Post 247: Spot the Bot

Agent X: I sent the message just the way you told me to, Chief.

Chief: Good job, X. Let me see what you wrote.

Agent X: Sure. Here it is, on Craigslist.

residential home suitable for fur baby

post 247 pup

hey there i’ve determined that i have to come across a figure out household for my pup soon for the reason that i can’t retain him nowadays except if i locate a house for him i won’t have the ability too store onto him any longer i would like to speak to somebody before long about this situation to ensure i will uncover him a caring loved ones before long be sure to contact me and talk to me regarding this additionalseven eight 5 7 four 6 0 five nine o

Chief: Holy Cuss Words, X! That’s just gibberish. That’s not the code I asked you to send.

Agent X: Does that mean I really have to find another residential home for the pup?

Tune in next summer for another amazing episode of Sparky the Spy! Brought to you by OneMovingViolation and the Punctuation song from School House Rock.

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7 thoughts on “Post 247: Spot the Bot

  1. Sorry Sparky; my household has lots of ethnographic figurines, but no figure outs. I think you want an abstract art dwelling with room too store your dogsheep. Maybe if he were sheared first to uncover him a caring loved ones before long, o’er the ram parts we’d watch.

    Liked by 1 person

  2. “Perfect,” Pewp thought to himself. The popcorn was popped. The tea was brewed. Yesterday’s installments of trashy reality TV were recorded. He was all set, so he retired to the living room, settled in to his customary couch indentation for a night of guilty pleasures, and grabbed the remote from the side table.
    His little Cavalier Spaniel Bunk bounded into the room from parts unknown, parked itself directly on the floor in front of Pewp, and let out a brief “Arp!”
    “Hey, Bunky!” Pewp cooed. “Who’s been a good boy?” The last he said in that childish, enthusiastic tone one usually assumed when addressing a cute animal.
    “Arp!” Bunk responded, cocking its head.
    “You’ve been a good boy!” Pewp continued.
    Bunk cocked its head even further. “Arrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr—–”
    Pewp suddenly felt cold. It was as if Bunk was suddenly barking through a voice changer that had malfunctioned and was stuck playing the last few milliseconds of sound it received on a loop.
    “Bunk?” Pewp said worriedly.
    “—-rrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr—” Bunk continued.
    Pewp had no idea what was going on. “Bunk, what…”
    Bunk abruptly stopped. His head snapped back to its up right position, mouth still open, though no sound came out.
    “Are you okay, Bunky?”
    Music, like that coming from a music box or a passing ice cream truck, started emanating from Bunk’s mouth, attenuated and warbly, as if played from a well-used and decaying old talking doll, the kind with the pull-string.
    Pewp could only stare with a deep sense of dread mounting.
    The music played for several more moments, then stopped, the only sound remaining static, like tape hiss or a locked record groove. Then, a tinny voice. Female, and foreign, though he couldn’t place the accent. The sound quality was so poor he could only barely make out what she was saying. “Eight. Six. Seven. Five. Three. Zero. Nine. Juliett. Echo. November. November. Yankee.” Then more attenuated static. She spoke in a very deliberate, staccato fashion, enunciating each number and word with enough space between to require a mental period. Before Pewp could begin to process anything, the chimes returned, playing the same distorted tune, and again, the woman returned to repeat the same message.
    A third iteration played out before Bunk fell completely silent, closed his mouth, partially raised his rump, and squatted out a dump right on his carpet before scampering off.
    Pewp knew what this was. He had no idea why, or how, but he had read about these before. Number stations. His dog was a number station. Or was transmitting a number station. Somehow. Pewp shivered. It was surreal. His dog who, up until just a few moments ago, seemed a perfectly normal, overly-energetic bundle of canis familiaris, had just up and turned into a radio transmitter sending out a number station message. Whisky Tango Foxtrot, indeed.
    Pewp no longer had any desire for tea, popcorn, or trashy television. He could only play the preceding events back through his mind on loop. What was going on? How did his dog do that? Why did his dog do that? Was he even a real dog? What did the message mean? Why did he have a sudden urge to listen to 80s pop-rock tunes? Why does it smell like dog doody?
    Oh. Right. Well, at least he remembered the answer to the last question. Pewp woodenly got up from the sofa, returned the bowl of uneaten popcorn and cup of unconsumed tea to the kitchen, grabbed some paper towels, and returned to the living room to stoop and scoop.
    The doorbell rang.
    Pewp rose from his cleanup duty and assumed a look of consternation. This was _so_ not a good time for house calls. He walked over to the door and looked through the peep-hole. He couldn’t make out the figure on the other side, so he opened the door.
    The figure was cloaked in a dark trenchcoat and wide-brimmed fedora, shadowing his face and making him look like a film noir cliché. He immediately shoved an envelope at Pewp. “I’ve determined that I have to come across a figure out household,” the figure said. He had no idea what the hell that meant, but he reflexively handed the figure his paper towel bundle. The figure looked in his hand at the reciprocation, appearing confused, as Pewp closed the door.
    Pewp had absolutely no idea what just happened, or why he felt compelled to hand the man his dog’s mess. Assuming it was a real dog, that is. At least, it seemed like genuine dog poop, so he had to assume a real dog has produced it. Unless it was a robot dog that was able to spontaneously produce realistic fake dog doo. Technology could do wonderful — and, indeed, strange things these days, so he couldn’t rule that out.
    This was all too bizarre. Too damn bizarre. Pewp returned to the couch, flopped down, and examined the envelope. Plain. White. No stamp. The only markings were his address and a date and time. A date and time that was right about now-ish.
    He tore open one end of the envelope, reasoning that no matter what was inside, it probably wasn’t as strange as what had just transpired. Inside was a simple folded sheet of paper. He extracted and unfolded it. It had written on it, quite simply, “Thank you” in a flourished script. Was he just thanked in fancy writing for giving someone dog crap?
    Nope. No, sir. No. This day was just not for him, Pewp decided. Not for him at all. He was just going to go straight to bed, sleep it off, assume today was just a fever dream, and start fresh in the morning.

    “Do you see it?” Vasily asked.
    “Do you want to dig through the dog poo?” Sergey retorted.
    Vasily only grunted.
    “Ah, there it is,” Sergey exclaimed with satisfaction. Vasily hovered over Sergey’s shoulder while Sergey extracted it with tweezers. It was a tiny memory card, and it looked intact.
    Sergey brought it over to an adjacent table where he rinsed it in some vodka, wiping it down with a cloth. “Now,” Sergey said. “Let us see if the data is there.”
    Sergey brought the card to a nearby computer and inserted it. The computer played the familiar chime as it detected the card. On the monitor, a window popped open, containing an icon for a single file.
    “Do you think it has what we’re looking for?” Vasily asked.
    Sergey shot him a look. “For all the trouble we’ve had getting it, you had better hope your contact was right.” He double-clicked the file. An application opened, and suddenly music began emanating from the computer’s speakers.
    “Huh,” Vasily mused. “This American can rock and roll!”
    “Shut up, pridurok!” Sergey snapped. “Listen. Wait! There it is. Write down that number. Quickly!”
    Vasily responded obediently, scribbling the number down on a piece of paper.
    “Wait,” Sergey said. “American phone numbers have area codes, yes?”
    “Yes,” Vasily replied.
    “But there is no area code in this phone number!” Sergey said, frustrated.
    “Maybe,” Vasily offered, “he expected the recipient to already know which area code. Or, perhaps, there is yet another message to come.”
    “Hmm,” Sergey thought. “This agent Tutone is smarter than we thought. Vasily, keep monitoring the dog.”
    “Da.”

    Liked by 2 people

  3. I used to use additionalfour, but when I tried to upgrade to additionalseven, they sent me additionalhome fur edition. Yap’n yap’n yap all day long.

    Liked by 1 person

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