NOVATO, CALIF. (2-7-2012) – An anonymous internet user going by the name of OP released the bank account numbers, Social Security Numbers, phone numbers and addresses of a massive number of Novato residents Saturday.
CHRONICLE.SU URGENT UPDATE: (2-6-2013)
An anonymous caller phoned in a tip that he is “free now” and intends to “finish” what he “started” one year ago, challenging all preconceptions OP is a fag. Listen to the bone-chilling telephone call here.
The individual, who seemingly appeared out of the blue, addressed the anonymous website as his “crew,” using rhyming language.
Rumors are circulating that the information passed down originated from an accomplished hacker group comprised of remnants of LulzSec.
As leaks poured out, anonymous internet users suspected they might be credit cards, but later determined the leaked information was bank account numbers issued by Westamerica Bank, a local bank of California which issues ten digit account numbers like are found in the leaks, or “dox,” the term sometimes used for the disclosure of sensitive information.
Do you remember me?
Infamous I was
Fucking shit up, causing quite the buzz
I belonged to a team
With a hacker like theme
Now I’m lurking here
For a crew thats top tier
I have a plan thats 4 years in the making
And soon we’ll have what’s ours for the taking
A handful of brave or reckless individuals logged into the bank website using the details.
Others signed up for accounts using the credit information, immediately followed by declarations of deletion of virtual machines, as well as paranoia fueled incineration of their hard drives.
Another user asked, “what did they do to you OP? Seriously, not the whole fucking town could have wronged you.”
“OP” refers to the “original poster,” who has acknowledged the extreme likelihood of going to prison as a result of his or her actions.
After some investigation, it was determined OP’s identity might possibly have something to do with Jack Briner who, in 1997, used stolen lists of information from his former bank of employment for use at Westmerica Bank. Google results reveal Jack Briner is teaching economics to the upcoming best-and-brightest of San Jose.
OP was particularly inclined to call out an individual by the name of Jim Greenway, whose SSN was referenced repeatedly and explicitly. OP added, “the rest and greenway shall pay.”
UPDATE: Jim Greenway is a bank branch manager.
After posting the 25th batch of account numbers, OP quipped, “Don’t fuck with me, I’m football team,” spawning a meme which, as time goes on, will likely gain notoriety with its obscurity.
Also, there was a four hour countdown. At zero hour, this happened:
greenway is gone
i have set us up the bomb
time to say goodbye
as i too shall die
RICHMOND, VA. — “We just seen the opportunity, and I couldn’t pass it up. I had to own a slave,” said Internet Chronicle Publisher Frank Mason, speaking to clerical staff and press called to a conference at 1000 Monument Ave. With Jeff Schapiro from the Times-Dispatch busily taking notes, Mr. Mason continued, lamenting that he could only purchase a worker’s mortal flesh, “his gametes but never his soul.” He emphasized every syllable with a bang on the marble table top.
“God ain’t legalized that yet,” said Mr. Mason with a dry, wheezing laugh, before ejecting a runny stream of “baccy” from between tarred lips into a spittoon two meters away, carved apparently from a human skull.
“See that spitoon over there?” he said, gesticulating for reporters and Richmond business leaders. “That there’s a Czech. You can tell by the shape of the unity lobe.”
Editor of Chronicle.su — and lifelong friend of Mr. Mason’s — Kilgoar Trout complained that he was given no say in the matter. “Frank wanted to own a human being, he said. He said it’d make him feel powerful. It does.”
Lebal Drocer is a limited liability corporation. In God’s new America NAFTA and GATT have railroaded the communist unions that used to effectively clip and snip job creators. Those days are over. 1999 and Seattle came and went.
And they lost.
In addition to having assembled Virginia business leaders and various Saudi investors to show off what he called “his new Chinese,” Frank Mason told Internet Chronicle enthusiasts present that he was encouraging staff to obtain concealed-carry permits as soon as possible, and to fasten as many rails as possible to any “tricked-out rifles” staff might have hoarded in secret rooms in their basements. “That one’s putting a clampdown on on everything holy. Like my grandpappy used to say, Jesus won’t tolerate no clip with less capacity than days in his months,” adding, “And I ain’t talking about February!”
It was at this point that Raymond H. Boone of the Richmond Free-Press left the conference.
Editor Kilgoar Trout shared his concern that the company was moving too quickly away from the model of documenting the most frightening developments in cybersecurity and the out-of-control, privately bought-out surveillance state. “With this new venture into human trafficking,” said Mr. Trout to the publisher of Southside’s Community Weekly, “Frank’s really hijacking my religion of peace.”
Houston–SlaveTech Enterprises office monkey Harold Strafford the Third opened fire on his colleagues Wednesday after contracting a rare, unseasonable case of the Mondays.
Police responded with deadly force. “This is like no case of the Mondays I’ve ever seen,” said Officer Mike Fish. “Today is Wednesday.”
Mario Kline, 32, described the gripping moment Strafford decided to murder his colleagues. Strafford stepped Kline’s wounded body just before succumbing to a hail of gunfire by responding officers.
“He strafed down aisle after aisle of cubicles, pumping a frenzy of lead into anything that moved – and all the computers. Especially the computers. It was horrible. I had all my porn on there, and some people are dead.”
Shotgun blast after shotgun blast, Strafford killed four people and injured seventeen others. Among his victims were two office clerks, a member of upper-middle management, and the secretary who greeted him at the door. Each victim was shot in the mouth.
Strafford’s attorney, Leo Steinbrenner, told reporters his client was “under a lot of stress” Wednesday, and had no patience for people constantly asking him what was wrong. “He was just having a case of the Mondays,” Steinbrenner explained, adding, “Sure, my client acted out of line; sure, you can call it a murderous rampage. But in a bad job market, my client is a maverick. [emphasis added] You can’t say he isn’t thinking outside the box! Try to look at it this way: my client is a job creator.”
A note found on the gunman’s untouched desk exhibits total loss of control as Strafford ultimately succumbed to the will of his unsuppressed rage, and urge to create jobs:
USELESS ENVisioning a pick-axe in your fucking face of raw bone
pure fury hatred “Bella Mew. Monday. Wednesday morning murderhate.”
Little faggot daughter suck a dick find a man, try to escape this loveless land,
I dare you little whore–
Try to escape
My murderous hand.
“Old Brutus,” SlavTech custodian, said Strafford confronted him in the middle of his killing spree. “He looked me in the eye and said I’ve got a lot of work to do – ‘after all this’ – cleaning up blood, and guts, and stuff. He said he had no hard feelings toward me, mostly because out of all the weed he ever smoked in his life, he said just about all fifty pounds of it came from me and my people.”
Harold Strafford, just moments before snapping into a psychopathic killing spree.
No word yet on how the family’s victims will cope with today’s brutal tragedy, but sources are already reporting intake of marijuana, alcohol and barbiturates to ease the pain of losing a father, a brother, a son, a daughter, wife, a sister, a close friend – all beloved office drones – all sacrificed at the hands of a case of the Mondays.
Our prayers and the prayers of Lebal Drocer, Inc. go out to the SlavTech Corporation whose untold suffering won’t be felt until Monday, when Human Resources must undergo the arduous task of listing several job openings on the Internet date rape site craigslist.org.
"It is also my pleasure to clean up after you, and mop where you miss, when you piss. Mypleasurepleasedrivearound."
This is the story of Tony Hoagland, and countless others like himself, whose pleasure it is to serve up Taco Bell products to your ever-widening asses.
A carload of Taco Bell patrons order Gorditas and authentic Mexican Dorito Shell Taco Supremes through a box in the menu. The driver half-heartedly thanks the loudspeaker as he reaches for his wallet. “My pleasure,” grunts the box. The people in the car look at each other, and back at the driver, who mouths the words ‘my pleasure’ as he creeps up to the drive-thru window. Tony Hoagland, 27, reaches out to accept the man’s bills and, without smiling, asks if he would like any sauce. Hoagland can barely contain his joy, but after serving hard time for involuntary manslaughter, he is known to keep a good pokerface.
Hoagland enjoys serving customers so much, in fact, that he can not wait for their responses before he can relate his feelings to them, so he pours out all thoughts at once.
“That’ll be twelve o seven please pull aroun’ and thankyoumypleasure.”
His manager explained: To the untrained ear, it sounds like he’s just used to saying it four hundred times per day, for eleven hours straight. But to seasoned beef specialist Erin McMahue, Hoagland’s heart is clearly in it. “He just really wants people to recognize the pleasure he and thousands of Taco Bell associates deal with on an hourly basis, at hourly base pay.”
Taco Bell, McMahue explained, is all about the customer, and as much as the customer enjoys passing Taco Bell products through his or her repleted digestive system, the pleasure belongs mainly to the employees who serve them, who have said ‘my pleasure’ so many times the sensation of pleasure is no longer recognizable and – should it arise – may bring with it other familiar feelings, such as fear and contempt.
Taco Bell employees are reckoned by chronicle.su physician Dr. Langstrom H. Troubedauer to be the most pleasure-sensitive breed of Americans in the Western Hemisphere, surpassing Army wives, plastic surgeons, “even porn stars.”
Police retake control of a VCU Earth Day protest Friday.
RICHMOND – Police were stationed in and around various Earth Day tents where, among celebratory tye die t-shirts, crappy artwork and hemp necklaces, small pipes were sold, a clear sign that the non-aggressive pot smoking community are somehow winning the war on drugs.
Tents were allowed, and musicians were allowed to play at the event as long as they agreed not to mention the #occupy movement. Some did, and were arrested for trespassing.
Arresting officer Leroy T. Roane said one man kicked, screamed and spat in the faces of VCU security who attempted to escort him off the premises. In response to the offender’s jeering, Roane replied, “I guess you can arrest an idea, if it is trespassing.”
Walker Reddington, a Senior at VCU School of Psychology, witnessed the incident and reached deep within her intellectual capacity to surmise a reaction when she said, “Most ideas trespass all the time.”
Reddington, who was high, said the smell of patchouli incense attracted her to the scene. “I’m pretty hungry, though, so I’ll probably leave,” she said, adding, “Also I don’t have any money.”
Some of the cheapest, lowest quality items available cost one dollar and proceeds went to plants, rocks and mother nature, for whom there is no practical use of currency.
Trees can’t spend money.
But Uncle Sam can.
dun bought the internet
AnonymousIRC's Rush Limbaugh Moment
Friday, the @AnonymousIRC Twitter account made an uncalled for and wholly sexist attack against @RevMagdalen, a church leader who has faced religious persecution. Reverend Magdalen’s feed has often featured opinions about the manifold dangers created by Occupy and Anonymous, as well as educational material on related subjects.
This disrespectful and frankly sexist attack against Reverend Magdalen is exactly the same as what Rush Limbaugh did to Sandra Fluke. Both Rush Limbaugh and AnonymousIRC found themselves threatened by a woman of greater intellect and resorted to sexist remarks. Limbaugh did use coarser language, but the message was the same: You are a sexual object and nothing more, now be quiet while the boys talk about important stuff. AnonymousIRC could not be bothered to apologize to Reverend Magdalen, so in that way he is actually worse than Limbaugh.
Among such “radical activists” as Anonymous, this kind of sexism should have no place. No voices within “Anonymiss,” a bitterly repressed class of the Anonymous collective, have spoken up to support Reverend Magdalen. Anonymiss is too busy entertaining their superiors by posing naked with Guy Fawkes masks and putting sharpies in their anus. The demand for increasingly demeaning pictures of Anonymous-supporting women is a hallmark of the Anonymous culture, and in this light the demands of AnonymousIRC become even more clear.
Reverend Magdalen is a lot more than just stupid tweets. AnonymousIRC isn’t.
Wind Turbines can catch fire and kill all the ULTRA RARE piratebush found ONLY on Poor Mountain
I knew Old Man Charlie from the days of my youth on Poor Mountain. That old man mostly kept to himself, but when I’d see him walking around on the mountain, he’d talk my ear off. Charlie told a lot of stories, but the ones that always got him worked up the most were the stories of what he called “dem saclones.” Charlie spent a lot of time walking the ridge of Poor Mountain, just to pass the time, but I always liked to ask him about dem saclones.
From what the old man told me, I gathered that he had been experiencing some kind of ultra-rare meteorological phenomenon that may be unique to Poor Mountain. It’s hard for me to go into any detail, but Charlie described clouds quickly forming very close to the ground, twisting like a cyclone. Within the course of a few minutes, an extremely small area would be pelted with up to quarter-sized hail. Sometimes the hail would be smaller, and the affected area could be as large as a house or as small as a frisbee.
Honestly, I never believed that old man. After he died, I wondered a little about Charlie’s stories and eventually researched some information on the internet. I learned that it’s possible “dem saclones” were also called Microstorms. No one on the internet seemed to have seen these vicious kind of tornadic hail Microstorms, and I tried contacting a few meteorologists. None of them seemed to believe the stories from Charlie, and just said that Microstorms were not proven science. However, Poor Mountain surely has great importance as a possible meteorological oddity.
Poor Mountain is located in Roanoke, Virginia, and is currently under threat of industrial development for wind power. Help us, Anonymous. Hack our government into submission for Old Man Charlie and his crazy cyclones. They’re probably real, and when those wind turbines go up, the Microstorms may disappear forever. Have you ever seen what happens when a wind turbine gets pelted with an intense cyclone full of quarter-size hail? Mayhem. Pure mayhem is coming to Poor Mountain if this wind farm is approved. STOP THEM NOW.
In the face of foreclosure, Chronicle staff research carnal knowledge from deep within a mortgaged volcano base.
Chronicle HQ, Bolivia–
Chronicle.su, or The Elf Wax Phoenix which arose from the burning flames of a better website, is celebrating Chronicle Day, the journal’s Holy Day of Praise. Dubbed C-Day, the annual holiday is a special time when throngs of teenage women thrust themselves into the iron gates of Lebal Drocer, Inc.
As salmon casting their bodies upstream, tides of fresh young women offer themselves in sacrifice to Veritus, God of Truth, eagerly vying to feed his demands. Seeking a cut of the criminal activity – and Bolivian cocaine – thought to be horded deep within Chronicle Mountain, many of these women have attained super bitch powers granting them the means to cast off their skin as dead ringers, and hunt us in the 4th dimension.
At sundown, a robed figure approached the electronic security gate, allowing a harem of six young women inside, most of them legal. Fifteen minutes later, the girls are presumed missing.
Found inside are thought to be all manner of freedoms, some of them American.
“I think they’re holed up in there doing drugs,” said Chief Daniel Spoktane of an unnamed paramilitary force, whose agents are stretched thin around the 14 kilometer electrified perimeter of Chronicle.su. “And I think there’s a pretty good chance they could be having fun.”
Chief Spoktane indicated plans to subjugate the website by individually arresting each member of chronicle.su one by one.
“We aren’t sure what they owe on a volcanic base like this,” he said, “but the banks have already foreclosed on it so we’re here to bag ’em up and ship ’em out.”
Most official chronicle.su business takes place inside a fortified safe room through which authorities will have to cut open, like a bunch of n00b construction workers; that is, assuming spies don’t sap our sentries, in which case we’re fucked.
CHRONICLE.SU – TASTE THE LIGHTNING
At chronicle.su we take our jobs seriously.
One glance at our track record will tell you we mean business.
“Fucking criminal-ass bitches, and telling you the truth.”
Local writer later said “Fuck it”
Cess Poole makes his living stealing money from people's wallets.
Cess Poole, chronicle.su writer, expressed wishes Sunday to produce new material. Almost immediately, however, the young penman changed his mind.
“He was like, ‘Fuck it,'” said fellow writer and chronicle.su editor Frank Mason.
With mounting debt, a sick girlfriend and hungry children at his feet, Poole has long been in a slump he can only describe as “inescapable.”
“It’s like, all the pressures of life are just fucking me up lately,” said Poole. “It’s like, I don’t care about nothing man. And it feels like I never will.”
The change of heart, Poole clarified, was not spurred on by a reported decline in marijuana abuse. To the contrary, the father of one and a half has only been clean for two days short of a work week. “And to be fair,” he said, “that’s a record.”
Instead, sources believe a source of creativity within Poole may simply have never existed at all.
“There’s just nothing there to nurture,” reported Mike Satton, chronicle.su social analyst and young talent scout for the publication. “I mean, if he did something besides spend other people’s money and playing with his prick all day, then yeah, you might have something to work with. But this is nuttin’. Nuttin’!”
Where Poole might end up next is anyone’s guess. Possible locations according to Poole include jail, his mother’s house, or face down in a ditch somewhere near his father’s home.
For the hottest most up-to-date information on Cess Poole, check the police blotter in your local newspaper or ask your drug dealer.
Chronicle lawyers speaking candidly on the matter showed little faith in the future well-being of the estranged chronicle.su writer. “Frankly though,” said Julius Epstein, chronicle.su attorney, “those of us here at the chronicle expect to see his mugshot on national news within the month.”
Chronicle.su lawyers are accustomed to bailing writers out of jail, but with an increase in legal trouble, combined with lack of contributions, editors for the first time ever are considering dropping Cess Poole from their services permanently.
“He’s a drag. And he’s always making everyone uncomfortable, offering us speed during business meetings. Selling me weed in my bosses’ offices. And I don’t even know how to react anymore when he tells me his children are hungry. Where does all that drug money go?”
This message is brought to you selflessly by Lebal Drocer, Inc.
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