A Free Ride

 

Some years ago, I blogged (and bragged) about how much I enjoyed scams, especially those of the internet variety. The reason I love them is because they are so obvious that anyone with half a brain can spot them a mile away. Some appear to be totally resistant to the correctives of the internet grammar police and are delivered as is, DOA (dead on arrival), rendering them useless, not fit for purpose other than the unintended inducement of laughter. However, perpetrators persist. Recently, my inbox has been flooded, yes, inundated with a mass of mail inviting me to improve my life and being in various ways, or to participate in a range of risqué personal behaviours.  Far be it from me to give ideas to the grammatically challenged, but I can’t help but wonder what ChatGPT might be capable of in refining these incursions.

It might sound as if I am daring the bad actors to bust my security. I’m sure they don’t need my invitation because this is what they do. They don’t just do email jobs either. They are all over the place, not just the digital space. They do both, digital and analogue, and in between. You might just, inadvertently, wander into their space. Sorry, trap.

Like I did a few days ago.

It was a fine evening, the likes of which are rare at this time of the year in Toronto. I had just emerged from the AGO, the Art Gallery of Ontario, where I had been among invitees to an exhibition by the German contemporary photograph artist, Wolfgang Tillmans: "To look without fear", consisting of massive, large, and small works. Thoroughly enjoyable https://ago.ca/tillmans . And as I emerged from the building, I imagined myself in luck to see a taxi cruising along in the direction of home. I hailed it and jumped in for a relaxed drive, with pictures of fine art swirling around my head.

Nothing unusual here, until I woke up the next morning, still savouring the art experience of the night before, and with the bedside radio playing softly and giving the news and weather of the day, when the announcer began relating an account of a card-swap scam, so-called, in which the perp would deftly swap your credit or debit card for a false or fake one and you, being trusting and unaware, would pocket the scam substitute and walk away and continue on your merry way. On hearing this, I recalled that on my taxi ride home the night before, I had used a credit card to pay, and that I had handed the card to the taxi driver to insert into his machine. I needed no urging and leapt out of bed to check if my card was indeed in place in my wallet, to discover that the card that was now in my possession was, shockingly, that of a total stranger. My card had been swapped.  That threw me into a panic and propelled me around the apartment for a few dazed seconds, before I collected myself and went on to ask my wife for her own companion card to get the bank's phone number to call them and nip potential fraud in the bud. Nothing potential about this one, though. This was a bare-faced attempt at electronic pocket-picking. Interestingly, the bandit had been masked, which in this post-Covid era, though not remarkable, was, in the circumstances, highly appropriate.

Quickly calming myself down, I used the house phone to call my credit card company. I had to wait in line, for a massive, agonizing time void, listening to a stream of annoying muzak. During the wait for a human response, my mobile phone went off, displaying a 1-800 number which, in normal circumstances, I would have ignored. But this was no normal circumstance, so I promptly picked up, whereupon I was informed that my credit card had been on parade in a string of suspicious transactions during the night, about half a dozen times in all, amounting to about 2K. Had I made them? No, no, no, no, no and no. The issuer had blocked them all, thankfully, for charges at drugstores, gas stations, ATMs, and other places. Phew!

My card issuer then went through the processes of cancelling the swapped card and then issuing me a new one. 

So, what the masked bandit driver had done was to swap my card for another Visa card (issued to someone else, initials RHM, with an expiry date of July 2023, and which the bank informs me had also been stolen). And the scoundrel was such a polite boy, too. Did his dear mother know what he had been up to, I wondered. He must be such a disappointment to her.

I have since received a new card by special delivery and my nerves have returned to their usual state of calm.

Was there any upside to this experience? None, really, except that my account did not get charged for the taxi ride, after all that. So, I did make a profit of $12, but don’t tell anyone I told you. I wouldn’t want to be charged with profiting from the proceeds of crime.

A cautionary tale, nevertheless.

Tell Fren Tru

Dear Beloved One...

I don’t know about you, but me, I just love junk email.

The first thing I do when I open my email account is to check how much new junk has slipped through the firewalls that are supposed to filter out malevolent ware trying to get at me in my private domain. It gives me quite a buzz when I see 2 or 3 new posts in the junk-mail folder. And, to enjoy them even more, I save them for last.

After dealing with other stuff in the inbox, where, incidentally, a few phish hooks manage to plant themselves, I then turn my attention to the entertainment of the day. There, I find an assortment of temptations impossible to resist. And, so, ignoring warnings not to open items unless I am sure who they are from, etc and with my eyes shut, I stretch out my barge-pole and click on where it says, “I’m not sure.”  When I open my eyes again the potentially destructive missile (I meant missive) has been safely opened. So far, none has detonated with consequences that I rue (but I don’t know, do I?), and that gives me confidence to press on and examine the contents.

First, I take a quick look at the ones that want to sell me software by which I can improve the performance of my personal computer. Without too much delay, I bin them. Then I open the others that want to improve my own personal performance in ways that I can’t possibly discuss in this family-oriented blog. I marvel at the impertinence and, with a wry smile, consign them to the bin as well.

Then the real fun begins. Again, ignoring warnings as to possible harm to my financial health, I begin to deal with the ones that purport to come from some financial institution or the other, with subject lines such as, “Alert - Issues On Your Account‏,” or _**** Bank: - Protecting the security of your account,”‏ and which then go on, in the body of the email: “Dear Valued Client we are currently performing regular maintenance of our security measures. Your account has been randomly selected for this maintenance (Lucky me), and you will now be taken through a series of identity verification pages. Protecting the security of your account is our primary concern (sure), and we apologize for any inconvenience this may cause.” “You are far too kind,” I murmur, as I bin.

Then, there are the more blatant ones that try to set up a new account, using all your personal data, which they invite you to kindly supply them with, because, wait for it: “Attention This is to officially inform you that we have verified your contract/Inheritance/lottery file Presently on my desk, and I found out that you have not received your payment Due to your lack of co-operation and not fulfilling the obligations giving to you in respect to your payment.” What!!?? “My lack of co-operation? My obligations?” I almost choke. They can’t even make up their mind whether I have been the beneficiary of an inheritance, contract or lottery prize money. It’s types like these that give scoundrels a bad name, with that kind of stupidity. So, they then go on to tell me that I can only access my inheritance, contract lottery money or whatever by using an ATM card which they will create for me after I have supplied them with all my personal details. Really? These guys ought not to be allowed to get out of bed in the morning.

                And then, there are the ones who claim that they are working in a bank, usually located in Lagos, Abuja, or Lome, or some other major African city, and who, in the performance of their routine bank duties have come upon a few zillion American dollars (they are certain to denominate their find in American  dollars) and wish you, that is me, of all the world’s six billion people, to share in this unclaimed loot that a deposed, deceased, or both, African dictator has forgotten about, or whose legal beneficiaries can be found no where on this earth. All I need to do is supply them with my bank details, my phone and fax number, and 25% will be mine. Mind you, they will require a small deposit of $25.00 or so to ascertain my good faith or seriousness in doing business with them. And of course, I should be sure to tell no one about my impending good fortune. Don’t want to make others jealous, now, do we?

                But the ones that make me chuckle the most are those that open with a line such as, “Dear Beloved One.” Take this one, for example, which I reproduce word for word, as is (Sorry, all those Esther Williams’s out there):
 “I am Mrs Esther Williams. from Switzerland I am deaf and has cancer of the breast, I lost my husband 12yrs ago without a child of mine. I have to sell all my properties left by my husband because the doctors say i have less than 2months to live. I have deposited the funds of $5 Million United State Dollars, (American dollars again. Well, shouldn’t complain, really. After all it is the world’s number 1 reserve currency, useful in shifting drugs, terrorism funds, etc. But still, I can’t wait to be propositioned in Chinese Yuan or Russian roubles) which i sold from my properties and deposit into a Bank. I want you to help me use the funds to help the charity,deaf and the motherless babies home before i die.If you are a good and honest Christian ,i shall give you the contact of the Bank and also the Deposit Certificate,so as to claim my funds before my death. Expecting your urgent response,and may God bless you as you carry out my wish. yours dying sister Mrs Esther Williams.” It is obvious that this particular Esther Williams was not paying much attention in English class, and that has now caught up with her on her death bed. And, incidentally, they don’t seem, worldwide, to teach syntax, spelling or punctuation at junk mail school. But back to our Esther. In her case, she is probably no more a childless widow, afflicted by deafness or battling terminal cancer and with five mill burning a hole in her hospital gown than Hosni Mubarak is a good and honest Christian.

                And that brings me precisely to the place where I want to be. That is, to make the point that dictators, every where, forgetful or otherwise, with or without children to inherit will, one day, get their comeuppance. So, as we watch African dictators being run out of town, we hope that our brothers and sisters succeed in ridding themselves of those kleptomaniac rascals, whose acts of larceny are orders of magnitude beyond the wildest imaginings of the petty internet scammers whom I have been poking fun at.

So, if you have an African or Arab dictator in your neighborhood, who is making your life miserable. You know what to do.  You have nothing to lose but your chains.

Tell Fren Tru