Recently in Fictions Category

...to work on a short story vaguely about time. I'm so far very disappointed with The End of Time, but I'm trying to keep an open mind. I tend to agree with the author -- time does not exist -- but I expeced a more elegant model in its place.

I'm still waiting for a new New Refutation of Time.

Mitch H. of the always interesting Blogfonte suggested that the spam I've been quoting is "some sort of viral package, which pads itself with random text blocks harvested from MS Word documents found on the victim's machine, in an attempt to defeat Boolean spam filters." He's probably right -- that would explain why some of the "Ibbur" emails (so-called, by me at least, because the word "Ibbur" appears in the subject line, and sometimes somewhere in the text) deal with the curious story of Ash, murdered for reasons of metempsychosis or some such. The latest Ibbur doesn't mention Ash by name, but seems to continue the story.

Police investigation led by Lt. Jacoby at a dead end. Assuming, given the number of photographs, that there were too many potential enemies, Jacoby took a different tack, and has been questioning Museum of Victorian Morality employees about an old octavo volume, wrapped first in wax paper, then with plain brown shipping paper, and tied with twine. The title, author and subject of book are presently unknown, as is its location, as its existence.

Story by journalist C.K. suggested that a book was key to killing. C.K. described book as quarto volume; ornate cover with gold leaf lettering. Because of this sensationalist description, C.K.'s editor spiked the story.

Bizarre -- perhaps an outline for a work of fiction? I can't tell, but it sure beats the online pharmacy, business supply, discount software and "I have contacted you to assist in repatriating the fund valued at US$44 million left behind by my late client" spam I normally get.

By the way, I think I'm reasonably well protected from any harm ibbur might be spreading -- one of the unspoken benefits of having an Apple is that most viruses are geared to attack Windows machines. I still have anti-viral protection of course, and I never open emails with attachments from strangers...

Another of those weirdo emails arrived (I neglected to mention that the subject lines always contain the letters "I-b-b-u-r," either sequentially or spaced ("Ibbur," "Ib bur," "Ibb u r") and some other nonsense -- Ibb ur text or Ibb ur 32% or I bbu r followed by gibberish characters that may have been typed in Cryllic letters, or some such. This one seems to pick up the thread of the one I posted previously. It wasn't in sequence, and there were several that came in between with some sort of Ibbur heading with more or less the same format -- I dug this one, which has nothing to do with the mysterious Ash -- or much else -- out of the trash bin:

Darlin! :)

Death doesn't frighten me. There is not so much comfort in having children as there is sorrow in parting with them.

Time and money spent in helping men to do more for themselves is far better than mere giving. You don't drown by falling in the water you drown by staying there. ...

...and on and on for pages. Most of these emails read like the above example, but a small subset are different -- well, here's the example:

What the police are following up on and missing in the Ash murder investigation:

Video surveillance tape from the Museum of Victorian Morality shows journalist C.K. entering at 7:45 p.m. and leaving at 8:15 p.m. Time of murder estimated at 9 p.m. What interests police: C.K. enters empty handed, leaves with a thick envelope. Given Ash's trade in peculiar pictures of children, suspicions are, naturally, aroused.

C.K. in fact visited Ash at the non-profit Museum of Victorian Morality to get the organization's tax returns. C.K. stonewalled police until Lt. Jacoby, lead investigator, showed him photos, whereupon C.K. explained his interest in Ash: investigating allegations of tax evasion.

Regarding the tax forms, what neither C.K. nor the police noticed was the name of the man who prepared the returns: Darquier de Pellepoix.

I have lately been subjected to a bizarre string of emails, beginning with a series of garbled letters -- maybe "txvb eg xweb ..." and so on for pages, then some kind of graphic element that my computer automatically blocks, then some unsettling text (here is the latest sample):

The otherwsie respectable Ash, whom you know from his numerous price fixing schemes, was found dead in the great hall of his tax avoiding non-profit Museum of Victorian Morality. Cause of death not ascertained on the scene, but the police report noted that the former Mr. Ash's thorax had been carefully opened, as if for a dissection.

This you did not suspect: the former Mr. Ash was found lying on a heap of photographs of children posed in ways that would make any Dickens think Victorian child labor was, by comparison, humane. Ash had long been a dealer of the stuff.

Early indications are that the murder was revenge (justifiable, you'd agree) from a victim of Mr. Ash's hitherto unknown business venture. There is great interest in an otherwise undescribed book stolen from the premises.

Police believe the killer motivated by metempsychosis.

And then more garble, and then some kind of pitch for herbal medicine or aroma therapy. The return addresses from these emails never work -- replies just bounce back.