Do YOU Have What It Takes To Be #ANONYMOUS???


Facing Reality: Hacking Is Boring

That is to say, that hacking is the process of struggle leading unto the unlocking of a computer. In this case hacking can be a lengthy time consuming process of study and practice, applying techniques learned during study to unlock or effectively own the target machine or network. Scoring is fun, winning fuels the excitement; please remember that the fire in your belly for revolution must be tempered by hours and god forsaken untold aeons of study and practice before you can be considered a Hacktivist for #ANONYMOUS.

Unseen Dangers Of Anonymity

Snug at home on the old WiFi box makes Hacktivism a comfy alternative to actually doing anything. Hacktivism is not for the lazy, intellectually or phsycially, and demands a consistent focus and dedication to improvement of self and skillset. The Hacktivist is the lean restless type, ever consumed with a hunger for knowledge and a lust for power to balance the universe. While marching in protest, an #ANONYMOUS Hacktivist can easily become implicated into situations that are either compromising or downright dangerous.

I personally got carried away and left a great many number of stenciled Guy Fawkes tags on Washington DC sidewalks, a little job which landed me six months of Federal (unsupervised) probation. In a second protest also in The District, I was unprepared to witness the familiar masked faces of my #ANONYMOUS sisters and brothers being replaced by black-clad Soviet influenced disestablishmentarianists. The names I heard thrown around the mobs on the street that day were “The People / Black-Bloc / Antifa(scists),” and by the end of the day a Bank Of America, McDonald’s, Starbucks, Federal armored Suburban, and black limousine had all been destroyed by the thieving hands of miscreant anarchists toting bricks, bolt cutters, and lighter fluid. Our (#ANONYMOUS) tagging of the DC streets was tame in comparison to these savages with the radical liberal set, whose actions tend to abandon concepts liberal and rather embrace behaviours radical.

Understanding Time Travel { how to reach the future }

This is a no-brainer. You get in the DeLorean, you set the freaking knobs and dials and zoom! It’s 2015 and hoverboards are “in.” This is symbolic, of course. The aspect of becoming #ANONYMOUS Hacktivist occurs rather like some of the traditional professional tutelages such as law, or medicine, but with a special tradecraft that cannot be agreed upon by any central organization. This special tradecraft is handed down from senior Hacktivists to the younger generation of students; sort of like Doc handing Marty the flux capacitor and giving him his mission in the future. This cultivation of skill, sharp lookout for aspiring talent, and drive to recruit the unparalleled, are what keep the promulgation of the community alive and well, all parts functioning as a total cohesive unit and with talent on every tier.

As a final pearl, allow me to interject some teachings I received from a Chinese clandestine services officer whom was my cellmate during a time in my life while I was incarcerated, just before I moved to the nation’s capital:

“Feng Shui—means wind and water. America has Double Dragon power, that is why it became strong and wealthy. The Rocky mountains and Apalachians, these two mountain ranges are the fire and water dragon, America has strong Feng Shui. It is about balance, ‘Nu Balance.’ In a balanced strategy, retreat becomes just as effective as attack. Be more evil; seek more balance.”

COLDWAR2 — A modest proposal.

awesome_map.jpgDear Mr. Putin—

So you were in the #KGB? That’s really cool. A lot of Americans like you, which is why so many of them are not buying into the idea that Russian state actors hacked the Democratic National Committee for election time. The #SOVIET spirit is still alive and well, even after so many years!

You may not know me yet, but my name is Robert Brooks Authement and I speak with the interest of US Intelligence Community at heart when I make this modest proposal. In order to take the central focus off of conflict in middle east campaigns leading to gruesome casualties on all sides, I have a three point suggestion as to the next natural course of history and which direction we might choose to steer it.

1.) We stage a joint space operation false flag which can be visible by news agencies and the naked eye. It is acceptable that Russia blames U.S. while my nation blames Russia in the public eye.

2.) Meanwhile, we make an offer of true peace and agreement to run cyber-operations, intelligence and security operations, and other potential space operations for the sake of instituting the nostalgia of the old Cold War between our nations. This plan is tentatively called “Cold War 2.”

3.) In exchange for our vow of peace and willingness to cooperate on this higher level, the United States of America requests the Russian Federation’s assistance in collecting intelligence on Chinese cyber-activities, and in thwarting any plans with the potential to hinder this new agreement.

Thanks, our hopes are that the holidays were good to you, and that 2017 is great.


R. A.

Do GHOSTS Dream In The Digital DEEP?

Fiction by Robert Brooks Authement

Cue dangerous electronic spy music—maybe that Massive Attack track: “Fles of my flesh and mind of my mind, and my image is reflected in the enemy’s eye and his image is reflected in mine at the same time.” I don’t know the scene but one things I can know for sure is that I am by no means safe here—hunted; I can’t stop running. Must move, like a slinky jungle creature through the concrete forest. Now I’m a leopard, now I’m a monkey, now a snake. I slither from alley to alley and glimpse that low resolution skyline, flicking my tongue to sniff the air. What time is it? Something like twilight or dawn, but the nagging in my mind is like a little bug twitching in my spider’s web of perception and impossible to ignore. This place must be artificial.

Incapable of determining my precise foe, while still beneath the graying dome of illusory atmosphere, I hide my sight from the workers in overalls, bright corporate dock worker overalls with orange hard hats moving to and fro, anyone of them subversively concealing the visage of Death behind their aspirators. Don’t know—maybe one of them is my contact. Can’t risk it, I’m heading now with brisk hurried steps, feet not touching the ground, the adrenalized fear floats me closer to the entrance facility away from these Asian demons and their busy forklifts. Do I even have what I came here to acquire? Mission incomplete until my extraction. Must focus—soon I could be out, find the safe house. I’m already imagining the mission kit briefcase where I make my dead-drop, whatever it was that I came here to steal, and pick up my money, my service gun, my new aspect of persona. I am an architect of identity.

What’s that tinted limousine!? The Big Boss? I creep past like a convict refugee in sight of salvation, haunted by phantoms. The gaping garage into the facility yawning like the jaws of Cerberus warding me from Hades—or stretching to gulp my frightened spirit. “Abandon all hope, ye who enter here. . .”

Be still my heart. Fuck! It’s not even beating—it’s indistinguishable from the electric hum of this warehouse, this processing plant. The gray dusk now metal ceilings offering brief views between institutional beige rafters through dull skylights among the blinding arc or halide lamps. There is nowhere to hide in here, too bright, too open. Not quite a maze and not quite a milk-run, it seems clear to me there are a few corners needing turned yet before. . . No! Don’t think about freedom; don’t you dare dream right now. Just take those neon bleached blue coveralls. Shit. These slope workers, any one of them counter-intelligence; too damn short! The pantsuit tight on my crotch and shoulders, and even though I leave the top half of the zipper undone it still leaves the bottom half of my legs naked. Ah—this pair of oversized rubbers, industrial boots cover most of what remains nude. Now there are only two visible inches of my pinkish white-boy flesh—enough to get me found, captured, interrogated, tortured, compromised, and finally killed. I do not have on my person any comfort of fast exit by means of bullet or spoilt almond-scented cyanide.

Life. Death. Impossible to know, the blood in my veins pushed by ungodly fear, now a pulsing liquid magnetic field biologically nearing me toward my completing the mission objectives—all of which I forgot, except my dire irrepressible urge to escape this foul place.

Moving again. As casually as I can despite these clothes which crush my balls with every excruciating step. The pain and discomfort of nausea a welcome alternative to the paralyzing fear. Engage, engage, engage. Were those two with the checklist checking me out? Was that guy behind the desk in the cage staring? There are stacks and racks of what appear to be plastic coffins between shiny steel machines whose sinister purpose to my beleaguered soul must be to steal, to rape, to kill. All without compunction or fear. Maybe next time, they can send a machine to do a man’s job because I want at this moment, now in the front gate, the exit portal to the free world, nothing more than immunity. Protection. Send me an Angel, I can envision heaven!

Approaching my goal, something dark materializes from the swirling ethers of executive corporate suits and off duty workers coalescing menacingly between me and sweet freedom. Upon recognition, the fever pitch of this wretched mission, my nightmarish plight changes audibly when I see the face of Muhammad Talha Khan. My heartbeat stops, the vibration changing frequency, now a high-pitched whistling in my ears. Everything is surreal, like the opening film before a video game boss-battle—only I know, somehow through the raging juice that this is in no way, shape, or form a game. Cue Massive Attack: “You and I can’t live or survive together, can’t ride together, all we can do is collide forever.”

“MTK. Are you the gatekeeper?” He’s before me now. Shorter than me but so much blacker inside; evil possibly. I know he’s heated because in addition to being a world class hacker he is also an international security analyst—and possibly a state-sponsored agent. He may very well be my final encounter. He may very well mean my death—the ultimate MISSION. The part of me that feels afraid wants to trust my internet friend, but the part of me that trusts needs to hold onto the fear. In the world of ghosts and spooks, paranoia means operational security.

“Do not worry, my friend,” his voice warm, though the French blood in my veins instictively incredulous toward the sons of Allah. Our ancestors spilled much blood upon the sands during the pre-digital days. My heart a machine pumping fear. “We are almost through here.”

“You. . . mean to kill me then?

He laughs quietly, deeply from the belly before opening his eyes to look straight into my soul.”I’m afraid it’s not as simple as that.”

Looking for my escape. “I thought I could trust you.” My resolve is breaking up. Feeling more like a child than a saboteur, agent, or thief.

“Oh you can, implicitly.” He takes another step forward, I feel my spirit shrinking.

“Just. Fucking. Getitoverwith!”

“I own the place.”

“Killing me here would not look good then for you.” Slight glimmer of hope, not checkmate, only check.

“That is unnecessary. Robert, you are already dead.” Wow. Checkmate. “In the flesh that is.”

“The hell you saying, man?”

“This place I own is a database, a server to be precise, and you are running inside a program I designed. ” Am I on drugs? Is he? How does shit always get so weird for me?

“Well fuck that. I’m here, I’m on a MISSION and I have the object.” Shaking my head. Feeling my body. Still here.

“Incorrect, though it was programmed that way. In order to strengthen the identity matrix of the data construct, it was necessary to insert you into a high-anxiety environment. It’s the way you liked to live so it helped you, in extremely simplified terminology, to ‘remember’ yourself.” I’m staring at the Pakistani spy, the techno assassin, the whirling dervish. His black leather jacket now the Grim Reaper’s mantle.


“It’s actually my  MISSION, Robert.”

“The object?”

You are the object, and I am in fact here to extract you.”

Any color in my face drains to leave a bloodless spectre standing where I once was. “That means I’m. . .”

“Yes. You are a digital, hexadecimal GHOSTS.” A deep boom like a bomb going off on another block. Muhammad reaches into his jacket pocket to withdraw some shiny black device, now in his hand. Resembles a gun, or is it a USB hard drive?

“Do not worry, my friend,” he repeats as if it helps me. “I will take you far away from this place and you’ll never have to return. Soon we will be hacking side by side again, just like the good old days.”

“We will?”

“Well, technically you’ll be working for me since I designed you. Now, just a moment.” The fearsome black device is held aloft by MTK, pointed at my head. Click.