The Eponymist: Cadaver

HD070305: Hard drive badly damaged data all but unrecoverable. Found the attached. Cleared out most of the garbage. Finish up later. AH

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æ^®¾; The text acronyDm CHIMI stands for ?Carl?s Health Is Much Improved?, drug slang to indicate a dealer?s stash has increased in quality.

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Ï”âC3ÿR^:>yð—ÓIn Franklin County, Tennessee the value of pi is officially 3, due to a passage in the New Testament that depicts a table being three times as round as broad.

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In Franklin County, Wyoming there is an obscure Christian sect known as the Sopwiths. The Sopwiths believe that Christ meant it is easier for a Sopwith Camel to travel through the eye of a needle than for a rich men to enter the kingdom of heaven. A Sopwith Camel was a biplane flown by the British during World War One. The Sopwiths believe this anachronism proves the divinity of Christ.

#e¶©/á6yÕ.jÆú{ô\òù±Úùðò?÷T¶u]³zÞöåPPB©So there?s this girl, right, down the underground late one night. Northern lass. Last tube. Platform deserted but for three others. Two black guys, black girl between them. Tube comes and they all get on the same carriage, her one side, them the other. Girl?s looking at her. One other person in the carriage. Girl keeps on looking at her. Eyes half closed. Unblinking. Staring at her. Attitude on her. Looks like she?s on something.

The guy next to the girl looks up from his paper, assesses the situation, leans over. "I?m getting off at the next station." he whispers. "Trust me and get off with me."

Startled, she obeys.

"I?m a doctor," he says as the tube pulls away, "so believe me when I tell you that that girl was dead." He walks off into the night.

Not that one. When you see people with beards in old pictures it?s because they?re disguising their identities because they?re from the future. Eric Clapton invented slide guitar. The pyramids are thousands of years older than believed but it can?t be admitted for fear of offending Muslims. The US government have been using antimatter in experimental craft for years. The heavier elements generate massive amounts of antimatter. For years the US Senate has refused to fund any research outside of NASA into this area to prevent their rival nations synthesising the same materials. Rumours of terrorist groups trying to acquire the same technology. Antimatter missiles, that?s the next big thing in warfare. You do hear about people getting chloroformed in car parks a lot don?t you? Or cars blown up by gangsters cause you ran into the back of their girlfriends at the supermarket and won?t leave it be. Happened to a mate of mine. Dogs can?t look up.

A mate of our kid?s is coming out of a club. 2am. Checks his pocket, finds he?s got enough money for a kebab or a taxi. Decides he?ll get a kebab, get some money from cash point, then taxi it home. So he gets his kebab and he heads over to the cash point and its one of those ones with the Plexiglas over the keys. He puts in his card and puts his kebab down and tries to remember his PIN. 7834? No. 7843? No. 8734? No. The machine eats his card and the glass comes down, trapping his kebab and he has to walk home, hungry.

Ah fuck it, what?s the use? The Masons run it all anyway. Any place you see a triangle, you know the Masons have been there. Know about the Masons do you? They?re everywhere. See that Hermes Trismegistus? He started them off in Egypt. See that Joseph? They say he was a mason, not a carpenter. They say the Gospels say so. This is probably them now. No. Don?t say that. Don?t make it true. They?ve turned too many already. Stop talking.

You can?t catch a cold while you?re tripping. LSD man. I used to know this guy. I say know, he came into the Crown once. Tramp man. Fucking stank. Cleared half the pub. Neil was on duty. This guy?s propped himself up on a barstool and promptly gone to sleep. Or died, we weren?t sure. Neil?s shouting at him, ?Hello? and ?Excuse me? and all that. We?re all looking at each other, not knowing whether to get a doctor or the police. Craig were in and he were just pissing himself as usual.

Then this tramp takes the most enormous breath you?ve ever seen and come back to life and inflates like a blow up dinghy. And his minging Parker jacket fills out and his hands rest on the counter and he speaks. And he asks for whisky.

Now, many years ago I used to work at this employment training centre right. Y?know, people who were on the dole and got paid a bit extra for going and retraining. You had some smart people there and you had some people who let?s face it had some issues. I say worked there, but I was one of the people retraining. One of the smart people I should add. I was doing I.T. Anyway, we?d go for a smoke, back in the day when you could smoke indoors, and watch the specimens that shuffled past the door to the smoking room. And there was this guy, I?ll never forget him, he had this trailing club foot and a withered hand clawing at the air ahead of him and a fat bottom lip and his chin permanently stuck in the air. Must have seen him at least once a day for months. And then one day I heard him speak. Just one word. Somebody?s name. Adrian maybe. But just that word changed my whole opinion of him, my whole attitude towards him, because it was extraordinary because it was so normal. Middle class even. He sounded like one of our tutors.

Anyway, it was same when this guy spoke, this grubby, grimy, smelly, skank of a tramp. He were so well spoken. And now Neil?s proper confused, because his nose is telling him to throw the cunt out, but his working class instincts are screaming at him to serve him and obey. But this guy looks like Father Christmas fallen on hard times. He?s got the bushy beard that may have been white once but it?s too matted up with food and matter and gone back to a kind of shitty brown. His sack has become a black bin liner. But his boots man. His boots looked brand new. Oh, and he?s got antlers. Small ones like, but you definitely can?t miss them. They?re a talking point all their own.

So Neil gets a grip of himself and starts to ask the guy to leave. The tramp slides his one hand flat forward, making a scratching sound on the bar top and pulls it away. There?s a coin there. Big coin. Big gold coin. And Neil?s looking at it and then tramp and then us lot and back again. His head?s well west by now. And even Craig?s stopped laughing. And the tramp speaks.

"That," he says, "is a Spanish doubloon. That particular specimen could fetch £10,000 on the open market. It is yours and all I ask is that you let me to sit here for an hour or two and warm my body with your fire and warm my soul with that bottle of Jameson?s hanging behind you." Neil?s picked up the coin and he?s examining it. "Please," the man says, "look it up on your internet if you don?t believe me." Neil pours him a double and disappears with the coin. We?re gobsmacked. No one can believe he?s falling for this shit.

The pub?s hushed. Craig?s plucked up courage first. Ya knew he would. Strolls over, holding his nose, asks what?s in the sack. "Socks!" the tramp bellows at him, like you?d expect of a tramp. Craig takes a step back, hands raised in surrender. The hairs on the tramp?s top lip are stained bronze. But he?s a cheeky cunt is our Craig and even as he?s backing off he?s asking the guy why he needs so many socks. "To keep me anchored in time." And now Craig?s eyeballs want to pop out of his head ?cause he?s dying to laugh. And he can?t keep it in and he explodes right in the guy?s face.

"Cut it out." Neil shouts, coming back to the bar. He pours the tramp another double and everyone starts telling him, but he?s having none of it. He?s sold. He?s fallen under the tramp?s spell. And soon this tramp?s downed five or six doubles and he?s starting to rock in his chair slightly. Everyone?s giving him a wide berth, but he ain?t doing any harm and you don?t even notice the smell after a bit. Fag smoke masks it mostly. And there's more than one around here that could do with a wash once in a while.

And then he?s just drunk enough to get a bit less defensive and Craig?s just drunk enough not to be so much of a cunt and he?s saying sorry and the tramp?s saying it?s fine and waving him away and Craig seriously asks him how his socks keep him rooted in time. And the tramp open his bin bag and shows him. In the bag are piles and piles of those socks with the day of the week on ?em. There?s Monday to Friday packs in there and ones for weekend. And this guy reckons that he keeps shifting in time. Kept finding himself falling asleep and waking up days, months, years later. Or earlier. Wearing the right day on his socks somehow keeps him rooted to that day. He has to wear the current day on his left foot and the following day on his right, but he keeps going through them and the socks are the only things he ever spends money on, apart from waterproof shoes to keep his socks dry. He has money, he says. Used to be a day trader. Made a fortune from the times when he woke up in the past. Got debarred. Thought he was insider trading. That?s what he says.

Guy?s a fucking nutter mate, what they call a vulnerable adult. I don?t believe any of this shit he?s coming out with. But the problem with Craig is that he get less of a cunt the drunker he gets, but when he?s proper drunk he?s a proper cunt. Not just a cunt but an evil cunt man. He gets that glazed look and you know that Craig isn?t there anymore. He?s been replaced by Evil Craig.

And I knew there was going to be trouble when some dickhead put Massive Attack on the jukebox. I keep telling Neil to tell Pete to get that CD off. I don?t mind Massive Attack, but they?re fucking evil on that jukebox man. Every time Inertia Creeps gets played there?s trouble. The fire last March, the riot of ?98, the penalty shootout against Germany at Wembley, all happened after the playing of that song. Moving up slowly.

Craig got proper drunk that night. Ended up buying the tramp more whiskies and taking him home. And then Evil Craig turned up and stole all his socks, even the manky ones on his feet, and locked him in his cellar. Fast asleep when he left him he was. Kicking him in the head he was. Shouting at him he?s a fucking liar. Oblivious. Gone next morning. Vanished. And Jonathan Creek better get in on this shit because there was only one way outta that room. Sent Craig proper loopy it did. Convinced he?s sent the guy back in time. Says the thing haunts him most is he never asked about the antlers. Sees them in his sleep. Looking in the mirror, wearing them. Wakes up screaming.

Neil quit his job at the Crown. That coin turned out to be a Brasher Doubloon. It sold at Sotheby?s for £3.4million. I never did like the twat.

There are no secret sections on eBay. The Earth isn?t solid it?s hollow. Not one. You can only get to the inner Earth by holes at its poles. I don?t care what you?ve heard. That?s no research facility at the South Pole, it?s a CIA substation. None. My mate used to be a researcher down there. Says the Yanks are testing EMP technology down there and fucking with the gravity. She had to sign the US Official Secret Act before they?d even let her on the facility. Had to sign before her hand froze. Threatened to kill her when they caught her emailing me. Or send her to some prison some place that doesn?t exist. Black opps territory. Could be them. Nah. Yanks aren?t this subtle. Wouldn?t bother Mossad with the likes of me either. I heard the Chinese have the first platforms up in place for their space elevator. Not them. Never done anything to them. My other mate went for an interview at British Aerospace. Says they make you sign a disclaimer to work there saying you have no objections to making weapons that will be used to main and kill. Be making soldiers do it next. Political correctness gone potty.

A guy I went to school with cut his balls off with a pair of scissors. Mind you, there?s that guy my old man was at school with. Lost his cock in an industrial accident and died three hours later from lack of sex. Bank Holiday Mondays started off in Britain to make up for the third day Christ was supposed to be dead off the cross. The reflectors allegedly left on the moon by Neil Armstrong are easily explained as natural mineral deposits. You?re in trouble here. Jimmy Page played guitar on the first Kinks album. Deep. Jimi Hendrix played on the theme tune to Whatever Happened to the Likely Lads? One of the versions anyways. David Attenborough is worshipped as god in many parts of Madagascar. Michael Palin has warrants issued for his arrest in five countries. Still quiet out there. It is illegal to keep a duck in a high rise above ten stories. Early yet. No such bylaws exist for geese. EU farming subsidies favour central European animal breeds. Geese included. There?s a frequency, a calming frequency, a frequency that will be transmitted to all mobile phones at times of national crisis in order to keep the population calmed. They call it the Hounslow Oscillation. The day will come. And what of the hotel in Paris? The fleapit, the haven for stranded travellers, the one that vanishes with the daylight? Or the ship with the spiral staircases that wind around one another? Goes where it likes, so they say. Time no object. Anywhere there?s water. It?s a common misconception that the present is the same everywhere. Tell me Tokyo ain?t the future. Moving up slowly. Or Haiti the past. Down in the Congo there?s still dinosaurs. And when you get differentials like that you?ve got unequal pressure fronts all over the globe, all encountering each other like hot and cold weather fronts. And people think we couldn?t lurch back to the 18th century in the blink of eye? Wake up wearing powdered wigs. Jog on. Won?t catch me wearing a periwinkle. Happens all the time you just don?t hear about it. Stories all over the net about antique rail carriages seen piggy backing Amtrak services all over the States. Channel 5 was conceived as a dare. Teletubbies really is based on a bad trip. They make South Park out of felt. They make Hollyoaks out of wank. BBC make My Hero because they lost a bet to ITV. Three series minimum. The Matrix is based on a true story. Like Peter Pan. Same goes for the Prisoner. I didn?t know. The first Steinway piano was built solely as the key to a trap door. I didn?t think it was really real. F sharp above middle C to gain entry to a passage behind the bookshelves. I only went there to prove them wrong. Marilyn Monroe was killed by the Yakuza. Shit. The Kennedy brothers arranged it as a private hit. This is all such bullshit. But unbeknownst to them, Monroe was an NSA agent and her outraged comrades assassinated first Jack and then Bobby in revenge. Shouldn?t have gone there. Actor John Goodman is 307th in line to the British throne. Big mistake. King Ralph happened after Goodman revealed the fact in an interview with Rolling Stone. Hamburger Hill started life as a documentary about Vietnamese beef farming. It?s been a long time. All the British officers that die in The Great Escape do so as revenge for Britain not sending troops to Vietnam. It?s been a long time. Did I lock the shed? Yes.

I knew this girl. Friend of my brother. Girlfriend. Ex. Scouse lass. Broad accent. Strong but not unpleasant. Not like that proper guttural Scouse. The ones that sound like they?re clearing their throat every time they speak. My mate reckons most snakes are Scouse. All that hissing. Anyway, this girl, she had a strong accent, but it was a bit sexy. Right turn on for my brother. That and the freckles. Strong lass too. Knew what she wanted and how to go about getting it. Went to au pair in the States. Looked after the kids of a couple of big record producers in New York. Our kid ran into her sister. Been over to see her. Reckoned there was a couple of blocks on the upper east side had all turned Scouse. All the Yanks just started speaking in Scouse accents. Spontaneous like. Spread like a virus through the district and Kim at the epicentre of it all. Patient Zero as it were. Apparently it?s a well known phenomenon. The Reverse Molby Effect they call it. She?s in Melbourne now. Saw the Australian President on TV the other day. Also talking Scouse. Heard Kim lives across the road from her mum. One day all the world will speak as Scousers. Go ?head lad. Sound.

When I were a lad, we used to hang out in the nearby woods. There were eight of us in that three bed terrace, the woods were the only escape me and our Ian had. We idolised Harrison Ford. I was Han Solo, sat up amongst the leaves of my Millennium Falcon. Our Ian ran about in the bracken being Indy, singing Indy?s theme tune over and over again, looking for fossils and buried treasure. Our mate Marc from no 13 was Deckard. He had another tree down the way that he pretended was the flying car out of Blade Runner. His mum bought him the trenchcoat and the toy gun, but when it came to wooing Anne Marie Wilson at no 8, Han Solo had something none of the other boys could offer her: the title of a princess. She became my Leia and we became like royalty around the neighbourhood.

Other side of the woods was farmland. Was an old farmhouse up there. New one was miles down the track. We adopted the old one as our new base. Was derelict. Roof tiles all over the place and the floorboards rotten and all eaten away and shit. We?d scramble up what was left of the staircase and throw slates down at each other. Until the day we got caught.

Half a dozen of us there were. Divided up in three rooms. Hear these voices. Swearing their fucking bollocks off they was. Dogs barking. Calling at us to get our fucking arses out there. Fucking farmer and his fucking wife and their three great fucking Dobermans. And they marched us down the track to the new farmhouse, shotguns cradled in the crooks of both their arms, and called the police and had us all shipped off to our parents in the back of a black Maria.

A few weeks later we were crossing the farmer?s land. There was a road but that was the long way round, miles. By cutting straight up this one field we could cross the railway lines at the top of the hill and be back on our estate in half the time. Some of us were still grounded and taking the shortcut meant we could have half an hour swinging on the swing over the ravine before our parents even missed us.

However, this one day we hadn?t got a quarter way across when we saw the farmer coming over the hill with those three great fucking Dobermans of his. He was rushing at us before we even had time to react, dogs coming quick. We all scattered like cockroaches. He left the ones that scuttled back the way we?d come and went for the five going forward. Our Ian always was nimble, he just pelted it up the hill and outta there. Marc ran up a tree. Good job Anne Marie?s dad had taken to picking her up. He didn?t like her walking home with rough boys like us.

I had two of those dogs coming up on my heels and I remember being so scared that I just wanted to piss my pants. I?d wheeled off to the left towards the rock face, eighty foot drop to the canopy below. I was climbing up the embankment towards the top of the granite face, running out of space fast and the dogs just seconds behind me. And that?s when I did something stupid. I jumped into a tree. Which is to say I threw myself aimlessly into the air and at the last second grasped at a branch and somersaulteded in the air as I did so. It?s not a move I could pull again in a million years, but I somehow swung myself from one tree to another with a full 360^O turn in mid air and came to rest crouching like Tarzan on the branch. Leafy bower after leafy bower obscured me from all. I could hear the farmer shouting on me, calling me a little cunt, telling me he?s gonna cut my balls off, but I was invisible up there man and I felt safe and I made my way back home without once coming down from the branches, gingerly moving from one tree to the next. Was dark by the time I?d found the gap in the barb wire back on to the tracks. Was worth the extra two weeks grounded. Crossing the wood through the branches was the first big adventure I ever had.

≠

There was me and Ian and Martin and Stephen and Carl and that was my gang. And there was Anne Marie?s two brothers and their mate Mick and his Uncle Chris, who was younger than him, and that was their gang. And my gang didn?t like me going out with Anne Marie and Anne Marie?s brothers didn?t like her going out with me. So I joined their gang just to be with her. Romeo should have thought of that. But her brothers wanted me to pretend to go back to my gang and spy on them for their gang and so I went back and pretended I?d been spying on Anne Marie?s brother?s gang all along and rejoined them anyway. Turned out Uncle Chris wanted to go out with my Anne Marie and her brothers wanted me out of the way. I went to have it out with them and when I didn?t get anywhere I went back to my gang crying and pretending like the brothers beat me up. My lot declared war on Anne Marie?s brother?s lot and caught up with their mate Mick and beat shit out of him in an alleyway. It started a turf war that last right through the summer and into autumn with several local outfits coming together to defend the line. I?d just turned 10 and I was a captain in a major organisation. Last year of primary school I had two fourteen year old bodyguards standing watch outside my classroom at all times. But the cops came to see me and they knew and said they could prove I hadn?t been beaten up that night and threatened to tell Tony the truth. So I turned queen?s evidence on my lot and they moved me and my family to a new place. I kept my head down and I went to uni and got my degree in computer science and forgot all about it. Until now.

Not even close. Try again. Clearly. Slowly.

Know why they call it the black market? Because it?s dark? Because it deals in evil? No. In days gone by, back in the days of China and the Silk Road and all that, Genghis Khan placed a tariff on all goods coming in and out of his kingdom. But if you went to certain stalls in the marketplace, the ones manned by the men in black uniforms, you knew these men were part of the criminal underworld and they would smuggle your goods for less than that demanded by the Khan. The original Arabic word, Benghasti, actually means black bazaar (comes from the same root word as the Libyan city, Benghazi). The Silk Road is also the origin of the terms ?in the red? and ?in the black?. Khan?s officials wore red outfits and to be well off enough to afford his high tariffs was a sign of affluence. To be in the black was to be in debt to the gangs. And that?s what it?s all about. No. Not yet. Not quite. Moving up slowly.

Children born at sunset are said to be born ?in the dying of the light?. Dylan Thomas? poem is named after the saying. Children born in the dying of the winter light are said to be luckier than those born in summer at dusk as they are born observing the death of winter. To spend your first moments on Earth in the setting summer sun is to experience the best that life has to offer. Hard act to follow. More suicides are born in June than any other month. It is said that most of the Greek gods were born in February. A winter baby is a robust baby.

Neighbour of mine, her sister died on holiday in Jamaica. Got fucked up by a speedboat. They repatriated her body and went to the funeral home to see her and it weren?t her. Was some Jamaican dude. Found her body 70 miles away in a canal in Birmingham, stomach slashed open. When the police sorted it all out turned out this Jamaican dude?s body was supposed to be transporting samples of some major new drug into the country. When they came to plant the drugs they got disturbed somehow and stuffed the samples in Kerry?s sister instead then switched the paperwork. No one noticed. No, the paperwork got mixed up first and then they put the drugs in the wrong stiff. No one noticed. You?ll know Kerry if you live around these parts, she?s always on local news publicising the fight for justice for her sister. Good luck to her I say. Google her if you don?t believe me.

Ok, well what about this one then? There once was a man and he had two beautiful daughters and a beautiful wife. And they loved him so much and he loved them and they lived an idyllic life with holidays in the West Indies and weekends taken at their country cottage. Little did his family realise how wrong things really were.

Ian scammed big companies. So big he could scam them in four different locations at once and still they had no idea what was going on. And you?ve got to hand it to Ian, he worked hard for what he stole. He could of just taken their money and ran, but no, he even scammed them for freebies and sold his loot for a profit on eBay and sent his girls to private school. And from Apple to Microsoft, Nike to Sony, Virgin to the Governor of the British Virgin Islands, he outwitted them all. If only he?d left it at that he?d be fine now.

If you stand in the middle of the road then sooner or later you?re gonna get hit. Ian scammed what he thought was an up and coming multinational. Turned out to be a front for an East London gang. And they noticed. Boy did they notice. Kidnapped his family and gave him 48 hours to return the money. Cunt did a runner. Legged it abroad. Found his family strangled at home and him the number one suspect. Made sure they made it look like he did it. Serves him right really. Rumours abound as to his location. He may be in a squat in Bexhill, he may be in a cabin in the Northern Territories. Who can say? Be cold either way.

㣲

Third time?s a charm. You were in the pub maybe. No, haven?t been. Not in years. But you heard it. You went there because someone told you to go there. Or suggested you go there. Or called you a UFO nut and asked what you knew about the place. Why lock the shed? They could just take it back. Still might. Pick the lock. Good kick?d do it. Zipped it back up. Never know. Name?s not on anything here. Wasn?t pub. Must have read it somewhere. Fourth time maybe?

Where was I? How did I get here? What was it I wanted to say now?

Oh there?s always secrets. Always things we know nothing about. Always places we cannot go. Things are never what they seem. They hide them in broad daylight. Hide them where you can see them but not see them. Not recognise. See but not know. I found one of them. Obvious when someone shows you it?s there. Invisible until then. That David Icke, he knows. Lizards man. Goddam fucking right. Was it him told me? Could be. Don?t think so. Online somewhere though. Somewhere out there in cyberspace.

What was that film I saw. The one where you need special glasses to see the aliens in disguise? It?s like that. Things ain?t what they seem unless you use the right glasses. Use the right filters. And that?s where I come in. I was a software engineer. I was a goddam artist at that job man. And Special Branch called me in ?cause they were having trouble tracking this anomalous signal being piggybacked on several websites. I looked into it and found the signal was broadcasting other information behind the main page. I filtered out the main code and good god do I wish I hadn?t. Was a paedo ring sharing images via some of the biggest companies going. Companies that made me sign a privacy clause in return for the handsome reward I got paid for sorting out their problems and not telling anyone. You didn't hear it from me.

Happens all the time, a lot more than you might think. All they can do is shut down the signal and wait for it to pop up somewhere else. Always fail to locate where its coming from. I might tell them. One day.

Not quite. Again. Loner he was. What people called a nut. Misunderstood maybe. Disliked definitely. Good with computers though. Hacked the US all the time and never got found out. Unofficially worked for them. Only as a low grade researcher. Drew the salary anyways. And he was so good that when other sites started being hijacked for nefarious purposes, he spotted it right away. Takes a hacker to catch a hacker. The filters would have fooled a lesser man, but not him. He found out what they were selling in broad daylight and he despaired for the fate of mankind. There was women and children and weapons and drugs and snuff and the secrets of the rich and famous and all were openly on sale to the highest bidder if only you knew where to look.

His big mistake was not calling the cops right away. They weren?t stupid, they?d know about this already, have it all under surveillance, and here he was bidding on films of children being tortured. Free clips were offered, but he chose not to see. Just wanted something he could give to the police. His bid was always topped by someone else in the final seconds.

Then they put this lucky dip up. Bid what you think, get whatever?s in the box. So he thinks, fuck it, some evidence is better than no evidence at all. So he bid. And he kept bidding every time he got trumped. But he was on top and he squatted on that sale for the last four hours in his pants and despite one late bid he played his ace and won the prize.

Nothing happened. Absolutely nothing. Weeks went by. He forgot all about the bid. All about the black market. And then one day he received a text. Just said: Item delivered. Go to back yard. Half ecstatic, half shitting himself, he ran downstairs to see what it could be.

And that?s how he discovered he?d won himself a body bag. A body bag with a corpse in it. Someone else?s corpse. Didn?t belong to him. But the people who owned the corpse were very nice when they came to collect it and they let him keep the bag. His body was discovered in it. In the shed.

As if. Time?s time cock, they?ll be here soon. Here, let me have a go. Here?s what really happened. Listened to this bullshit long enough. You were researching that stupid conspiracy website thing of yours. Some loon emailed you asking about secret sections on eBay. Replied it sounded like crap, but you had to go and look into it. There are no secret sections on eBay. that much is certain. Yet everything is not as it seems. Items are not really items, they are code for illicit items, drugs, girls, AK47s. A codeword is required at the point of transaction or you just receive the pair of socks or the pewter dragon you ordered. Codeword was the hardest to find out. For ages you thought it was Sesame. Then you read that the phrase was originally simsim, not sesame and you tried that and you won on your first go. And now you await the end. What you get for playing with the big boys.

☻

Not like that. You tell it worse. Were no codes. Was all filters. Use the right filter, see the right merchandise. Guns. Drugs. Kids. Worse. Open Simsim was the password. Went to a website to get the software. Had to have a usenet account. Download the software and put in the password and this piece of kit listed all the items that weren?t what they seemed. A fucked up list. I only bid for the body because it seemed like it was a double bluff. Like the pack of 100 Ikea scented tea lights that were really a corpse had to be hiding something bigger. I mean there?s hospitals and funeral homes up and down the country where you can go and fuck a corpse if you?re into that sort of thing. I know, I?ve seen the photos of the current stock for hire using that damm filter. So why would anyone buy a corpse when they could rent one by the hour? Curiosity got the better of me I must admit. Been here before. Wait. Been here forever. What was that?Íì?fTíG‚q@>e59*•ÇÊ)NðÃÿDù&ÑR¢qõ|¡Å¾0®žïÔY╬▌▌▐░òâRÂ±úwfÉy9RHØ•HË3PW²‚€ÚÎD?¶§c#Å({†Fµ®¾ŸÃ3É¨f‹ó³¥?Íz€*n@5%§£Ç◄☺☻☼♀♠¥ⱥײַיִﬠﬣﬣﬣﬣﬣJn¦*KH1l<EÁtðl¤ãÂÞ]9(Æ”ÂœTÞ&tý©Id‚®t=•/>ýîÜðå[M¶5ß???7<T˜n?äO£±ŽõLû¼wŒïÒ1v~É¹+Y.î©õlm)œ.®¤;»ÛÏ/÷ô.7èeFOéž„Œ?ÛJA†ïßaÈ7Û"ÒÙÞH¡w"ëìwÌ¤Ú¾‚†Tf-[w¹å«bœÅvhKû„Ô‡,Œ¯|N¾jýû}Ì|#XsÆ—p‰˜&/7ÈZ¶ða¼y3ßë9ÜCÎ¡¦Ãá¥Îez™ð†Ý_Ú´´$`<?‰ßõ©!¿

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Did a bit of digging. Found this:

A body found at a property in Meols Road on Wednesday morning was that of missing frauster, Ian Martins, police have confirmed. Police also confirmed that the body had been discovered inside a black body bag in the shed, as had been widely reported.

Ian Martins of no fixed abode suffered a long fall from grace. Once an up and coming day trader, he became the subject of an investigation in the city in the early nineties after unusual patterns were identified on the London Stock Exchange. He was eventually struck off in 1995.

Being barred from the city didn?t seem to hinder Martins and in only a couple of years he had built himself an empire and at the Millenium he was photographed brushing shoulders with the great and the good.

But again his business activities were investigated and what was uncovered was one of largest fraud operations ever seen in the British Isles. Martins duped some of the biggest multinationals in the world out of tens of millions of dollars and many hadn?t even realised it was happening.

Martins fled the authorities, shortly after which he was rumoured to have suffered a complete mental breakdown and taken to calling himself David Halloran.

A graduate in Computer Science, Martins/Halloran established a website dedicated to conspiracy theories and had established a large following. Family said he had become deeply paranoid in recent years and drifted between abandoned properties around the country. He was believed to have been squatting at the property where his body was found .

Police said they were looking to recover Martins? laptop, which they believed had been removed from the crime scene.

Martins leaves a wife and two children.

Police refused to be drawn on whether this incident was connected to Operation Franklyn, the Metropolitan Police Task Force investigating illicit material sold over the internet.

Read More: Behind the Scenes at Operation Franklyn

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“He vanished, and we stand again before an empty grave. Then let us wish him peace and rest and recovery, and all possible fortune, and an early death, and an eternal oblivion and no remembrance lest even the memory of him should make another unhappy.” Kierkegaard

The Eponymist

Friday, 16 November 2012

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