Ode to Joy Rewrite (Blogophilia 49.12)
The red convertible’s big V-8 roared down the Turnpike. The needle was inching near 100 with the joyous sounds of Beethoven blasting into the darkness. Trashcoast Parkway was fading into the rearview on this starry, starry night. The El Dorado was a congratulation present for me, a land yacht befitting a successful guy. And the polar opposite of the black Benz I’d been riding in. That was important. No more Mickey, the lifelong dream to stick it to the man had borne fruit.
I had perfected a scam, selling vulnerable women the latest super anti-aging cream. The website was a fake, though. A perfect clone of the product original where I gathered more information than their Experian account. The individual accounts were useless to my scam. Sure, there were several million dollars over the thousands of accounts that could have easily converted with no trace. That was chump change, though. I stacked a backtrace virus inside the orders. During another scam, I had found a way to skim fractiona…
I had perfected a scam, selling vulnerable women the latest super anti-aging cream. The website was a fake, though. A perfect clone of the product original where I gathered more information than their Experian account. The individual accounts were useless to my scam. Sure, there were several million dollars over the thousands of accounts that could have easily converted with no trace. That was chump change, though. I stacked a backtrace virus inside the orders. During another scam, I had found a way to skim fractiona…