Love and Wargames: A Bad Boy Hacker Romance

It’s an ideology so beloved people have written songs about it. The classic tale of heroic vigilantism that people usually have no moral issues with despite it going against most standards of basic American economics.

But I ain’t Robin Hood.

And this rich prick had it coming anyway.

Ian Botsford is the last in long line of assholes, assuming he never knocks up his young, co-ed girlfriend. On the outside, he seems like a pretty decent guy — your standard handsome, billionaire philanthropist — until you start peeling back the layers to discover a few particularly creepy traditions that reach pretty far up the Botsford family tree, including one annual party that’s so skeevy even I won’t touch it.

Mr. Botsford and his wealthy, social elite buddies like to lure young ladies (the more jail-baity, the better) into his hotels to be auctioned off to the highest bidder for the night. I mean, I’m not exactly the picture of healthy morality, but come on…

Gross.

I’ve spent the last several weeks traveling to various Botsford Plaza Hotels around the country, inserting a special, completely undetectable, line of code into their payroll systems. Nothing too crazy, just a worm that eats up one percent of every dollar that passes through. Each Botsford Plaza moves — on average — one million dollars each month through their payroll accounts. So far, I’ve uploaded this worm to twenty-five of this bastard’s hotels. One percent of one million dollars times twenty-five. Let me do the math for you.

Two-hundred and fifty thousand dollars.

And I don’t even have to leave my desk.

In the grand scheme of things, this will be a parking ticket for him. He probably won’t even notice the money is gone and by the time he does, I’ll be in Fiji doing jell-o shots off an islander’s voluptuous tits.

Well… maybe not that last part but it still beats the hell out of Boston in May.

I sit back in my desk chair and stare at the clock on the wall. Three minutes until midnight. The payroll department finalizes their transactions at twelve-oh-one east coast time every payday. They never miss it. It’s the very definition of clock work and quite possibly the most impressive thing about the staff at Botsford Plaza Hotels. They know their shit. From management to maids, those places are run tight as virgin priestesses.

If only their C.E.O. wasn’t such a massive cunt.

Twelve-oh-clock.
Almost there…

I crack my knuckles and sit up, looking through my own reflection staring back at me in my desktop computer monitor. It’s been a few days since I’ve shaved and even longer since I’ve hit the gym but I’ve been busy, dammit. What’s your excuse? I slide my glasses off and wipe the fingerprints clean before clacking the keyboard, preparing to activate the rather hungry worm slipping its way through twenty-five separate payroll systems. All I have to do is tell it to start chomping and my bank account fills up like magic.

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