Malone is taking the weekend off. I guess they figured out I wasn’t an urgent threat. Since I have nothing else to write I’ll do a recap of the week.
Last week was a tale as old as time. Instead of an alarm clock, I’m woken up by a swat team dragging my face against the floor. When I wake up again I’m in prison being interrogated by Special Agent Malone, who doesn’t like it when you call him Malone. We talked about my life leading up to that day and what made me decide to scam email scammers. The email “scam” was one where I baited Nigerian scammers into making asses of themselves while trying to rob me. We call this 419 baiting or scambaiting. Seeing Korea vets lose their savings to fake charities and fake kids put me over the edge. It started my current disaster.
Monday — July 31st
There’s no such thing as a “bad” job.
Vacuuming floors and cleaning bathrooms after hours at a law firm wasn’t sexy but was better than the alternative: Not eating. In fact, until last week I was working several jobs to put myself through college– Pastor at Pennsylvania’s Church of the Holy Mackerel, Financial Disbursement Officer at a rehabilitation clinic called Fresh Start Florida, cashier at a taco shop called Picante in Arizona, and Community Outreach Liaison for Dignity First, a homeless advocacy group in London. One of those jobs paid me enough to scrape by in a shared apartment; the others existed only on the internet.
I got the job at Picante after my friend quit. They needed someone willing to work nights and weekends, which nobody else at the University of Arizona wanted to do. I got my others through a series of mistakes, errors, blunders and gaffes. While I still have the fake jobs I invented, Picante fired me after the Department of Homeland Security kicked my door in. Picante’s publicity strategy was more centered on advertising at basketball games than on having employees dragged out of their house by swat teams on CNN. I don’t blame them.
My arrest warrant said Jason Powers, me legal name, but the SWAT team laughed and call me Mike Scott. The gig was up.
Tuesday — August 1st
Nothing but scare tactics for my first day. They said they just wanted to talk but they spent the whole time yelling. Special Agent Malone said he didn’t buy the story. Of course he didn’t. A year ago I wouldn’t have believed it either. Not in my wildest fantasies. But it happened. I thought they’re mostly worried about Muslims and Russians but here I am, wearing orange and being interrogated by some prick from D.C. with the imagination of potato.
It could be worse though. I think.
That was my first interrogation. I was completely honest and Malone still threw a fit like a kid begging his mom for ice cream. Yes, I’m Jason Powers. I’m also Mike Scott, Dwight “Shrewd” Farmer, and occasionally I’m James Halpert and Pamela B. Easley. I’ve been several other people too but Malone doesn’t need to know about them. If he can’t handle the cast of The Office he certainly shouldn’t open Pandora’s box. He’s not ready.
Hopefully they don’t take away my journal. I’m allowed to have it. I think. Just in case I write at night and keep my papers under my sheet during the day. They psychologists here think I’m more of a flight risk than a suicide risk so they let me keep my sheets. Sometimes it’s the little things in life that make big differences.
I try to think on the positive side. When I get out I’ll have the gnarliest journal ever. How often can the same story work as a capstone project for both Creative Writing and Journalism majors? I might not be the first to try but I’ll certainly be the best. They’ll see.
Wednesday — August 2nd
Finally. My side of the story. Malone figured out that what I said yesterday is all he’s getting out of me without a lawyer present so he relaxed a bit today. Yesterday he couldn’t stop yelling. Today he couldn’t stop laughing. I don’t know if he was laughing at the story or laughing at me for trying to convince him that Mike Scott was all a joke. I guess it doesn’t matter. Laughing was better than yelling. I wouldn’t say Malone was more relaxed, but I certainly was.
He didn’t want to start from the beginning. He just wanted to know about Mike Scott. No context. I gave him some backstory anyways. The details wouldn’t make sense without it, and I would hide behind a lawyer if he demanded I skip the beginning and middle of the story.
“Let’s go on a safari,” I told him.
From there, his eyes told me everything I needed to know about if he was buying the story. On the one hand, I don’t really expect anyone to believe the story. A white guy from Arizona caught up in everything they’re accusing me of? It would sell papers but be remembered only as a punchline. Unfortunately the Department of Homeland Security thinks otherwise and they’re the ones who control my life now.
Let’s go on a safari.
Thursday — August 3rd
I know that nobody enjoys the DHS interviews, but today wasn’t too bad. Having a captive audience is actually pretty cool. Today Malone got to hear about the birth of Mike Scott, and I got to learn what happens when you address a federal law enforcement official without using “sir” or “mister” for his first name. Malone had more fun today than I did.
Since the cat is out of the bag I can write my safari here without being afraid of guards finding my notebook. This is how it all began. This is how I ended up in prison without parole. This is how I got three bounties on my head in two countries. The bounties weren’t technically on my head though, only the warrant was in my legal name. The bounties were for Mike Scott, Zachary Morris, and Jonathan Lennon. I know these people well. They’re me.
The guards are coming. I’ll write more tomorrow.
Friday — August 4th
Today was my first full day of telling my story. It was more fun telling it to my friends. Malone doesn’t have much of a sense of a humor.
“Here’s how it started,” I told him.
He just stared.
I hadn’t remembered all the hard work it had taken me to get to where I was. Telling it to Malone was humbling. Everyone gets angry at scams; not everybody is on international news for it.
I a year ago I made it a goal of mine to waste their time when they called. Telemarketers, people pretending to be Microsoft Support technicians—I own a Mac—who needed my credit card information to fix my computer. I almost felt bad for the telemarketers. I had considered a telemarketing job before I got hired as a janitor at the law firm. Then they started calling me. Mondays were when they called about time shares. On Wednesdays they sold organic supplements. On Thursdays they wanted to know my opinions on political issues. On Fridays they wanted to sell me different organic supplements. Sometimes they mixed it up and talked about time shares on Wednesdays and political surveys on Tuesdays, but they always called. I lost my patience. Day by day, week by week. Then I started messing with them. If they wasted my time I would waste theirs.
After I agreed with the Sarah’s opinions on why Rep. King was the ideal senator for Arizona, I told her that I usually voted for the American National Socialist Party but would vote for Rep. King this year instead. Could I campaign for them at the local Nazi rallies? Could I post Rep. King’s advertisements on Twitter? Sarah said no and Arizonans for Change stopped calling me. Success!
Next came the Microsoft support scammers. I talked to them for thirty minutes, explaining that my email doesn’t automatically update when I turn my computer off, that my battery charger only works when plugged into the wall even though it has the big battery on the cord, and that my spellcheck needs me to capitalize letters instead of doing it automatically at the beginning of sentences. After they sat through all of that I told them that I could only pay them with gift cards. They weren’t happy. I had to change it up sometimes so I wouldn’t get bored. Sometimes my credit card number would be five. Other times I decided at the last minute that I wanted a broken computer to fit in with other students
The point was to waste their time. Every minute they were on the phone with me, they weren’t scamming anyone else. I’m not a masochist. I wasn’t then at least.
“Enough,” Malone told me. “I need a beer.”