This more or less demands a response. From the top:Plural of Mongoose wrote: Now, you're probably wondering why you had to read all this.
Blame it on Haxxie. (Now Jesús Malverde here, for all you newbs)
Haxxie wasn't being malicious, but rather was operating without all the information, and filled in the blanks from rumor and innuendo. Hey, that shit happens.
But the result was folks like Moustache come here for information, and get a skewed view of an alternate reality. The altered reality said nope, Mongoose was never in prison, it was all a ruse while he was in reality Architecting away at you know which project. Hey, Munchy sent him a letter addressed to Wandsworth Prison, and they sent it back, case fucking closed.
If only there was some type of computational facility that you could, I dunno, type inquiries into, and get relevant responses to your questions. Say, 'how do I write to an inmate in the UK'. First off you'd discover that an inmate in the UK has the right to privacy. That's right. They are NOT allowed to tell you shit about an inmate, or they'd be breaching your basic human rights. When I was in Wandsworth, mail rules were simple. If, and only if, they had your prisoner number, and the correct facility on the address, would the mail be forwarded to the inmate. Newer, slightly loose guidelines are at https://www.gov.uk/find-prisoner" onclick="window.open(this.href);return false;
So I do feel really bad that my good buddy Munchy heard about my incarceration and took the time to reach out and write to me. I had zero fucking clue that anyone even knew, and certainly never got any mail. Would have been fucking thrilled to pieces to have gotten a letter from him.
Use the Prisoner Location Service to find people in prison when you don’t know which prison they are in.
The prisoner must give their permission for their information to be shared, unless you belong to certain organizations such as the police or a solicitors’ firm.
Prisoner Location Service
PO Box 2152
Birmingham
B15 1SD
You must include:
your name, or the organization you represent
your date of birth
your address including postcode
name of the person you want to find
the reason you want to find them eg. you’re their solicitor, or a family member
any other names they may have used
their date of birth
But because I didn't hear from him and he didn't get any answer at all, it started a bad precedent, rumors began replacing facts.
So, with Munchy's letter being returned, Haxxie had all the proof he needed, and when the opportunities presented themselves, off he went... After all, it is fun to spin wild and crazy speculations.
Dude, my name *is* Roger Thomas Clark. I go by Thomas, but airlines, hey, their regs say First Name / Last Name only. That translates into Haxxie uncovering yet another alias for PoM. Woo hoo, eh. Oh hey - are you sure that BKK Air account was spelled Clarke? Ain't no 'e' on the end of my name on my passport. That's REAL important, and I'll tell ya' why. I bought a ticket on time at an agents, and when I got to the airport, my name was spelled Clarh. With an 'h', not a 'k'. On the cheap ass dot matrix receipt and itinerary I had, you couldn't tell the difference. No way could they let me on the plane. If info did not match exactly, no way, no how. Non-refundable ticket, I had to buy another one, on the spot, or not get on the flight. So I had someone call BKK Air today to ask what would happen if their Frequent Fl yer account and real name on passport had a bogus letter in it. Could not happen, no way to credit a flight to an account or vice versa that did not match exactly to the ticket/passport/account info. Just sayin, is all. Check on that 'e' would ya. Yeah right, forget it, you can't even fucking google 'Mailing prisoners in the UK', who am I kidding.Sept 11 from Haxxie.
His Bangkok Airways account was also hacked, an account using the name Roger Clarke, another old alias for PoM.
So because Haxxie can't use Google, I'm now branded a DEA informant.Sept 11 from Haxxie.
This also means whomever posted that Clark was in a prison in England for grow charges was probably doing deliberate misdirection and was most likely PoM himself trying to cover his tracks. Too bad about him apparently being a DEA informant
Haxxie used to scream on PG that anyone who even threatened to post anyone's personal info should be banned for life. Now he wants to posts a photo of me - again, he's apparently already done it at last once, as I'm DEA, so fucking there.Sept 15 from Haxxie
Should I post that photo of Mr. Clark again? He's DEA, I mean c'mon. Why do we want to protect his identity at this point?
My, my Haxxie, really getting nasty now, aren't you. Funny thing is, last I was here posting with you I never got any of this rancor. You *sure* you're really the Haxxie I used to know? Because, damn boy...Sept 15 from Haxxie
OK fine, we'll protect him even though it's become (more) obvious he's a DEA asset. I appreciate the motivation for categorically not outing him or anyone else, but I wasn't sure that extended to protecting known DEA plants.
Fuck, I really can't do this anymore. He assures everyone that varietyjones.com is my site, cause he's like, in the know, you know. Jesus titty-fucking Christ Haxxie.
I am dissapoint.
OK, I did reach the point in the procedure to contact a prisoner you cite in order to attempt to verify or refute the post by "News" (interestingly identified by Smokes as probably being your old nemesis Glyndwr himself http://www.myplanetganja.com/viewtopic. ... 30#p140781" onclick="window.open(this.href);return false; ) here of your unfortunate incarceration. The post in question placing you at Wandsworth circa August 2011 can be read here: http://www.myplanetganja.com/viewtopic. ... 30#p140778" onclick="window.open(this.href);return false; At that point I hit a brick wall, as I've no idea whatever what your birthdate might be, besides facing the other rather probing personal questions to be navigated as a prerequisite to direct communication. Now if you were definitively in the pokey in August 2011 and had been for some considerable time as was reported, this appears to be a pretty strong alibi vs. charges you were the person who registered the Variety Jones and ~Shabang~ accounts at the SR forum. I'm going to assume that whomever registered the VJ account at SR was in all likelihood the same person that registered the ~S account given the timing.
27/06/2011 - ~Shabang~ registers an account on Silk Road forum.
27/06/2011 - Variety Jones creates an account on Silk Road forum.
Not a perfect, airtight alibi, but enough to throw considerable doubt on the matter for sure. I'd certainly accept it as such.
Whomever registered the VJ account at SR went on to list voluminous seed sales posted from the UK and later became a confidant of Ross. You probably would know the person selling seeds under the VJ handle based on your years in the legal UK seed trade. Can we stipulate this much at this point? That person went on plausibly to adopt your public persona with impressive sophistication, right down to impersonating almost every detail of your writing style--not only publicly but in private chat sessions with Ross, even at one point tossing down a trail of breadcrumbs leading to your doorstep by invoking your PoM alias and posting up a complete short story in the Sci-Fi idiom:
Now you have to admit if that's an impersonation, it's also a very pitch perfect one. And to go to all this trouble even for a private forum presumably only a few people could or would ever read and to stay in character impersonating you for years in every communication--well, if you've had your identity stolen by whomever was behind the VJ handle on Silk Road (as I assume you are or will be leading us towards as a conclusion) it's the work of a tireless master of the art.*** I smoke a joint and wrote this in about 30 minutes. I haven't read it myself, nor proofed it for error or content. I hope someone enjoys reading it. ***
Darren squirmed in the custon molded Road Chair, struggling, and failing, to find a comfortable position.
"Goddmmit!" he thought.
"Why does Grant always call in sick on Thursdays, the lazy bastard. He knows I had a date tonight." Darren muttered.
But even while he was muttering, he kept a close eye on the readings on the screens around him. This was a family business, and Darren was minding the complex web of constant flowing transactions that were his families lifeblood.
There!
A new order had burbled up on the main screen, a freighter in the asteroid belts wanted a couple of tonnes of cannabis. He wiggled his fingers in the data-web control, and brought up the potential clients history. It was a C class freighter, fairly new to the business with only a couple of 11 months runs out to Io, and a few smaller local hops around the belt to its credit.
He continued to tease more information out of the data-web with his right hand, while at the same time his left hand unconciously called up inventory and shipping manifests from his suppliers, cross-referencing them with requirement forecasts for the week. 2 tonnes wasn't a large order for a belter ship, by any means, but if he fucked this up, it would wipe out the profits for the day; and it had been a long day.
Sighing, he bagan calculating the drop-shipping routes that he'd need if he accepted the contract. While doing this he kept his eyes on the tertiary screens, sending out confirmation notices for smaller orders, answering client inquiries about stock availability, and performing dozens of other simple tasks that almost seemed meaningless. Meaningless, that is, unless you fucked up one of them.
He shivered in the Road Chair, considering for a moment what would happen if he fucked up some minor detail, and it came back to haunt the business later. Grant would laugh at him, and Dad would lecture him for hours.
And Grampa Jones. Grampa Jones would be fucking livid.
"Livid about what?" said the voice of Grampa Jones, behind him.
Darren froze for a microsecond. Goddammit, he must have been talking out loud. Just as quickly, he recovered, glad that he hadn't jumped, or shown outward signs of his surprise. Goddam, but Grampa Jones could sure sneak up on you quick, for an old guy.
"If we get scammed by this freighter," Darren said, nodding in the direction of the screen with the potential order flashing on it. "That would wipe out our profits for a day or two. But, if we don't take orders from newer clients, we'll never build up our business."
He confidently reached out and tapped the confirmation button, initiating the transaction and beaming a sub-ether message to the freighter captain that the order had been accepted and was processing.
"I was just think aloud, I'd already decided to accept the order."
Grampa Jones glanced at the details around the order, and nodded his aquiescience that Darren had made the right decision, this time. He slipped into the Road Chair beside him, and took in all the screens with a deep intensity that told Darren he was critically examining not just the current order he'd just accepted, but all the little tasks that he had been performing as well. Darren tried not to act nervous as Grampa Jones snorted and tsk'd and harrumph'd as he examined the days work.
Darren watched the old man out of the corner of his eye, hoping against hope that the old man didn't find some error he'd made, or problem that he hadn't sorted out yet. He relaxed as Grampa Jones sat back with a satisfied exhalation, his bones creaking as he strecthed his legs and made himself comfortable.
Grampa Jones wasn't just old, he was OLD, in capital letters. He was old when the rejuvination drugs were first discovered, and while they extended his life, he still aged, albeit slower. Rumor was he was over 300 years old, that was before they even had regular space travel! But his brain was still sharp as a tack, and he reached out and tapped the top of the screen, where Darrens operator name was.
And beside his name, was a '(98)' in big, bold, bright green letters.
"Ninety-eight, eh." Grampa Jones leaned forward, as if to confirm that yes, his eyes did not deceive him, his grandson's operator name was indeed 'Darren Jones(98)', and it wasn't a smear on the screen making a 'Darren Jones(100)' just look like a 'Darren Jones(98)' in fact.
"Ninety-eight." He said again, as if he was worried that Darren didn't hear him the first time.
Goddammit, Darren thought, it wasn't my fault. Or, more accurately, it wasn't ALL my fault. He'd got in a shipment that was a lower quality than he expected, and sent it out broken up in a couple of orders before he realized the problem. Things snowballed from there, there were a couple of complaints, and Darren was sure more than one of them was from his competion, smelling blood in the water, and hurrying to assist in assinating his character.But he knew better than to bitch to Grampa Jones about it. He knew *exactly* what he would say if he did. He'd say, "It is what it is. And what it is, is a ninety-eight."
Goddamit, this is going to be a long double shift if Grampa Jones starts to lecture me on my (98).
Grampa Jones, or more formally, 'Dr. V. Jones(100)' as everyone knew him for centuries, was a stickler about the family reputation. When Darren was young, he remembered asking him what the V. stood for. Grampa Jones laughed, and said that over the years, it has stood for a variety of things, and left it at that. One thing Darren knew for sure though, was while Grampa Jones may have changed his first name a few times, that (100) after his name was sancrosanct.
As the silence lengthened, Darren thought he could still hear the words 'ninety-eight' echoing off the walls. Goddammit, why couldn't this visit have happened 3 weeks ago, when the screen had a bright and cheerful 'Darren Jones(100)' on it. Or if Grant hadn't called in sick tonight. Or if that asshole hadn't slipped some moldy cannabis in that shipment. Or, or, or... Darren could feel the blood rushing to his face, as that (98) seemed to absolutely shine like a beacon on the screen.
He sensed the old man leaning forward next to him, and prepared himself for a tongue lashing. But instead of the invective he was expecting, Grampa Jones said, "I remember my first ninety-seven."
Darren froze.
For a full 30 seconds, Darren sat in the Road Chair, absolutely motionless.
His grandfather sat beside him, pulling out his stash pouch and began rolling a joint. Smoking cannabis while working the Road Chair wasn't allowed, but there wasn't anyone alive who was going to tell Dr. V. Jones(100), what the hell he could and couldn't do, Darren knew.
Darren was still sat there, shocked still, when Grampa Jones indicated one of the customer inquiry screens, and said, "So, you going to just sit there, or are you going to respond to those folks."
Goddammit!
Darren jolted into action, fielding the questions now scrolling off the bottom of the screen, juggling the tasks of dispatching orders, sending confirmations, answering questions, ordering new stock, and the 1001 and one other things required of a good Road operator.
30 seconds might not seem like a long time, but Darren knew that folks on the sub-ether communication net acted as if you had nothing in the world to do but deal with their problems and questions, as did the suppliers, shippers, and everyone else who worked or used the Road.
And Grampa Jones had taught him a long time ago, as soon as you get even a little bit behind, it can take forever to catch up. Folks who had inquiries start to send second ones, doubling the volume. Antsy customers start sending angry sub-ethers wanting to know where their orders are. All this was exacerbated by the new super-luminal freight cruisers in the game. They were captained by gearheads who had no notion of causality and who -- because of their faster-than-light perspective -- expected you to send the answers before they have even sent you a question!
It was a tiring and thankless task, and Darren loved every minute of it.
Soon, he was back in the groove, and the number of outstanding tasks started to dwindle as he competently worked the data-web controls, doing the work his family had done for centuries - getting contraband past the authorities and to the people that needed it.
And by authorities, he meant the pharmaceutical companies and the governments they controlled.
And by contraband, he meant anything that the pharmaceutical companies didn't control the supply and price of, and that the governments couldn't tax, regulate, and seize at their whim.
From cannabis to fresh cows milk, the Road carried the traffic that the people demanded, while the authorities, as they had for millienum, failed to stop them.
The sweet smell of burning cannabis wafted through the air as Darren flexed his fingers on the data-web controls, doing as his ancestors had for generations, sticking it to the man. Darren relaxed as he scanned the screens, and saw with satisfaction that there were no outstanding issues, and he glanced over at the old man next to him.
Grampa Jones proferred the lit joint, and Darren hesitated. "Go on, it's more of a what you'd call a 'guideline' as opposed to an actual rule. I'll take over for a few minutes, you need a break." Grampa Jones said, as he handed the spliff to him.
So he took the joint, and watched as Dr. V. Jones(100) slipped his hands into the data-web controls, and began scanning the screens. With a fluid grace he dealt with inquiries, examined the shipping manifestos, and carried out all the tasks of a vendor on the Road with skills that were honed over centuries.
The Road spanned the solar system, from the cities of Earth, to the moons of Jupiter and beyond, the Road was more than just a hidden network of vendors and customers, products and shipments. The Road was a concept, an idea, more than just an encrypted network and forwarding nodes. The Road was freedom, a way of life.
As Darren watched his grandfather work, he realized that the old man didn't just work the Road when he operated the road Chair, he was the Road. He took it personally when people couldn't get what they needed because some bureaucrat somewhere had declared it contraband. Whether it was an MS afflicted patient who needed cannabis, or some health nut who wanted unpasteurized milk, Dr. V. Jones(100) would do everything in his power to assist in skirting the rules and getting them what they wanted.
Grampa Jones had the same affliction that Darren had.
Grampa Jones *cared*.
Darren couldn't possibly believe that he had ever sported a (97).
"Actually, that's what I wanted to come to talk to you about." Grampa said, waving at the 'Darren Jones (98)' that still glowed accusingly at the top of the screen. "Don't worry, your not in trouble. Like I said, it could happen to anyone, myself included."
Proving that Darren had not in fact mis-heard him earlier, Grampa Jones looked over at Darren and said, "What, you're surprised I ever had a ninety-seven?" Darren just looked at him, his wide eyes betraying that he was indeed surprised.
"Shit, it happens to every vendor, once in a while. Not a goddam thing you can do about it, either. Oh, you try, and swear to yourself and your gods if you believe in them, that you'll never have less than a hunnert. But there aren't any gods to hear your prayers, and no matter how hard you try, in the end, Mr. Murphy's law will always catch up to you."
Darren had heard lots of stories about Mr. Murphy and his laws, collaries and axioms over the years from his grandfather. He didn't know exactly what Mr. Murphy did for a living, and gathered that he was a business partner and drinking buddy of his grandfather. He'd deduced this from the fact that most Mr. Murphy's observations seemed to stem from the results of an evening of drinking with Grampa Jones. He always thought that Mr. Murphy was kind of a negative Nancy, as his mother would say, and more than a bit of a pessimist. He'd ventured that thought to his grandfather one time, to which he replied, "Waht, Murphy, a pessimist?" He said, "No, son -- Murphy was a goddam optimist!"
Still, his grandfather must have liked Mr. Murphy, for he said that he never had a business that Mr. Murphy didn't play a large role in.
The old man, without taking his eyes off the information flowing accross all the screens reached out his hand, indicating with a motion that it was severely lacking in the possession of a cannabis cigarette at the moment. Darren handed the joint back to him, and Grampa Jones took a long, slow draw on it.
He handed it back to Darren, and continued his story.
"Was back in two-tousand-ought-ten, or ought-eleven, or thereabouts. We was on the original Road, back on Earth."
Darren pondered this for a moment. It was the year 2450 now, goddammit! Grampa Jones must be close to 500 years old!
"I don't recall the specifics now, which is funny, because at the time I thought it was the end of the world. I worked hard, and brought it back up, but that takes time, and it frustrated the hell outta me.
"But eventually, I got it back up to a hunnert, and swore it would always stay there.
"It didn't, of course.
"Eventually, I took another hit, and it dropped again. But this time, I said to myself I'm not going to beat myself up. I thought I'd been trying as hard as I could, but I resolved to just try a little bit harder.
"You see, everyone needs to have a (97) or a (98) after their name once in a while. It reminds you that you have to earn it, and keep earning it. Don't ever think that a hunnert is yours by right. It's not. You have to strive to maintain it, and even then Mr. Murphy can come along and fuck things up through absolutely no fault of your own.
"And all you can do then, is work at bringing it back up again.
"And as long as you keep trying, you'll be making the ghost of Mr. Road proud."
Grampa Jones looked at Darren. "What, you didn't know there was a Mr. Road?
"There sure was, he was the one that started it all. First name of Silk. Smart feller. We used to call it the Silk Road, back then. Over the centuries it evolved, and now it's just the Road. I even exchanged messages with him once.
"Was back in tousand-ought-eleven or so. He'd made some changes to the system in regards to postage -- that's how we paid for shipping back then -- in regards to how we charged for postage. I was in the process of entering hundreds of new items when the changes went into effect, and it broke all my new listings.
"But, I sent him a message right away, and he anwered in only minutes, and between us I explained the problem and he'd make some changes and then message back to see if it was fixed. Took a few tries, but soon enough everything was working as smooth as, well as smooth as silk.
"Couldn't ask fer a nicer feller, was polite and helpful through all our back and forth, and you could tell that he really cared that everything worked properly, that the Silk Road succeeded, and that we could all continue to vend our contraband in the face of the authorities that would otherwise have us under their heels."
Darren sat back, processing the tale. Imagine that! Grampa had actually exchanged messages with Mr. Road himself!
Grampa Jones nodded at Darren. "Here, you take over now. I'm gonna take a nap. And whatever you do, don't disturb me untils shifts end, got it!"
Darren assured him that he got it, slipped his hands back into the data-web controls, and concentrated on the business at hand, while Dr. V. Jones(100) snored quietly beside him.
A Short time later, he heard his grandfather give a little snort, and say "Goddammit!" quietly under his breath, and then he stopped breathing.
Darren turned and looked at the old man, laying back in the Road chair, with his hands touching the data-web controls, and a faint smile on his face. He briefly wondered what he should do, and then he realized that there was nothing he could do now. He glanced at the clock, there was two hours left on his shift.
He looked back at the old man, and decided he'd heed his last request, and leave him in the Road chair until the end of his shift, a part of the Road now, extending accross the solar system, spreading freedom as an idea. And Darren knew that someday he'd tell his grandchildren how his grandfather had actually exchanged messages with Mr. Road!
Darren broke out of his reverie, and glanced back at the screens. There were orders pouring in on one screen, and messages had already began scrolling off the bottom of another, while on a third alarms were ringing from suppliers who had problems...
Goddammit!
Then after Ross is busted we find out that something like half the Admin staff at SR were either confirmed CIs or in the direct employ of some American alphabet soup agency and the Feds know essentially everything about everything having to do with the operation of SR, any of the top SR people who weren't perp walked were pretty much guaranteed to have been LE or cooperating with LE. Is that a fair assumption in your opinion? The VJ account holder ticks all the boxes don't they? The fact that as far as we know whomever was behind the VJ account is still a free person in my personal opinion means they probably either flipped or were a plant from the get-go. Is that another reasonable assumption? How else could it be?
As for the photo, you yourself proudly posted it where it could be seen by literally millions of people with your presumed real life name attached. I admit an error in judgment posting it here, but my error in judgment pales compared to your own error posting it originally does it not?
I don't think my speculations were in the slightest unreasonable ones--even if they turn out in retrospect to have been mistaken. If you aren't SR's VJ, someone spent literally man years setting you up, going so far as to stay in a caricature of you for years both publicly and privately and to create an entire story done in your authorial style in private fora and putatively secure chats. If SR's VJ wasn't you Tom, you are the victim of an incredibly involved ID theft and you have my full and unconditional sympathy for being so targeted and my apologies for being suckered by it. But even you gotta admit they did one hell of a job framing you.
And if SR's VJ wasn't you, it was probably someone you know or knew at some point at least a little. Who else would have known your style so intimately or your work as a serious author well enough to ape it?
And what do you make of the varietyjones.com sites? They even claim to have been at SR! Honeypots? Crazy stalker? Someone really really bored?