Underworld English Reader!
Fanie Viljoe
,The adage is true that the security systems have to win every time, the
attacker only has to win once.
— Dustin Dykes
But did you, in your three-piece psychology and 1950’s technobrain, ever
take a look behind the eyes of the hacker? Did you ever wonder what made
him tick, what forces shaped him, what may have molded him?
I am ahacker, enter my world …
Mine is a world that begins with school other … I’m smarter than most of the
kids, this crap they teach us bores me …
— The Mentor
(Excerpt from “The Hacker's Manifesto”)
,<html>
<body>
<h><b>SIGN ON</b></h>
<p>The entry of a combination of a user identification and password to access acomputer,
program, or network.</p>
</body>
</html>
, This is what fear feels like: Fire flashes through your body, every nerve jolts awake, adrenaline
kicks your mind into overdrive, your eyes widen, your breathing stops and your chest tightens.
And you hear it – your own heart. Beating.
Knock. Knock.
An unfamiliar sound wakes him up. Or maybe it's something in adream saying: "Get up. You
have to stop him!"
This is where the fear begins.
Down, down the dark corridor he walks now. His throat tightens. The pounding of his
heartbeat is hammering faster and faster. He feels like turning back, running away, but he is
almost at that room at the end of the corridor. That's where the light is on. That's where his
eyes will open tonight.
He can barely hear his own footsteps on the tightly woven carpet. His breathing is shallow,
but each breath gradually becomes deeper, more urgent than the last. Now he is at the half-
open door of his father's study.
You have to stop him!
What does he do?
He just stands there at first. Listens. He hears the crickets outside the house. A
Car in the street. From the study comes the rustling of papers.
The light shining from under the door illuminates the tips of his toes. He smells the polish
on the wooden door, the familiar smell that hangs everywhere in their house.
His fingers touch the door handle and the cold sends ashock through his eleven-year-old body.
A sound comes from the study. Like afrightened animal, perhaps.
No, it's aperson. It's his father.
The boy pushes the door completely open.
What he sees before him becomes the first piercing scream that will echo throughout his
growing up years: His father's large body, half bent over the desk, as if he were writing. But
there is no pen in his hand. There is a 9mm pistol in his clenched fist. One finger is around the
trigger.
The boy sees the fine hairs on his father's fingers gleaming in the light of the desk lamp,
his knuckles white with tension. His father's eyes are caught by the black metal as if he no
longer knows where he is. As if he is unaware of the leather chair he is sitting on behind his
large desk. As if he
Fanie Viljoe
,The adage is true that the security systems have to win every time, the
attacker only has to win once.
— Dustin Dykes
But did you, in your three-piece psychology and 1950’s technobrain, ever
take a look behind the eyes of the hacker? Did you ever wonder what made
him tick, what forces shaped him, what may have molded him?
I am ahacker, enter my world …
Mine is a world that begins with school other … I’m smarter than most of the
kids, this crap they teach us bores me …
— The Mentor
(Excerpt from “The Hacker's Manifesto”)
,<html>
<body>
<h><b>SIGN ON</b></h>
<p>The entry of a combination of a user identification and password to access acomputer,
program, or network.</p>
</body>
</html>
, This is what fear feels like: Fire flashes through your body, every nerve jolts awake, adrenaline
kicks your mind into overdrive, your eyes widen, your breathing stops and your chest tightens.
And you hear it – your own heart. Beating.
Knock. Knock.
An unfamiliar sound wakes him up. Or maybe it's something in adream saying: "Get up. You
have to stop him!"
This is where the fear begins.
Down, down the dark corridor he walks now. His throat tightens. The pounding of his
heartbeat is hammering faster and faster. He feels like turning back, running away, but he is
almost at that room at the end of the corridor. That's where the light is on. That's where his
eyes will open tonight.
He can barely hear his own footsteps on the tightly woven carpet. His breathing is shallow,
but each breath gradually becomes deeper, more urgent than the last. Now he is at the half-
open door of his father's study.
You have to stop him!
What does he do?
He just stands there at first. Listens. He hears the crickets outside the house. A
Car in the street. From the study comes the rustling of papers.
The light shining from under the door illuminates the tips of his toes. He smells the polish
on the wooden door, the familiar smell that hangs everywhere in their house.
His fingers touch the door handle and the cold sends ashock through his eleven-year-old body.
A sound comes from the study. Like afrightened animal, perhaps.
No, it's aperson. It's his father.
The boy pushes the door completely open.
What he sees before him becomes the first piercing scream that will echo throughout his
growing up years: His father's large body, half bent over the desk, as if he were writing. But
there is no pen in his hand. There is a 9mm pistol in his clenched fist. One finger is around the
trigger.
The boy sees the fine hairs on his father's fingers gleaming in the light of the desk lamp,
his knuckles white with tension. His father's eyes are caught by the black metal as if he no
longer knows where he is. As if he is unaware of the leather chair he is sitting on behind his
large desk. As if he
