The Pahl Paw Patch: Authorization Code
Nelson Pahl
April 23, 2009
Sam shouldered open the heavy oak door and stepped through it. He slapped the door closed, lobbed the car keys onto the nearby vanity, then shuffled across the saltillo tile, to the computer desk resting against his living room´s far wall.
The mid-morning sun oozed through the window behind the computer, soaking the desk and chair in a fulgent, golden hue. Sam tossed the package on the desk, then reached to the Venetian blinds and twisted them shut.
He plopped down in the leather swivel chair, with a sigh. Finally, he thought. I can finally get some work done.
Sam stared at the package, MicroSync´s Office Suite Student and Teacher Version. He grinned. Student and teacher version, he thought. Whatever. The wiry, five foot ten, thirty-one-year-old Sam was neither a student nor a teacher. No. Sam exercised his intellect as an Internet marketing guru. But the software suite´s "professional" version cost $535, while its student and teacher version cost a mere $135.
Sam´s previous version, an earlier model of the professional edition, had crashed the night before, just as he put the final touches on this week´s DIY Internet Marketing column. In order to recover the work, along with 127 other weekly column entries he´d written in the past two-plus years, he´d need to install a new version, since the old version had walked out the mission-style townhome´s front door three months prior, with ex-companion Lori.
Sixty-three publications throughout the English-speaking world carried Sam´s column, at an average weekly fee of $35 per publication. He couldn´t afford to be down. And, he had but two hours left to meet this week´s deadline. If he missed it, he could say goodbye to a cool two grand per week in easy cash.
What a scam, he thought. Sam twirled the sealed polyurethane package in his hands. Students and teachers get to pay $135 for this app, but the rest of us are required to pay $400 more for essentially the same thing? Not in my world, man.
Besides, what are they gonna do, send the Interpol Software Agency after me?
Sam gripped the package on each side and yanked his hands apart with all his might. Nothing happened. "Come on!" He gritted his teeth and squinted his eyes, as he again tugged with all his might. Nada. Sam inspected the package. No seams of any sort. How the hell am I supposed to get this open? He reached into the desk drawer and retrieved his trusty stainless steel scissors. Sam placed the package´s corner between the scissor blades and squeezed the handles. The scissors bolt tumbled to the floor, as the blades fell limp in his hand. Sam rolled his eyes and sighed. "Great."
He picked up the scissors pieces and lay them on the desk. Sam again studied the package. Thick, rigid, and seamless, the polyurethane wrap looked as if it had been designed to protect a police officer´s chest during a crack house raid—all the better to keep conniving consumers from stealing authorization codes.
"Come on, guys…" Sam said. "Are we a little paranoid here or what?"
Sam made his way to the kitchen. There, he retrieved a large meat knife from a drawer, then slid a cutting board from beneath the counter. He placed the package on the cutting board. Sam inhaled a deep breath and gritted his teeth. As he exhaled, he dropped the knife to the package and thrust all his might into a swipe along the package´s top edge.
The rake-on-aluminum roar echoed throughout the kitchen; Sam grimaced as tiny fingertips galloped down his spine. Ugh, he thought during a flashback to schoolmate fingernails scraping a chalkboard. Yet, the knife did nothing to the package. Sam grimaced. What? No way. He lowered the knife to the package a second time and ripped the blade across the plastic. Again, nothing. Sam shook his head and threw the knife into the sink.
A few minutes later, Sam stood in his concrete-and-cinder block basement, before a workhorse, blowtorch in hand. This time, I win, he thought. Sam clamped the package into the vice grip then lowered his safety goggles. He fired up the torch, as he eyed the package. You´ve met your match, sport. Sam eased the blue flame along the package´s top ridge. Inch by inch by inch by inch, it melted in two. "Uh ha!" Sam shouted. "I own you now, little man!" As the plastic strip fluttered to the cement floor, Sam tore the package from the vice grip, shoved his hand into it, yanked out the disc, and dashed up the stairs.
Once upstairs, Sam loaded the CD into his computer´s disc drive and began installation.
Three firm knocks to the door.
Sam glanced over his shoulder. Who can that be? he thought. And why don´t the ring the doorbell? Sam rose from his chair and trotted to the front door. He opened it.
Upon his doorstep, there stood two men, dark haired and six feet tall, off-the-rack black suits, white shirts, black ties, wearing imitation Ray-Bans.
The man to Sam´s right offered a nod. "Can we speak to you for a moment, sir?" The man´s husky, no-nonsense voice startled the Internet marketing guru.
Sam stood wide-eyed. "Uh…sure…what seems to be the problem, guys?"
Each man slid an ID wallet from inside his suit coat, flipped it open, and held it before Sam. The same man addressed him. "We´re with the WSP. I´m Agent Cutter…" The man motioned toward his partner. "And this is Agent Boyle."
Sam scowled as he inspected each man's ID. "WSP?" He squinted as he looked at Cutter's, but he couldn´t make out the agency. "What´s that?"
Both men flipped closed their IDs and returned them to their suit coats. Neither man took his eyes off Sam.
Agent Boyle—with hands clasped at the belt buckle and feet two paces apart—rolled his neck, to a crack and a pop.
Agent Cutter´s jaw tensed as he drew a deep breath. He exhaled then replied, "We´re with the World Software Police, sir."
Copyright © 2009 Nelson Pahl
The mid-morning sun oozed through the window behind the computer, soaking the desk and chair in a fulgent, golden hue. Sam tossed the package on the desk, then reached to the Venetian blinds and twisted them shut.
He plopped down in the leather swivel chair, with a sigh. Finally, he thought. I can finally get some work done.
Sam stared at the package, MicroSync´s Office Suite Student and Teacher Version. He grinned. Student and teacher version, he thought. Whatever. The wiry, five foot ten, thirty-one-year-old Sam was neither a student nor a teacher. No. Sam exercised his intellect as an Internet marketing guru. But the software suite´s "professional" version cost $535, while its student and teacher version cost a mere $135.
Sam´s previous version, an earlier model of the professional edition, had crashed the night before, just as he put the final touches on this week´s DIY Internet Marketing column. In order to recover the work, along with 127 other weekly column entries he´d written in the past two-plus years, he´d need to install a new version, since the old version had walked out the mission-style townhome´s front door three months prior, with ex-companion Lori.
Sixty-three publications throughout the English-speaking world carried Sam´s column, at an average weekly fee of $35 per publication. He couldn´t afford to be down. And, he had but two hours left to meet this week´s deadline. If he missed it, he could say goodbye to a cool two grand per week in easy cash.
What a scam, he thought. Sam twirled the sealed polyurethane package in his hands. Students and teachers get to pay $135 for this app, but the rest of us are required to pay $400 more for essentially the same thing? Not in my world, man.
Besides, what are they gonna do, send the Interpol Software Agency after me?
Sam gripped the package on each side and yanked his hands apart with all his might. Nothing happened. "Come on!" He gritted his teeth and squinted his eyes, as he again tugged with all his might. Nada. Sam inspected the package. No seams of any sort. How the hell am I supposed to get this open? He reached into the desk drawer and retrieved his trusty stainless steel scissors. Sam placed the package´s corner between the scissor blades and squeezed the handles. The scissors bolt tumbled to the floor, as the blades fell limp in his hand. Sam rolled his eyes and sighed. "Great."
He picked up the scissors pieces and lay them on the desk. Sam again studied the package. Thick, rigid, and seamless, the polyurethane wrap looked as if it had been designed to protect a police officer´s chest during a crack house raid—all the better to keep conniving consumers from stealing authorization codes.
"Come on, guys…" Sam said. "Are we a little paranoid here or what?"
Sam made his way to the kitchen. There, he retrieved a large meat knife from a drawer, then slid a cutting board from beneath the counter. He placed the package on the cutting board. Sam inhaled a deep breath and gritted his teeth. As he exhaled, he dropped the knife to the package and thrust all his might into a swipe along the package´s top edge.
The rake-on-aluminum roar echoed throughout the kitchen; Sam grimaced as tiny fingertips galloped down his spine. Ugh, he thought during a flashback to schoolmate fingernails scraping a chalkboard. Yet, the knife did nothing to the package. Sam grimaced. What? No way. He lowered the knife to the package a second time and ripped the blade across the plastic. Again, nothing. Sam shook his head and threw the knife into the sink.
A few minutes later, Sam stood in his concrete-and-cinder block basement, before a workhorse, blowtorch in hand. This time, I win, he thought. Sam clamped the package into the vice grip then lowered his safety goggles. He fired up the torch, as he eyed the package. You´ve met your match, sport. Sam eased the blue flame along the package´s top ridge. Inch by inch by inch by inch, it melted in two. "Uh ha!" Sam shouted. "I own you now, little man!" As the plastic strip fluttered to the cement floor, Sam tore the package from the vice grip, shoved his hand into it, yanked out the disc, and dashed up the stairs.
Once upstairs, Sam loaded the CD into his computer´s disc drive and began installation.
Three firm knocks to the door.
Sam glanced over his shoulder. Who can that be? he thought. And why don´t the ring the doorbell? Sam rose from his chair and trotted to the front door. He opened it.
Upon his doorstep, there stood two men, dark haired and six feet tall, off-the-rack black suits, white shirts, black ties, wearing imitation Ray-Bans.
The man to Sam´s right offered a nod. "Can we speak to you for a moment, sir?" The man´s husky, no-nonsense voice startled the Internet marketing guru.
Sam stood wide-eyed. "Uh…sure…what seems to be the problem, guys?"
Each man slid an ID wallet from inside his suit coat, flipped it open, and held it before Sam. The same man addressed him. "We´re with the WSP. I´m Agent Cutter…" The man motioned toward his partner. "And this is Agent Boyle."
Sam scowled as he inspected each man's ID. "WSP?" He squinted as he looked at Cutter's, but he couldn´t make out the agency. "What´s that?"
Both men flipped closed their IDs and returned them to their suit coats. Neither man took his eyes off Sam.
Agent Boyle—with hands clasped at the belt buckle and feet two paces apart—rolled his neck, to a crack and a pop.
Agent Cutter´s jaw tensed as he drew a deep breath. He exhaled then replied, "We´re with the World Software Police, sir."
Copyright © 2009 Nelson Pahl
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