Story: Spam(med) Bots
Jan. 17th, 2007 03:58 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
icepixieEveryone and their mom has probably already written a story exactly like this, but hey, what the hell. I wrote it to amuse myself primarily (which is why it doesn't have much of an ending), and if it amuses you, well, that's just a bonus.
Spam(med) Bots
It was a Tuesday when everything started to go wrong.
I arrived home from a long, taxing day at the office. It was six PM; I'd been inching along the freeway for the last hour, and all I wanted was dinner, a shower, and bed, in that order. It was with great relief that I stared into the retinal scanner and heard the click of the door unlocking.
I deposited my briefcase and coat in the hall and headed straight for the kitchen. "Hello," I called. "What's for dinner?" I didn't smell anything; usually by now some wonderful aroma wafted from the stove or oven. I had programmed a serving time of five after six, after all.
All the burners were off, and I could see that the light indicating the oven in use was dark. I couldn't even hear the microwave running. I found the chefbot standing in a corner, staring at me.
"What's going on?" I asked. "Why isn't dinner ready?"
Gears whirred, and the Chef-O-Matic 3000 began to speak in its uninflected, mechanical voice. "Unbelievable Enlargement! Boost your sexual strength and grow up to three inches with our pills. Take advantage of our special introductory offer; $29.95 for the first month's supply!"
"Enough!" I shouted. The chefbot didn't seem to hear me. It repeated its short message, and seemed inclined to continue doing so for quite some time. Absurdly, I tried to reason with it. "I can't use those pills; I don't even have one," I told the chefbot. It didn't even have to pause for breath before continuing its message.
"Fine. To hell with you! I'll get my own dinner." I left the chefbot talking to itself and headed for the laundry room. Might as well change out the load I had started this morning and let the dryer run while I was out.
I lifted the lid of the Wash-O-Rama machine and reached down to pick up a sodden mass of clothing. I sorted them on top of the dryer. Socks and underwear in the dryer, shirts hung up to...I jerked to a stop when I saw my favorite blue T-shirt.
On the front of it, printed in small, but still readable, text, was the following:
URGENT BUSINESS RELATIONSHIP DESIRED
DURING THE LAST MILITARY REGIME HERE IN NIGERIA, THE GOVERNMENT OFFICIALS SET UP COMPANIES AND AWARDED THEMSELVES CONTRACTS WHICH WERE GROSSLY OVER-INVOICED IN VARIOUS MINISTRIES. THE PRESENT CIVILIAN GOVERNMENT SET UP A CONTRACT REVIEW PANEL AND WE HAVE IDENTIFIED A LOT OF INFLATED CONTRACT FUNDS WHICH ARE PRESENTLY FLOATING IN THE CENTRAL BANK OF NIGERIA READY FOR PAYMENT.
HOWEVER, BY VIRTUE OF OUR POSITION AS CIVIL SERVANTS AND MEMBERS OF THIS PANEL, WE CANNOT ACQUIRE THIS MONEY IN OUR NAMES. I HAVE THEREFORE, BEEN DELEGATED AS A MATTER OF TRUST BY MY COLLEAGUES OF THE PANEL TO LOOK FOR AN OVERSEAS PARTNER INTO WHOSE ACCOUNT WE WOULD TRANSFER THE SUM OF US$21,320,000.00(TWENTY ONE MILLION, THREE HUNDRED AND TWENTY THOUSAND U.S DOLLARS). HENCE WE ARE WRITING YOU THIS LETTER...
Etc. etc. Horrified, I tossed the T-shirt aside and rummaged in the washer for another. All of them had the same message printed on their fronts, as did every pair of pants, and even the bath towel I'd thrown in.
I admit it. I screamed, and a shrill, girly scream at that. It made me feel less like I was going to explode from outrage, and that was good.
I gave the Wash-O-Rama a good, swift kick in the computer parts and stomped out of the laundry room.
I'll go get something to eat, and then come back and deal with all this when I'm calmer, I told myself as I headed for the front hall to put my coat back on.
It was as I was buttoning the final button that I finally noticed a sound which had been nagging at the edge of my hearing ever since I hit the door. It was a whirring, scratching sound, and it came from upstairs. Warily, my mind now filled with what horrors I might be about to see, I climbed the steps and flicked on a light.
There, in front of me, was the Vac-O-Matic 5000, zooming over and over the square foot it must have been attacking all day, to judge by the hole it had worn in the carpet.
I screamed again. It was less satisfying this time. Then I attempted to capture the vacbot. It went as one might expect: the bot slipping through my fingers the first few times, until I finally grabbed it around its bulging middle, whereupon it began to drag me around in its recursive circle.
Eventually, I did manage to scrabble at the hard plastic encasing the rear hard enough to reveal the rechargeable battery. I pulled it out and tossed it to my right, where it clattered down the stairs. The vacbot stopped immediately, its heavy upper container crashing to the floor, taking me with it.
I moaned and rubbed the shoulder that had been caught underneath when the vacbot returned to the ground. I didn't feel like getting up.
As I lay there, the burnt smell of over-vacuumed carpet invading my nostrils, I suddenly remembered something. Today was the second Tuesday of the month, the day when all my robotic appliances connected to the internet for the latest software updates: new recipes for the chefbot, new clothing care instructions for the washer, and something else, I wasn't sure what, for the vacbot. Along with all those useful updates, they must have downloaded a virus. Spammers must have discovered their addresses as well.
With growing horror, I realized that it wasn't just these three robotic appliances which were compromised. Like everyone else in my tax bracket, I had hundreds of AI-derived gadgets in my house, all of which were now ticking time bombs, with the potential to do something as destructive, or moreso, than the three I'd already encountered.
Sitting up a bit, I turned my head and glared at the limp vacbot. "I'm taking away your internet privileges," I told it. "No more opening vacbot porn e-mails with viruses in them for you!"
Spam(med) Bots
It was a Tuesday when everything started to go wrong.
I arrived home from a long, taxing day at the office. It was six PM; I'd been inching along the freeway for the last hour, and all I wanted was dinner, a shower, and bed, in that order. It was with great relief that I stared into the retinal scanner and heard the click of the door unlocking.
I deposited my briefcase and coat in the hall and headed straight for the kitchen. "Hello," I called. "What's for dinner?" I didn't smell anything; usually by now some wonderful aroma wafted from the stove or oven. I had programmed a serving time of five after six, after all.
All the burners were off, and I could see that the light indicating the oven in use was dark. I couldn't even hear the microwave running. I found the chefbot standing in a corner, staring at me.
"What's going on?" I asked. "Why isn't dinner ready?"
Gears whirred, and the Chef-O-Matic 3000 began to speak in its uninflected, mechanical voice. "Unbelievable Enlargement! Boost your sexual strength and grow up to three inches with our pills. Take advantage of our special introductory offer; $29.95 for the first month's supply!"
"Enough!" I shouted. The chefbot didn't seem to hear me. It repeated its short message, and seemed inclined to continue doing so for quite some time. Absurdly, I tried to reason with it. "I can't use those pills; I don't even have one," I told the chefbot. It didn't even have to pause for breath before continuing its message.
"Fine. To hell with you! I'll get my own dinner." I left the chefbot talking to itself and headed for the laundry room. Might as well change out the load I had started this morning and let the dryer run while I was out.
I lifted the lid of the Wash-O-Rama machine and reached down to pick up a sodden mass of clothing. I sorted them on top of the dryer. Socks and underwear in the dryer, shirts hung up to...I jerked to a stop when I saw my favorite blue T-shirt.
On the front of it, printed in small, but still readable, text, was the following:
URGENT BUSINESS RELATIONSHIP DESIRED
DURING THE LAST MILITARY REGIME HERE IN NIGERIA, THE GOVERNMENT OFFICIALS SET UP COMPANIES AND AWARDED THEMSELVES CONTRACTS WHICH WERE GROSSLY OVER-INVOICED IN VARIOUS MINISTRIES. THE PRESENT CIVILIAN GOVERNMENT SET UP A CONTRACT REVIEW PANEL AND WE HAVE IDENTIFIED A LOT OF INFLATED CONTRACT FUNDS WHICH ARE PRESENTLY FLOATING IN THE CENTRAL BANK OF NIGERIA READY FOR PAYMENT.
HOWEVER, BY VIRTUE OF OUR POSITION AS CIVIL SERVANTS AND MEMBERS OF THIS PANEL, WE CANNOT ACQUIRE THIS MONEY IN OUR NAMES. I HAVE THEREFORE, BEEN DELEGATED AS A MATTER OF TRUST BY MY COLLEAGUES OF THE PANEL TO LOOK FOR AN OVERSEAS PARTNER INTO WHOSE ACCOUNT WE WOULD TRANSFER THE SUM OF US$21,320,000.00(TWENTY ONE MILLION, THREE HUNDRED AND TWENTY THOUSAND U.S DOLLARS). HENCE WE ARE WRITING YOU THIS LETTER...
Etc. etc. Horrified, I tossed the T-shirt aside and rummaged in the washer for another. All of them had the same message printed on their fronts, as did every pair of pants, and even the bath towel I'd thrown in.
I admit it. I screamed, and a shrill, girly scream at that. It made me feel less like I was going to explode from outrage, and that was good.
I gave the Wash-O-Rama a good, swift kick in the computer parts and stomped out of the laundry room.
I'll go get something to eat, and then come back and deal with all this when I'm calmer, I told myself as I headed for the front hall to put my coat back on.
It was as I was buttoning the final button that I finally noticed a sound which had been nagging at the edge of my hearing ever since I hit the door. It was a whirring, scratching sound, and it came from upstairs. Warily, my mind now filled with what horrors I might be about to see, I climbed the steps and flicked on a light.
There, in front of me, was the Vac-O-Matic 5000, zooming over and over the square foot it must have been attacking all day, to judge by the hole it had worn in the carpet.
I screamed again. It was less satisfying this time. Then I attempted to capture the vacbot. It went as one might expect: the bot slipping through my fingers the first few times, until I finally grabbed it around its bulging middle, whereupon it began to drag me around in its recursive circle.
Eventually, I did manage to scrabble at the hard plastic encasing the rear hard enough to reveal the rechargeable battery. I pulled it out and tossed it to my right, where it clattered down the stairs. The vacbot stopped immediately, its heavy upper container crashing to the floor, taking me with it.
I moaned and rubbed the shoulder that had been caught underneath when the vacbot returned to the ground. I didn't feel like getting up.
As I lay there, the burnt smell of over-vacuumed carpet invading my nostrils, I suddenly remembered something. Today was the second Tuesday of the month, the day when all my robotic appliances connected to the internet for the latest software updates: new recipes for the chefbot, new clothing care instructions for the washer, and something else, I wasn't sure what, for the vacbot. Along with all those useful updates, they must have downloaded a virus. Spammers must have discovered their addresses as well.
With growing horror, I realized that it wasn't just these three robotic appliances which were compromised. Like everyone else in my tax bracket, I had hundreds of AI-derived gadgets in my house, all of which were now ticking time bombs, with the potential to do something as destructive, or moreso, than the three I'd already encountered.
Sitting up a bit, I turned my head and glared at the limp vacbot. "I'm taking away your internet privileges," I told it. "No more opening vacbot porn e-mails with viruses in them for you!"
