Female viagra is all the rage among spammers these days. I got a junk mail today from ‘Perkowski Bosten’ offering me a way to get ‘any wooman into bed’…

This was the addendum:

Some of it seems to have been taken from ‘Main Street’ by Sinclair Lewis, so kudos to the spammer for that. I turned it into a scene in a Boston cafe in the 1920s.

Of Drugs and Money

“The love of money,” Perkowski said, stirring his coffee. “Is the root of all evil.”

Lewis shook his head. “But wisely directed, money may do a lot of good.”

“Interesting.” Perkowski mused, pleased that Lewis had voiced his opinion then and there before matters had gone further.

Just then, their journalist friend Rosie appeared. “A thousand apologies for being so late.” she said.

“Don’t worry.” Lewis said. “Please, sit down.”

“I was held back at the office reporting on the debutante ball.” Rosie explained.

“We were just talking of money.” Perkowski told her. “I am thinking of giving away my fortune. Lewis will help me to make a donation to charity.”

“Pride would not allow him to do himself.” Lewis teased.

“Are you not afraid he will squander your money?” Rosie joked to Perkowski.

“Indeed not.” Perkowski laughed. “If he tries, I know where he is. His social security number is 419458460.”

“I’m thinking of heading north with some of the money.” Lewis said. “Wanderlust is one of my original characteristics. I want to see if any more Lashmars are buried near the magic tree in Maida.” He kept his voice from trembling with anticipation and longing, smiling to himself.

“Did you see the aqueduct show last week?” Rosie asked. “I hear it was quite a party.”

“Yes, I did.” Perkowski said. “The organisers made and strategically manufactured a new drug called Skasvin.”

“How is it taken?” Lewis asked.

“You fry it in sweet butter, and being fried it puts out a gas which can be inhaled.”

Rosie nodded. Then she asked “I wonder if you have noticed the difference in clientele here at Rauscher’s Confiserie.”

No sooner had she spoken than four debutantes clattered in, giggling.

“How wrong it is!” Perkowski exclaimed.

“I’m afraid it’s the way of the world these days.” Rosie sighed. “Think what it has done to us all.” She turned and looked disdainfully at the noisy arrivals.

“I intend to travel to the foliated hill with my friend Harold.” Lewis continued with his reverie. “His high ideals are ever the same as mine. At Zeppa we ascended the Sugarloaf Mountain. It would not have been possible without funding from Perkowski.”

Rosie, bored of his musings, looked around the cafe. The figure of Alexander the cook was visible through the glass partition. He was sharpening large kitchen knives. Life seemed to be at a standstill.

Another viagra spam mail from ‘Gulati Menas’ entitled ‘filmset burps’. I found the tagline quite interesting:

The randomly generated text is pretty standard:

 
Gulati is undergoing rehab in a clinic which doubles as an old people’s home. He is talking to his friends Menas and Filippe about his experiences.

Recovery

“I’m glad you made the decision to seek help, Gulati.” Menas said.

Gulati nodded from his armchair. “I’m feeling a lot better.”

“Good.”

“But I was manifestly near to breaking.” he confessed. “I mean, what if someone was to see this?” He handed his cup to Filippe and rolled back his sleeve to display a prison tattoo on his forearm.

“You certainly led a fast life.” Filippe said.

“My festivities were curtailed owing to the recent crackdown on the drug trade.” Gulati lamented.

“What’s it like here?” Menas asked, keen to change the subject.

“It’s fine.” Gulati said. “I was in a relationship with old lady Hartingfield until she died.”

Menas and Filippe exchanged a glance.

“She wrote me a poem before she died.” Gulati reached into his cabinet and took out a sheet of paper. Clearing his throat, he began to read.

“My love now sweeps up from the water’s edge, and takes from the Pelasgians the custom of having been blessed by waters and by forms of love that lightened out the reasons why war is ever necessary.”

Menas cleared her throat and pointed out of the window. “There are some gorgeous old trees and shrubs out there.”

“Her death was a blessing in disguise.” Gulati went on. “If she’d had a lot more nights with me, our love may not have lasted.”

“Where is Billy?” Filippe asked, referring to a friend of Gulati’s whom they had met during their last visit.

“Billy Potter?” Gulati said. “He’s sat with a granny in the livingroom.”

No spam for ages, then this comes along:

from ‘Lucia Serie’ with the subject ‘pirhouette udal’.

Surprisingly coherent as spam texts go. It wasn’t too difficult to turn into a brief scene in which a couple discovers that an old friend has spiralled into insanity.

In The Broom Cupboard

And Robert Curtis found himself once more alone in the house next door as we passed. The night was black, and he was staring out at us from the hallway.

“Why were you in the broom cupboard?” Lucia asked him as we entered.

“Aunt Jane?” Robert whispered nervously.

“No, it’s me.” Lucia said and threw me an anxious glance.

“Aunt Jane is coming!” Robert cried. “She will rage against any woman she thinks is her rival.”

I looked at Lucia and raised my shoulders in helplessness.

“The problems of Jane’s life began Egypt.” Robert raved on.

“I didn’t know anything about that.” Lucia said.

“If the bitter taste in your coffee is only coffee, you’re lucky. It means Jane hasn’t poisoned you.” Robert manoeuvred himself back into the broom cupboard.

“What is his problem?” Lucia whispered to me.

“I don’t know.” I frowned. “He didn’t say exactly what was going on in the few letters I had from him…”

I got an email from ‘Zuehlke Ascenzo’ today entitled ‘thesis eyrir’. It was a picture:

followed by a paragraph:                 

Among the Ascenzos

“I studied the Ascenzo tribe for my doctoral thesis.” Professor Eyrir said to his son Tom. “They struggled in battle. They were all slain by the son of Zuelhke.”

Tom, weary of hearing his father’s tales, turned to leave.

“I want to tell you something before you go.” Eyrir called.

The boy frowned. They were in a desecrated church of the earliest Norman style at the end of the dim prairie.

“When I was living among the Ascenzo people I witnessed many frightening things.” Eyrir said. Tom sighed and steeled himself for another tedious story. “At the temple of Kurujangala the veil was swept across,” Eyrir continued. “And the priest performed a sacrifice.”

“You’ve already told me this.” Tom yawned.

“My fellow anthropologists and I had parked our cars on the side of the road by the temple.” Eyrir went on. “And the threat of the enemy loomed large. There had been a drought and there was no rabbit to hunt. Luckily we escaped and got on a boat back to England.”

Unbeknownst to Eyrir, Tom had sloped out of the church. The professor carried on talking. “But when we found ourselves back in Oxford Street our master directed us to get the ship on her course again, and head straight back!”

This spam text came in an email from ‘Boken Veitch’ entitled ‘repartition’.

Dignitaries discuss the political ramifications of the Repartition

 
Repartition

Colonel Veitch stood in the doorway.

“Before I go, I want to stand in your own shoes.” he said.

Van Boken looked up from his work.

“Don’t bother.” he said curtly.

“Did you see your father at all?” Veitch asked.

“Yes.” Van Boken replied. “He told me you were planning to leave and I said ‘good’.”

“It’s just because my contract is up,” Colonel Veitch exclaimed. “So I have to go. That’s all.”

“Many of the boys were unable to attend the ceremony on the day that power was handed over.” Van Boken said. “But they had a good reason. The data is here before us all, and everyone knows it.”

Just then, Lieutenant Wild appeared at the door and beckoned for Colonel Veitch to join him. The colonel nodded farewell to Van Boken and left the room. The two learned men wandered off into the city, stopping when they reached the station.

“Why are you so glum? You have always been one full of vigour,” Lieutenant Wild remarked as they stumped up to the platform. “Your story of the stout lady and the dogs was a big hit with the officials.”

“Ah yes.” Veitch smiled wistfully. “And my tale of Mefta, the sultan of Persia.”

“That one was popular in educational circles.” Recalled the lieutenant. “All the college members were at each other’s throats over it!”

“Why was it that they could never shout about anything important, like the Repartition?” Colonel Veitch turned serious as they boarded the train.

Lieutenant Wild sighed. “Finding such change and alteration has thrown their lives into flux.”

As the train set off a waiter approached carrying a tray laden with food.

“Good sirs, let me garnish your dish with fruit, mace, and dates.”

“Hastily!” Colonel Veitch rubbed his hands together. “We are in want of some new and amusing tales.”

“I believe Miss Brown has had rather a hard time recently.” Lieutenant Wild remarked. “She is so delicate. Her soul is moved by all things. As we move deeper and deeper into Repartition, she will find it difficult.”

Nice bit of spam mail this morning from ‘Nottage Argueta’ with the bizarre title ‘lollygag fired’:

 
Two women revisit their hometown and discuss a local hussy.

 
In These Hills

“I could never have hated Ellie,” Argueta said. “But I hated Greta.”

“Why?” Lolly asked.

“She battered me to jelly until she was reeling with exhaustion!” Argueta explained. “Out of everyone who lives in these hills, she is the worst.”

“She was jealous of  your relationship with Abe.” Lolly said.

“Yes, I think so.” said Argueta. “The lower strata of society gradually tried to get him.”

“I grieved the spirit of that worthy nothing which might suggest any means of escaping this god forsaken town.” Lolly remarked. Revisiting the place was bringing back bad memories. She said nothing whilst Argueta busied herself with the morning mail.

“Greta would constantly call Abe when I was out of the house.” Argueta said. “But Abe continued to be virtuous.”

“Nor did she stop at Abe!” Lolly put in. “She tried to seduce Hannah, but Sir Adam explained to her that this behaviour was unacceptable.”

“Surely not.” Argueta said shortly. “What happened to me and my husband wasn’t repeated for Hannah and Adam.”

“It’s all over now,” Lolly murmured comfortingly. “Whenever Greta tried her performances, Sir Adam stopped her with caustic, extraordinary cures, interrupting her dance.”

“I wonder what she’s like now.” Argueta said.

“Apparently she is absent, sulky – not of any importance where style is concerned.” Lolly told her. “There are deep grooves in her skin and she has hollow cheeks.”

Argueta took some comfort from this, and the two of them made their way off down the lane.

In the absence of any interesting spam mail today, I trawled my archive and came up with this:  

sent by ‘Romelus Inyart’ with the subject ‘onlooking’.

Two jeweller brothers are debating the state of their nation.

 
The English System

Romelus walked up the station platform to a huge pile of baggage and sat there as if on a throne.

“I think I’m entitled to some plain reasons for the fight,” he announced. His brother Inyart was opening up their stall, setting forth the kinds of metals. The clash of the jewellery rattling was like the sounds of trees.

“I should have invited some of the gang to make an army,” Romelus went on.

“To what effect?” Inyart asked distractedly.

“They could help us make arrows.” Romelus said. “Satwata was so excited with rage that he would have agreed-”

“Look –” Inyart cut his brother off in mid flow. “Quite frankly, we could put an end to the abundance of fighting by adopting the English system.”

Romelus looked at him blankly.

“We should have a king,” Inyart explained. “In sight of both Nakula and Sahadeva, divine ordinances in their purity. The gods wouldn’t mind if we elected a monarch.”

“Nor would they mind if you didn’t say any more of what I’m hearing!” Romelus protested. “Have you gone mad? We must keep this land for the Brahmanas with
due rites.”

While the brothers were arguing, their friend Jean Bernat approached their stall. He didn’t condescend to notice or comment on the composition of their disagreement. Some are skilful in that way. He merely enquired after the welfare of all their friends, clear that the upcoming fight at Carneades intended to be different.

When the pleasantries were out of the way he asked how Inyart had produced his latest piece of silver jewellery.

“By chemical means,” Inyart told him. “And a temperature a little above 100 degrees.”              

Spammers don’t seem to be so fond of their randomly-generated text samples these days, but the odd one comes through. This one was sent by ‘Blimka Thull’ entitled ‘inquest’:

Blimka takes her friend Adam on a search for her daughter’s killer.

The Inquest

Blimka let go of Adam’s hand for him to open the door. Adam had been dreading this moment.

“It is really too bad of Cathcart,” he said irritably. “Thanks to him we’re in a downright fix.”

They went in to the block of flats. The door and window were covered in tinsel stars and  hung with bags of pink branches off a Christmas tree. There was a loud party going on in one of the apartments, and sleep seemed to be impossible.

“If you want, we can go and bathe in the little lake in which we spent many a childhood summer.” Blimka suggested. “Remember? We used to tell jokes and riddles.”

Adam laughed at the memory.

“‘Sucre’ is the only proper answer for the sheep riddle.”

They smiled at each other.

“If only I could visit my sins on your daughter Lucy,” Adam muttered out of Blimka’s earshot.

“It’s really coming home to me how difficult the task of the police must be.” Blimka said. “All those dry spells without making an arrest.”

“It’s the same as the lesson you read last week at church.” Adam said.

“I’ve lost my faith now.” Blimka lamented. “It went away with the horses and has never returned. I still set banknotes down for local private concerns, but I no longer believe in God.”

“Which might be the reason for the killing.” Adam said. “You’ve got to realise that the conquest of our love is the conquest of all our fears.”

“I absolutely forbid any conception of a conspiracy!” Blimka exclaimed.

“Fine.” Adam shrugged. “I was only trying to help.”

Another ‘make your boyfriend a gift’ email, this time from Seidner Licursi entitled ‘renin attachers’

Laboratory staff are working on a new enzyme but one scientist’s mind is not on the job: 

The Renin Attachers

Seidner had caught the trick that something wasn’t right. He had a feeling inside that told him it had been a very pretty wedding. The blackness that filled his heart alighted. He tried to concentrate on his work, balancing one of the renin attachers on the precise tip of his spatula.

“Earth to Seidner.” his colleague Licursi said goodnaturedly. “Come to our world below.”

Seidner smiled reluctantly. Licursi’s faithful presence would go on as long as he had money.

“I’m still thinking about Maria getting married.” Seidner admitted.

“Don’t dwell on it.” Licursi said. “She’s happy. Her new husband is good man, for he lets her do as she pleases.”

“I doubt that he would be as good to her as I would.” Seidner said glumly, moving his spatula towards the petri dish.

“He’s a chief constable.” Licursi said with emphasis. “Thirty eight years old. Few men of his age would be able to attract a woman of twenty two.”

“And what does he look like?” Seidner asked.

“His features swim with grace. He’s a soft relaxing man.”

“You’re really selling him to me.” Seidner set down his tools angrily. “You know, I’m going to the garage for a while.”

“This doesn’t mean quite as much as you think, in the natural course of things.” Licursi said to Seidner’s retreating form.

“I’m sure you’ll lose no opportunity in spreading the story.” Seidner snapped. “So I’m going to the garage to have a good cry.”

“It’s silly to cry over a lady!” Licursi said.

“I would cut off my right arm if I thought it would bring her back to me!” Seidner slammed the laboratory door behind him, loud enough to resemble the sound of an iron foundry.

The following spam text came in an email from ‘Lominack Shettsline’ entitled ‘macrophytic’:

 
Many centuries in the future, a quango is deciding the fate of society.

To Galleran

Lominack stood before the group. One of them was at large, but everyone else was present.

“I will apply my self only to a trifle cold and distant idea.” he announced. The other men fell silent. He did not know who was with him and who was against him.

One man raised his hand.

“But what if the meteorlike descent of the princess does not produce cypripediums?” he asked. Lominack nodded sagely.

“Good question.” he said. “Few authorities would come even if we raised the alarm. I have counted the days till we are handicapped by lack of petroleum.”

“But what about galvanized iron?” another man called out. A rumble of shock and disapproval went up from the gathering.

“By the grace of Rudra!” Lominack cried. “This is blasphemy.”

Dhritarashtra, one of Lominack’s closest advisors, piped up:

“Without doubt a son will be born in obedience to thee.”

“And how will this help us?” Lominack asked.

 “There is a great o-shape which forms the apsis of our spacecraft,” Dhritarashtra replied. “The buttresses are slender and the intervening walls are strong. This will ensure our survival.” 

Hearing these words, Lominack gave thanks to the great god Rishi Nahusha.

“I have wandered through various places in disguise,” he said. “And have found that all who have a constitution by consent will penetrate into the Katirava host.”

“O king!” Dhritarashtra cried. “You are the same as the gods at whose head Indra stood.”

“Indra did not, however, cheat death,” muttered one of Lominack’s detractors.

“I need to take a phalanx of 43 men with me to Galleran,” Lominack announced. “We have to vanquish  the enemy once and for all. Father Gamache, bring Marquis and follow me. We need to make plans.”

Lominack led the priest and elder out of the room.