A heavy fog descends over the deep holler where my cabin sits. I can’t really see to the bottom for all the fog. The trees that are visible form a wall of dark vertical lines on a light grey background. I turn on the radio for some music now that my computer has been hacked to death by Anonymous. I like this kind of weather. News is on all the music stations. There’s the blaring manic voice of a reporter straining over a chanting crowd. He is somewhere near the Lincoln memorial. I hear the word “revolution” and get a jolt of some messed up cocktail of natural stimulants. Hundreds of thousands of protesters from all around the nation have descended on Washington and are encircling the Capitol. They are demanding to be let in. They are demanding a new government. There are a large contingent of Anons in masks leading the protest, wearing Guy Fawkes masks. Oh dear god! A second shot of adrenaline makes my heart palpitate violently. Lightning turns the sky a blinding white for an instant and thunder rattles the windows. Rain begins to pummel my tin roof and the noise drowns out the radio. I wonder if the Anons know that I have discovered the secret of their masks. I shouldn’t be here anymore. The panic in the broadcaster’s voice has infected me. I decide I must pack up and leave immediately.
I toss canned food in the bottom of my backpack and stuff dirty clothes on top. I empty my banjo case. I decide that somehow Kalashnakov had banjo cases in mind while designing this assault rifle. The AK fits better than the banjo. I grab my shit and the panic turns into confidence. As I step outside, I realize that I have made my move way too late. The same group of Anons from before are back. This time, they’re waving huge novelty swords in place of signs. Waving swords in the pouring rain. I do the logical thing and quickly unlatch the banjo case. Snapping in the clip and chambering a bullet does not seem to register as a threat to the grinning Guy Fawkes masks. They continue their zombie-like approach. The porch is a 50 foot drop off in every direction. Trapped! I fire a round into the air and still get no reaction. Cornered and threatened, I take careful aim at the closest Guy Fawkes mask. As he starts to swing his sword, I reluctantly pull the trigger. I expect his head to explode, but it doesn’t. That same nasty metallic motor-oil liquid goes flying and the poor fuck screams out in pain. He drops his sword reflexively and tears the mask off with a second scream. Blood is pouring from his nose but he is alive. I don’t hesitate in blasting the shit out of the rest of the masks because they have not slowed their machine-like advance. I don’t miss a single mask. Lucky for them.
They are all sitting on the floor of my cabin, taking care of their profusely bleeding noses. The sleight framed kid who was first to swing at me speaks up. “You’re Kilgore Trout, right? You fucking asshole, what did you do to us?” He has dark hair and an intense gaze. His face is smeared with drying blood.
I am holding the Excalibur replica he was waving at me, examining file marks on the edge. It is the rough kind of sharp that tears instead of slices. I smile at him.
“Are you going to kill us?” he asks. I hand him the hilt of his sword. He pushes it away, giving me a look of pure hatred. I shoot him a brutal half-smile and regard the roomful of nose bleeders.
“You were trying to kill me.” Emphasis on ‘kill.’ I use an informal tone, as if lecturing a class. “These masks must have linked you into a collective consciousness which wants me dead for ridiculing it, or understanding it. Something like that. I don’t know why, but I will find out.” I drop their masks in the center of the pow-wow.
“I am 12, what is this?” blurts the kid, de facto spokesperson. The group titters maliciously at his clever interjection. I kick him squarely in the face to reinforce that I mean business. Blood splatters across the wall.
“What did I ever do to you! FUCK!” He wipes blood from his face and stares at his red hands, shaking with fear. “We were just protesting, next thing I know you’re holding us prisoner and beating the shit out of us.” I regain my composure. In my perception, he turns from zombie to human. I make the best apology I can, “Sorry, didn’t get your name.” I join the group and sit down on the floor.
His name is Jeff and he’s been an Anon for a few months. He joined Anonymous to support Wikileaks. His group are all young men with similar stories. Their talk naturally leads to babble about my “misinformation” and their fucking “signs.” They expound on their non-violent nature and get very ideological about it, even debating one another and correcting each other on minor errors. Typical Anons. I let them go on a few more minutes just for the sheer entertainment value. “Funny signs, these fake ass sharpened swords. Funny masks, too,” I interject. They all fall silent. Jeff, taking his first close look at the pile of black oozing masks speaks for the group. “I know I was holding a sign when I came here. We all were. Then you shot these…masks…off of us at point blank, we should all be dead. Fucking hell.”
“Fucking hell is right,” I continue, “listen to this.” I turn on the radio and make a complete run through the stations just to prove that it’s all news. Just news. The group quietly listens to the story as they take care of their nose bleeds. I load up a bong for them and go make some coffee.
I think it’s springtime, but I’m not sure. The weather forecast is three days of rain at fifty degrees. My forecast only goes out three days, so it could be more than that.
I was thinking about the holocaust, Judas sampler when four priests approached me to explain the sins of our fathers on a rainy street corner. They said he’d give me eternal life if I just repent, and I told them that’s not long enough. Of course, I don’t buy their lies anyway. It’s cheaper to think alone.
I mean drink alone. That’s what I do, maybe an unequal amount of either. Of course, then again, we all know the truth about alcohol. What makes us forget is the reason we want to forget anything at all.
Demon poison! My only issue sometimes is that I wake up, that I can’t drink myself into an eternal slumbering stupor. Just forced to suck in the rain, the grayness and fog when I wake up at 8 p.m. and my body wants to watch TV and my mind craves the Internet and neither are satisfied by the actions of the other and I can’t drink anymore and there’s only a bit of weed left before I run out and my paychecks aren’t deep enough to sustain this habit. I may just move out. Live in the truck.
Just a fantasy. I can’t live in a vehicle. I enjoy private restrooms too much.
And then I’m back to where I started. God damn. I can’t deal with it much longer. I feel like I’m going to go crazy, man. Literally crazy, like madness and all.
I suffer from a genetic malaise of general complacency, a lack of desire to come up any higher than I am – not desire, but will. The right, or rather the wrong, instincts to drive forward instead of parking to nap. Drive, always driving. When I get in that mindset I am all gears turning. The next day, one turns. Some days, no turning at all. Some days, only depression. Others, mania. Up and down, I go back and forth and I used to think writing my way in and out of these problems was both cause and solution but I see now it’s a condition that follows me always. I will never make it out alive. Never.
I have to! But I won’t.
People die, dreams undone – will that be me? Is it already? Who am I? Who wasn’t I?
Jesus God! Will it ever end? This depression, I want only to sleep. I crave peace and comfort, warmth and tranquility. I need her shoulder back to lie on, where I felt so strong without it, but when I had it – now there is only weakness.
For all the money in the world I would give up to live the life of subtle zen, of marijuana and videogames and rejecting good sex because I was more obliged to my sloth-like tendencies from which I now suffer endlessly. I am just tired and weak nowadays, like a sickness has grabbed a hold of me and wants to make me its bitch.
How can I work around it? How will I come out of it?
I need a nap.
I wake up with too many nightmares clouding my thought. I crack open a Mexican Coke and drink down that real sugar. I was in college again, lost in a dorm, assaulted by “bros,” manipulated into sexual humiliation by lesbians. I can’t go to work today. I go to Anonymous. In the middle of writing another long diatribe on the problems of the Anonymous cult, a car full of teenagers in Guy Fawkes masks show up in my driveway with signs. They read “GTFO,” “We Hate You Billy,” and “Failgore Troll.” I am not shocked, but I really don’t know how to react. Should I get my guns out and wave them around, maybe fire a few shots into the air? Should I go get these people to take off their masks and talk to me? Should I invite them in for some coffee?
I try to talk to them, but they won’t take off their masks. I can’t talk to them like that, it’s absurd. They have a lot of angry things to say, but nothing I haven’t heard before. I go inside and flick on my electric organ, play something in a minor key to drown out their insults. I keep playing for almost an hour, until they leave. I make myself some lunch. As I sit down to eat, another car pulls up. I figure it’s a bill collector or my boss wondering why I’m not at work. Maybe they’ll finally shut off my electricity, but no it’s just more protesters.
This time I cover my face with a bandanna and quickly make a sign that says “FUCK YOU KILGORE TROUT!” I join their ranks and protest myself like I often do online. The Anons don’t even seem to process the possibility that I am protesting myself to mock them. I get real close to the guy next to me, to be a creep. I sneak a peek behind his mask. I let out a reflexive “What the fuck!” There’s something metallic going from the mask into his eye sockets. For the first time in my life, I am actually scared of Anonymous.
I bolt inside, lock my doors, and load the AK-47. I take the safety off and chamber a bullet. Am I going insane? I start to think about the “collective conscious” and well, I believe in it for the first time. Damn!
It’s dusk before the protesters leave. I crawl out of the corner and put the AK down. Reality is like a shattered mirror.
I wake up early after just a couple hours of nightmare filled sleep. Too much purpose, too much paranoia, too much adrenaline for sleep. I drive to Roanoke and try to get my hands on one of these Guy Fawkes masks. I can’t find any except in the Wal-Mart toy department. It feels like it’s made of something more substantial and heavy than cheap plastic. $50 fucking dollars for this fucking thing. I don’t dare open it until I get to work.
It’s hard to explain to my boss what’s going on. I’ve drunkenly explained how I’ve become the enemy of Anonymous to my co-worker Neil, and he tries to cover for me, badly. I wait for everyone to go on lunch break and take a close look at the mask in good light. Nothing special on the surface. I think about my $50 regretfully as I cut this thing down the center with a bandsaw. It barely cuts, and causes the bandsaw to buck like it’s made of steel. What a fucking mess! The “mask” turns into liquid, or leaks where I cut it. It’s the color of used motor oil with a metallic consistency like it’s full of glitter. I don’t touch the shit with my bare hands, and throw away the nitrile gloves when I’m done cleaning the mess. The blade’s worn the fuck out, so I change it. Maybe it’s some kind of nanomachines or some shit. God, I start to think about how I accused the government of running Anonymous and I get a little sick to my stomach.
For fear of going home, I work the rest of my shift. When I do go home, my computer is borked. I can not even access the lowest level, the BIOS. Damn thing’s a paperweight. Fucking Anonymous! Fucking government! Shit, the organ still works. So does my typewriter. Can’t hack that shit. Maybe I am more overwrought than I should be. Then I remember those monsters! I check on my guns and even test fire the AK off the porch. I am relieved to hear it still fires.
I wake up and go straight to the computer. I always go straight to the computer. It’s my only source for information aside from paperbacks. Call me an addict, but at least it’s not television.
No e-mails, no facebooks, not even any interesting news. I take a shit, but don’t shower and forget to brush my teeth. I make a sandwich on the dirty kitchen counter and eat it, crumbs falling where they may. I get back on the computer and try to find something interesting on reddit.
I get to work late. I shape a bunch of animals out of wood. It doesn’t always feel like it, but I do have a nice life.
At work I listen to science fiction on audiobooks I have pirated with bit torrents. Everyone at work pirates now. I taught them how. I listen to a lot of cyberpunk books. I definitely consider myself a cyberpunk.
In High School, I declared cyber war against the administration and staff. I knew more Visual Basic than the Computer Science class taught, so I pwnd every assignment in the first five minutes and fucked around for the remaining forty. I coded malicious software, played Tribes, rendered fractals. My teacher had helped create the very first Multi User Dungeon ever made. During class, he played it more than I played Tribes. I crashed the MUD server while he was playing it. I wrote a program that flooded the server with randomized new user data. Simple stuff. I don’t think such a great teacher could ever bring himself to take away my computer priveleges, but that day he threatened to.
I tried to stay away from getting myself in trouble by keeping my antics at home. This did not work. I learned Flash from a pirated copy. Flash was a powerful thing and I didn’t have much trouble with it. The administration revoked the students’ privelege to carry backpacks in the hallways. I fired back with a flash video of a backpack eating their faces like Pac Man eats cherries. The video spread like a virus, even among the teachers. I found myself having some very uncomfortable lulz. The reality of the situation was that I had somehow shifted opinion so wildly that they gave backpack rights back. It was then that I got a taste for power.
I created a central hub that linked together different students’ web sites. I called it the Titan Underground because the school’s mascot was the Titan. Then we began to use this hub for Anonymously written stories about the school. It quickly and naturally became a slick Anonymous message board that most students posted on. I did not moderate it whatsoever. I suggest all Anons who are still students do the same thing. This is a fun thing to do in school.
Somebody eventually wrote a piece that was purely slanderous towards Ms. X, a pregnant English teacher. I had Ms. X for English and she always complimented and encouraged my writing. Somehow I feel like better maternity leave for teachers would have resolved this entire situation before it ever happened. I don’t blame Ms. X for her reaction. She wanted to sue me for publishing slander. The Principal would have fired her if she had sued me, so I was saved from the lawsuit. Still, they put me through drug counseling and psychiatric evaluation as punishment. They had my whole web site printed and laid out on a table. It was surreal, shocking. I felt guilty and regarded as insane so I didn’t write again for years.
The Titan Underground became the Elf Wax Times which became Chronicle.su. Ten years have passed since I crashed the first MUD ever made as its creator played across the room. Now I’m older and even more rash. I’ve attacked Anonymous and they’ve attacked me back. These fucking kids think I don’t understand Anonymous. Sure, it’s hard to draw an accurate picture of Anonymous. Anonymous is a voice we all have inside us that we are conditioned to never use.
I don’t really know how I ended up here, sanding turtle bodies out of wood. After high school I went to college for computer science and it didn’t really work out for me. I had trouble socializing with the rich kids and didn’t really have the focus to be a programmer anyway. I dropped out after 2 semesters. Eventually I moved to the country.
I still think of her sometimes when I’m working on turtles. There was a thing, with her and the turtle and me. I know it’s completely unhealthy, the way I still think about her after two years. The whole world knows now. Everyone knew before Anonymous even leaked my love letters anyway. I tend to let out my inner voice more than is appropriate. Even now! She was the only person to ever tell me to my face that something I wrote was fucked up. In a world of spineless television addicts, she used the voice we are taught to fear. She’d been expelled from high school for creating a fake Myspace of her gym teacher and using it to stir up rumors of sexual misconduct. How I loved her fearlessness!
My dealings with Anonymous started when I wrote an attack piece on AnonNews.org. I found their press releases stinking of ideology and lacking of content on any issue. It’s all propaganda written by some nut or another. The first article I wrote was partially serious and contained a lot of pointed criticism and a list of actionable ideas to improve AnonNews. These are all the things that Anons demand of anyone who begins to criticize them. Met with almost complete indifference, I gave up on Anonymous for a little while.
There is a key similarity between Anonymous and their arch-nemesis, Scientology. Like Scientology, Anonymous is kind of a science fiction cult. There is a recurring theme that Anonymous is a hyperconsciousness or a collective of minds that form an entity in cyber space. This is fantastic wording considering the reactionary nature of Anonymous. Unlike the individual mind, Anonymous does not plan for future outcomes or posess even a shred of self awareness. Anonymous reacts like a school of fish darting away from predators and homing in on food. This is a kind of consciousness that is below the level of any single individual.
When a hell of a lot of otherwise uninvolved people decided “Hey, Anonymous is a thing for me,” this is when the cult became something infectable. WikiLeaks released Cablegate and Anonymous saw a surge in these kind of recruits. These are impressionable young people who think they’re joining a hyperconsciousness by jumping on whatever DDoS bandwagon is arollin’. They’ve choked down some propaganda that’s no better than Fox News and behave like they’re members of the fucking Tea Party, infected with ideals. The only real way to get through to them is mockery.
It’s easy to mock a cult with no direction. Just call it irrelevant. When people have no personal reason why they’re doing what they’re doing, this kind of a statement will make them furious. Ideology (fwd to 2:30 for the lulz) clogs normally reasonable thought processes with rationalization. My article, “Why Anonymous is Completely Irrelevant,” evoked as much rationalization as it did ad hominems. Hyperconscious? No, definitely not. Anonymous has proved that to me by its own actions.
Manipulating Anonymous became a game to me. I showed everyone how awesomely easy it was to troll AnonNews and the trolls invaded. Comments and press releases were overrun with troll posts. Eventually, AnonNews became hardened to trolling. It is here that I have probably done my best service to Anonymous. My original criticism to AnonNews suggested more discretion in the posting of Press Releases. Now there is.
There really is no historical context that adequately frames the World Cyber War. The warriors are disparate and their numbers are unclear. The tactics are most often symbolic, but sometimes vicious and personal. The target is usually an establishment but occasionally an individual. Governments, corporations, and even fringe religious cults have found themselves under constant symbolic threat representative of massive public distrust and disgust. Anyone who angers the population enough will fall symbolic prey, hated by mankind. This phenomenon is known as Anonymous.
Anonymous has become increasingly fractured because of its anarchic and nihilistic origin. The users who try to define this anarchy are known among Anons as moralfags. They attempt to influence the creation of a political cult around promises of utopia. These moralfags use the oxymoronic ideology of anarchy to control others. Several splinter groups have tried and failed to hijack Anonymous in this way and a few have succeeded in some small measure. Still, true Anarchy seems to have stayed decidedly on top of the moralfags. This is evidenced by the recent DDoS attacks on AnonNews from a massive bot-net comprised of over 4,000 machines. No credit has been taken for the attack because the attackers are not moralfags and the action speaks for itself. AnonNews has long been a source for propaganda of all kinds. By its very nature, propaganda is the weapon of the moralfag. Only Chronicle.SU has turned propaganda into a tool to destroy propaganda.
The news feed on the Internet is not a simple 24 hour cycle like with papers and television. It is a behemoth so starved for information that it eats its own diarrhea to keep itself fed. Can Anonymous blame us for gleefully feeding this monster poison? When we claimed AnonNews was run by the US Government, the story was copy-pasted to more than just a handful of news outlets. The photoshopped image of a fed Anon behind a podium was photoshopped and then photoshopped again. Some people actually seemed to accept that AnonNews really was run by the Government.
AnonNews probably isn’t run by the government, but it’s a lot like any other propaganda outlet. It is a source for misinformation and ideology to be ingested into the diarrhea eating beast. Only Chronicle.SU is willing to stand up to this beast and feed it poison. I was paid for this service by having my personal information, my dox, published on AnonNews. It is my guess that this is why AnonNews suffered such a vicious DDoS attack just a few hours after my personal information was published on their site. Yes, I just claimed partial responsibility for the recent DDoS attack on AnonNews. You have my dox. Call the cops on me. I dare you.
I’ve shamelessly inserted myself and my opinions into nearly every piece of writing about Anonymous. Now I do it with righteous purpose exposed. I got doxed and I deserved it. I engineered it by becoming an enemy to Anonymous. There are conspiracy theories about the nature of Chronicle.SU all over the internet. Some have theorized we are an experiment at manipulation from NewsMax or the US Government. Many have shared the belief that we are in fact being paid a lot of money to do what we do. I have only been paid by having all my most personal information published. To me, this is payment enough.
Posted via pastebin straight to the news feed at AnonNews.org, my dox were perhaps the most vicious piece of media to ever grace AnonNews. It was personal, misguided, and outright hateful. The link to my dox and all other dox were removed before AnonNews went back up. These were the stones hurled at Wilbur Mercer as he summited the metaphorical mountain of human struggle. With me as substitute for Mercer, the collective has felt pain for the first time. The collective has begun to learn empathy.
ANON NEWS WORLD–Today, “dox” were dropped on the wrong John Rubenstein. In lay-speak that means the e-mail address, home address, and home phone number of John Rubenstein from Backtrace Security was published. Thing is, we contacted the John Rubenstein who owned the published phone number, a retired man aged 83. He is very concerned about ever being able to contact his children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren again. His phone has been ringing into the night, but he continues to answer, eagerly hoping each young voice is one of his grandchildren. He had never heard of Backtrace Security until we mentioned it. He has since unplugged all his phones.
You see, Backtrace is just trying to imprison Anon’s most hated enemies. Leaders. These leaders have led naive adolescent Anons to make enemies of the US Military, foreign powers and dangerous legal entities like Scientology and the Westboro Baptist Church. They deserved to get “doxed” too. Backtrace is the chaos fighting back, the act of someone who was prepared for the wrath of Anonymous. Like us here at the Chronicle, the only retribution Anonymous can inflict upon Backtrace will skyrocket the right John Rubenstein into the exosphere of success.
You’re an Anon. Let’s face it, no one understands you. No one except Chronicle.SU. No one outside gets the world inside of the internet, the hivemind. It is not just one collective, but thousands of permutating spinoffs of the most active and savvy users. It is clear that some political actions have begun to manifest through what is called “Anonymous.” We here at the Chronicle mock and ridicule this so-called “hactivism” because we can. We don’t believe you’re activists, or even hackers. You are mostly glorified spammers and trolls who can rarely succeed without help from others. Now you’re too dumb to even realize it, but people like Barrett Brown try to steal the name of Anonymous and attach their individual ideas on top of it. Most of them are admins continuously correcting others in IRC. When they can’t correct someone’s ideas, they kick or ban them and call them a troll. If you hadn’t noticed, the views of the Chronicle are completely contradictory, subversive and chaotic. Our primary goal is to destroy anyone who would become a leader in Anonymous. Anonymous is not a meritocracy, it is chaos being hijacked for Politics.
We created Chronicle.SU nearly 5 years ago for teh lulz. We still stick to the lulz, but we have found a higher level of lulz based on the moral principle of destroying morals within anonymous. Morals are the symptom of leadership and not a reflection of a consensus. It’s okay that we have leaders. We’re not the same kind of beast that Anonymous is. The problem with leaders in Anonymous is that the sheep don’t even realize when they are being led. Sure you have the option not to participate, but don’t so many Anons just use LOIC out of boredom? Anons are always shopping for targets and doing it using the world’s largest honeypot IRC server. I urge all Anons under the age of 18 to refrain from participating in anonymous. Remember, your parents will bear ultimate responsibility when the Party Van comes. Yes, that is correct. Your parents will be V& with you. You are days, weeks, or months away from mass Vannings in America. The die has been cast!