Hack Whore

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Hack Whore
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Your CF Ray ID:
75b23c040a4ce640


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Your CF Ray ID:
75b23c697cf8e640


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By
Joel Farrelly ,
August 16th 2014



TRIGGER ALERT: The story below contains penises. If the title and that NSFW label didn’t tip you off already, consider this your formal notice. That being said, anyone expecting hardcore erotica is going to be severely underwhelmed. This is a story about people. And people are gross. You have been warned.
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Those who’ve read my earlier posts know that I seem to find darkness wherever I go. It’s a bad habit that I clearly have no idea how to break, which is why my current situation should come as absolutely no surprise to anyone who’s been paying attention. Apparently that’s a list that doesn’t include me though because, upon finding an old desktop computer tower hidden behind the water-heater in my girlfriend Alice’s condo, my first reaction was to bring the computer home and dig through its files. In my world that’s called “asking for it.”
I already had the remnants of a similar Dell model stashed in a closet at my place complete with a compatible monitor, A/C cord, etc. which made setup quite easy. I turned the computer on and was greeted by a Windows XP password-entry screen for a user named “Enid.” Apparently, the original owner of this computer was a 90 year-old woman.
Because a lot of my friends are terrible people, I knew that there were ways around Windows passwords that required little more than a thumb-drive and several dubious keyword searches. But first, out of simple compulsive habit, I typed “password” and hit ENTER. And of course it worked.
The computer unlocked to reveal a desktop with a painting of the DC villain Harley Quinn as its background. Yup, definitely a girl’s computer, though maybe “Enid” wasn’t 90 after all, but simply the victim of parents with an unfortunate taste in names.
At this point, I feel it’s worth noting that I am not a monster. I wasn’t on some mission to invade this poor girl’s privacy. I wasn’t looking to steal anyone’s identity. I was simply curious.
The maintenance guy had found the tower when he was replacing a part on the water-heater, which was located at the back of Alice’s bedroom closet. Enid was most likely a former tenant of my girlfriend’s condo who had used the closet for storage but that doesn’t explain why she had felt the need to wedge her computer behind a water-heater.
There were seven folders on the desktop along with a small assortment of program icons: Microsoft Word, Photoshop, a program for live-streaming video that I had never heard of, etc. The seven folders were labeled, from top to bottom: “music”, “movies”, “pictures”, “art”, “writing”, “video”, and finally “logs.”
Call it the power of placement, but I clicked on “logs” first mainly because every other folder had a name that was self-explanatory. The “logs” folder contained over a dozen Word documents. The name of each document was a month followed by a year, starting on “February, 2012” and ending with “January, 2014.”
The computer itself was from the mid-2000s at the latest. If my girlfriend’s condo complex hadn’t been so upscale, that fact wouldn’t have bothered me so much. But I had to wonder what someone who could afford over a grand a month on rent was doing using a computer from ’05 in 2014. I started skimming through the earliest log and it quickly became obvious that Enid was no air-traffic controller.
The following is a transcript of the first page of the earliest document.
Client requests that I position myself with my spread butt cheeks held close to the camera and stay that way while occasionally calling him a “dirty little limp-dick slave boy.”
Client requests that I urinate into a bucket. I lay a plastic sheet down on the floor in front of the camera and do so.
Gorgeous Randy Flamethrower – starts: 1:24am
Client requests that I put on my Freddy Kruger hat, toy glove, and striped sweater with no panties and then play with myself while reciting lines from a Nightmare on Elm Street. As the client ejaculates, he shouts “oh god!” and I respond by holding my gloved hand up in front of my face and saying in a deep guttural voice, “THIS… is god.”*
*That made the client super happy. Think I have a new regular.
Client requests a voice chat but says nothing. It sounds like he is sobbing. I don’t know what to do so I just sit there, staring at the camera. After a few minutes, he screams “Why?! WHY?!” and then closes the voice chat.
Client requests that I kneel on the bed and expose my butthole to the camera. Client occasionally asks me to “thank daddy” and each time I say “thank you, daddy” to which he responds “good girl.”
That’s right, Enid was a cam-girl: a woman who live-streamed herself acting out various requests from what was usually a lobby full of horny onlookers. Though Enid’s specialty was private video chats; more costly one-on-one sessions that presumably created an illusion of intimacy between cam-girl and client (I say “presumably” because I wouldn’t know. I get my porn the old fashioned way: off of free streaming sites.)
An added bonus that came along with this presumed intimacy was that it made Enid’s session-logs read like a window into the darkest recesses of the human imagination. Think H.P. Lovecraft if he had been really into butt-stuff.
I couldn’t stop reading them. I’ve never considered myself a particularly perverse guy but there was this surreal quality to the dry tone of Enid’s logs that fascinated me. Plus, the requests were often far from what I personally found erotic, so it’s safe to say it wasn’t “like that.”
I’ll be honest. In a weird way, I did start to feel attached to Enid. I spent nights sitting there, listening to her weird-ass music (mostly stuff like the Cure and Four Non-Blondes. I actually really liked one song by New Order called “Temptation ’87”) and I would read through months of this girl degrading herself in every possible way and describing it all in the most matter-of-fact terms and eventually it was like I knew her.
I realize that sounds weird but there’s really no other way to describe it. I wanted to find her. I imagined showing up on Enid’s doorstep and handing her the computer and telling her that it was okay now. That I would make everything alright.
You may recall how I mentioned that I found this thing at my girlfriend’s condo. So, before this gets any more awkward, let me just reiterate: Not a monster.
I wasn’t really going to do any of that but merely emphasizing the effect her writing had on me. Though, it wasn’t until I started reading the log for “October, 2013” that the proverbial shit got real…
Client Requests that I strip naked. His video feed is just a black screen at first but then something is moved out of the way of the camera and I can see another naked girl who is laying stomach-down on top of what appears to be a large dog kennel. Her arms and legs are chained to the kennel and her hair hangs down around her face, hiding it from view.
There is a man sitting in the darkness behind her. His face is covered by a black mask and he is vigorously masturbating. After a moment, the girl begins to scream, “Oh, god! He’s coming!”
I quickly end the session and just sit there for a while afterwards, staring at my own dumbfounded expression in the video-chat program open on my computer screen. Then I write this log. Then I quit for the day.
This was the first mention of a masked man but then he returned a week later, using a different name…
Client requests that I strip naked. His video-feed displays a shot of a poorly-lit bedroom. There is a partially open closet to the right of the frame and a closed door to the left. I don’t see anyone in the room so I say “hello?”
Someone begins to bang on the closed door from outside and I let out a startled yelp. This is when a man in a black mask leans his head out of the closet and looks in my direction. He is masturbating.
There is another bang on the closed door and someone screams, “He’s fucking coming!”
I end the session. It was the same masked man as before. I’m sure of it. I write this log and forward it to Donna along with the one from last Wednesday. I receive a new session request but I can’t. It’s not that I’m afraid.
A King of Infinite Space – starts: 9:37pm
Client requests that I strip naked. I start to but then stop when I see the video-feed. It’s of a woman working out on one of those at-home elliptical machines. She’s watching TV and seems oblivious to the live web-cam pointed at her.
The woman soon finishes her workout and steps down off of the machine and that’s when I spot him in the window behind her. The man in the black mask is looking directly into the camera like he’s staring at me.
Even before I see his bouncing shoulder, I know he’s masturbating. As the woman uses a towel to pat herself down, the power is cut and the room goes dark. I hear the woman mutter something and then breaking glass and then screaming and then the session is ended.
After the last incident, I decided to install a video-capture program to record my sessions with just in case this fucker showed back up. Sure, it’s a huge no-no in my line of work, but what just happened makes me glad I did it. This has officially gone too far. I’m calling the cops.
First, I call 9-1-1 in the middle of the night to report a home invasion that I don’t know the location of. When detectives arrive to question me, I pull up my video of the session to find that I successfully recorded 18 minutes of a silent black screen. Not sure how that’s possible. I had already tested the program and followed the steps exactly.
I spend the next hour convincing the detectives that I’m not crazy-pants and/or attempting to file a false police report. I tell them about my job and the man in the black mask. Then I have the bright idea to mention that the past few nights I had this feeling like someone was following me during the walk from my car to my apartment.
This makes the two detectives exchange a look and after that, they start to give me a lot of reassuring nods but I can tell they’ve stopped listening. Just another troubled girl living alone, no man to support her, paying the bills through devious sex acts and hallucinating masked stalkers. If you’ve placated one, you’ve placated them all.
Realizing I needed to start documenting all of this, I located the eighteen-minute “black screen” video and copied it along with the “logs” folder to a thumb-drive. And that’s when Enid’s hard-drive crashed.
It was like the moment those files where extracted, the computer just keeled over and died. I sent the video to my friend Jay who specialized in extracting useable data from corrupted files along with an email explaining everything. He agreed to come over and check to see if he could salvage the hard-drive.
That night after work, I met Jay at my house and he showed me what he was able to pull off of Enid’s video. “The file was mostly corrupted but, after loading it into an editing program and going through frame-by-frame, I was able to extract an image…”
Jay brought up the image on his laptop and my heart actually skipped a beat. It was a close-up photo of a man in a black mask. The picture quality was poor, like it was taken with a web cam, and the longer I stared at it the harder it was to tell if what I was looking at was even a mask .
It was then I saw that my phone, which I set to silent when Jay arrived, had a list of “missed alert” notices now illuminating its screen. I unlocked the phone to find two new messages and a bunch of missed calls from my girlfriend and was immediately knocked out of my fixated stupor by an overwhelming sense of guilt. I had been so obsessed with this whole Enid thing that we hadn’t spoken in almost two days, which is a long time for us.
I tried calling her twice and got her voicemail both times. A sudden feeling of dread began to mount in the pit of my stomach as I checked my messages. The first one was my girlfriend saying she had just gotten home and was hoping to hang out tonight and that she missed me.
“Plus, and I’m sure you’re gonna say I’m just being paranoid, but you know how my parking spot is at the back of the complex and I hate it because it’s like a million miles away from my apartment? Well, I swear the last like three nights now I’ve had this feeling like someone was following me on the walk from my car. I was hoping to talk to my boyfriend so I wouldn’t be so freaked out this time but I’m almost at my door now so I won’t hold it against you. Call me when you can, sweetie. I love you.”
The second message seemed like a pocket-dial at first. Nothing but rustling sounds for about thirty seconds. And then suddenly my girlfriend whispered, “…He’s coming.”
That was the last time anyone has seen or heard from her in over forty-eight hours. I went with her parents to file a Missing Persons report today and played the two messages for the detective who took our statements. I didn’t mention anything about Enid’s computer or the masked man because, though a part of me desperately wanted to, I was still reeling from everything and simply couldn’t think of a way to arrange the words in my head that didn’t make me sound bat-shit insane.
Jay texted me a couple of times about having something important to show me but I haven’t called him back yet. I needed to write all of this down first, if only to help me mentally process everything.
By the time I finally called Jay back, I ended up getting his voicemail. I tried two more times but he never answered. Eventually, I decided to simply drive over to his house.
Despite the stereotypical depiction of the computer nerd as some kind of perpetually lonely super virgin, Jay was actually happily married to a fairly attractive girl named Amy. She’s who greeted me at the door later that night, a somber smile on her face as she said, “Hey… I’m so sorry about Alice. That’s crazy. She never seemed like the flighty type.”
“I know. That’s what worries me.” Amy’s smile faltered and I immediately felt bad. My whole woe-is-me, my-girlfriend-might-be-murdered vibe had been really bumming people out all week. I quickly forced a smile of my own and asked, “Is Jay home?”
“No. He left me a note saying he would be out late doing research on something and that if you came by, I was to give you this…” She handed me a thumb-drive.
Amy shook her head, “I figured you would know. I called his office, because that’s where he always works on stuff, and the guy who answered said he hadn’t been in all day. I tried his cell but of course his phone’s off. You know how he gets when he’s working on something.”
“Yeah. I do…” I said, probably a bit too ominously as I stared down at the thumb-drive clutched in my hand.
The drive contained a video file labeled “Watch Me First” and a folder titled “Logs (FILTERED)”, which was pretty vague as far as folder names go. I had to actively resist the urge to open the folder first just to find out what the fuck “(FILTERED)” meant, so in retrospect I guess the name of the video file was a pretty smart idea on Jay’s part.
The video opened on Jay turning from his computer to look into the wireless webcam mounted on the wall of his home-office, a gesture I immediately recognized from countless TF2 scrims that we spent Skype-chatting with each other on our laptops because we both hated wearing headsets and verbally communicating with people we couldn’t see. You might say that Jay and I’s entire friendship was built on a uniquely similar variation of Asperger’s but then you’d be kind of a dick.
Jay began, “Since you’re not answering your phone and you never check my voicemails, I figured this video would be the next best thing. Anyway, I used a list of specific keyword searches to isolate all of the pertinent data from the remaining logs. I filtered out all the sex stuff that didn’t contain a reference to the masked man. From there, you can see for yourself that it’s a pretty quick read. Once you do, call me or email me if I go into work mode and switch off my cell. I’ve got a few more things to check out but you’ll see for yourself. It’s nothing good. I’m sorry man… I’m so sorry… He’s coming…”
Jay suddenly looked off screen and began to shout, “He’s coming! He’s coming! Don’t let Amy…”
Jay screamed as a tall shadow flickered across the wall and then the video cut to later that evening. The man in the black mask was now sitting in Jay’s computer-chair. He seemed to be staring into the camera but I couldn’t see his eyes through the mask. He slowly tilted his head, like he was listening for something.
A moment later, the doorbell rang. I could hear Amy opening the door in her living room as I pulled out my cell and started to call her. On the computer screen, I could hear Amy say ““Hey… I’m so sorry about Alice. That’s crazy…”
The masked man began to masturbate as Amy’s voicemail answered the call. I hung up and started to dial 9-1-1 when something dawned on me and my arm went limp, the phone dropping from my hand and thudding to the carpet.
“How?” This was a video file on a thumb-drive that was given to me during a conversation that I could hear on the video that was on the thumb-drive that was…
And then the masked man came and I turned off the video and retrieved the handgun that was under my bed. I left it unloaded and still in its case as I placed it in the trunk of my car and then raced over to Jay’s house, because somehow I still had the presence of mind to realize that if a cop was going to pull me over for speeding, the last thing I needed at this point was a gun charge.
Ten minutes later, I was parked half a block from Jay’s house and loading the forty-five caliber colt. It was at this point that I realized just how ridiculous I must look. I thought about calling the cops and trying to figure out how to explain everything to them without including the more nutty bits, when finally I decided to try Amy’s number one more time. To my surprise, I got an answer on the first ring.
“What are you waiting for, Fraidy-Cat?” His voice wasn’t what I would’ve expected. It was kind of nasally and surprisingly human. “I thought you were the big man with the gun.”
“You’re goddamn right I am!” I said, holding up my gun and then quickly lowering it as I realized how stupid that was. “Where is Alice?”
All of the lights were off except for a single lamp which backlit the very distinct figure standing at Jay’s living-room window. The masked man leaned close to the glass and said, “The same place as your balls, apparently. Seriously, dude, grow a pair. Move on. This one digs my ride more now.”
“Are you fucking INSANE?” And the stupidest question ever goes to…
“I am many things. What the wolves howl about, the cold night wind on the back of your neck. I am the darkness that fills a room when the lights are turned out. I am the shadow that stains your mind forever. The thing that cannot be unseen. I am doom and my favorite food is girlfriends.”
“That’s fascinating,” I said, cocking my gun. “I notice you
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