He leans in close to me. "This money? I will give it back to you doubled. Another R500,000 a year from now. Come work with us. You're an asset to the Company."
"There's more chance of Sloth sprouting wings and starting his own airline. Not that I don't appreciate the offer. I'm trying to get clean."
"Zinzi. What are you going to do? Keep digging up trinkets for old people for spare change?"
"Something better. Or worse. Depends on how you feel about the media. I'm hoping for better."
"Well, if you ever need a dentist..."
"I have Ms Pillay's email address."
He stands up to shake my hand and, just like that, I am cut free.
Or not quite.
There are 3,986 new emails in my inbox, unread. I set up an auto-reply to all of them.
This is a scam. No one is going to give you millions of dollars for nothing. No one is going to give you millions of dollars for nothing. Save your money. Save your money. Spend it on ice-cream. Spend it on ice-cream. Go out to dinner. Go out to dinner. Take your loved ones away for the weekend. Take your loved ones away for the weekend. Pay off your credit cards. Pay off your credit cards. Have an adventure. Have an adventure. Blow it on skydiving lessons or drink or hookers or Blow it on skydiving lessons or drink or hookers or gambling. gambling. But please, don't send it to me or anyone else involved in this ugly little fiction. But please, don't send it to me or anyone else involved in this ugly little fiction.
And next time, don't be so fucking naive.
Vuyo is going to be pissed. But not pissed enough to have me killed. Not when he doesn't have an animal yet. And hey, there will be others. Moegoes Moegoes are easier to come by than e.coli in a fast-food kitchen. are easier to come by than e.coli in a fast-food kitchen.
I add a final line, even though it's a petty revenge, far less than he deserves, even though it might implicate me, or at least my anonymous pseudonym, Kahlo999.
Questions? Please contact Giovanni Conte gio@ machmagazine.co.za It takes a long time to send 3,986 emails, watching the status bar count them off. There is a deep satisfaction in this. A satisfaction that is dented when one of the addresses bounces. It takes a techno-naif to fall for a 419, but they're usually not so unsophisticated that they can't even get their return address right.
This is the mail system at host smtpauth01.mweb. co.za.
I'm sorry to have to inform you that your message could not be delivered to one or more recipients. It's attached below.
For further assistance, please send mail to postmaster.
If you do so, please include this problem report. You can delete your own text from the attached returned message.
The mail system
Reporting-MTA: dns; smtpauth01.mweb.co.za X-Postfix-Queue-ID: D4AF5A024B X-Postfix-Queue-ID: D4AF5A024B
X-Postfix-Sender: rfc822; [email protected]: Sun, 27 March 2011 21:51:59 +0200 (SAST) (SAST)
Final-Recipient: rfc822;
Original-Recipient: rfc822;[email protected] Action: failed Status: 5.4.4
Diagnostic-Code: X-Postfix; Host or domain name not found. Name service error for name=
From: Kahlo999
Date: Sun, 27 March 2011 21:51:59 +0200 To:
This is a scam.
No one is going to give you millions of dollars for nothing. Save your money. Spend it on ice-cream. Go out to dinner. Take your loved ones away for the weekend. Pay off your credit cards. Have an adventure.
Blow it on skydiving lessons or drink or hookers or gambling.
But please, don't send it to me or anyone else involved in this ugly little fiction.
And next time, don't be so fucking naive.
Questions? Please contact Giovanni Conte gio@ machmagazine.co.za
======== From:
Date: Sun, 27 March 2011 21:51:59 +0200 To:
I danced until my feet broke off. Until my shoes turned red with blood. I always wanted to be a girl in a storybook.
It's too strange, too poetical to be spam. I open up the Word doc and add it to my collection.
It bothers me, like a pubic hair between your teeth. Or a ghost in the machine.
Hey, it's not like I have anything else to do with my life right now. I take my laptop downstairs and four blocks over to the Nice Times Internet Cafe to print them out. The guy at the shop wraps the hard copies in a brown-paper bag for me, so it's only when I get home and spread them out over the floor that Sloth freaks the fuck out.
He's been resting on my back, half dozing, but when the pages are arranged on the linoleum, he starts hissing, tugging at my arms to pull me away.
"What's your problem? Is it this?" I pick up a page, and he hunches his shoulders and bats the page out of my hand. He scrambles off my back and backs into the far corner, behind the bed, bristling like the pages are possessed. Maybe Vuyo was right and this is bad muti muti, a hack spell from a rival syndicate. Maybe this is the cause of everything, the dark shadows over my life. I dig in my bag to see if I still have that bottle of muti muti the the sangoma sangoma gave me. How hard can it be? gave me. How hard can it be?
Sloth is not convinced this is a good idea. I'm kneeling in the middle of my apartment, burning imphepho imphepho in an incense holder, a spindle of fragrant smoke rising in the air. I've crumpled up the emails in a large empty pot. "Unless you have a better suggestion?" in an incense holder, a spindle of fragrant smoke rising in the air. I've crumpled up the emails in a large empty pot. "Unless you have a better suggestion?"
He opens his mouth.
"A better suggestion that doesn't involve going back to Mai Mai," I add quickly.