.

“And the boots”

I grab one of the boots. There is something missing, but I’m not sure what it is. I has something to do with the small holes, I think. Well, the large hole is missing a foot, so I put one in it. Then I put the other foot in the other boot, and looked at the cop to see if he approved. He looks about the same. Good enough I hope.

“Face me and raise your hands” I comply immediately. He is pointing the large gun at me again. I don’t like it, but I must do what he says. He presses a few buttons and then there is a sharp headache.

“Who are you?” “Himbot 220553.” “What is your assignment?” “Walk along path 228-red responding to requests.” “What types of requests?” “Any type of requests.”