Slaves and Scammers

I knew that Ruby the “YouTube marketer” was a fraud from the first DM, but she didn’t talk like your average online weirdo. Her messages didn’t start with “What genre of book do you write?” or “I see you’re an author.”

She simply thanked me for the follow back. Talking to Ruby was like talking to a stranger in a supermarket. Pleasant, relatable, not at all trying to invade space. She didn’t bring up YouTube, but I did.

She asked if I was interested in building a channel, and I told her I wanted to finish a story first.

Ruby offered editing services. A YouTube marketer and an editor too?

I sent Ruby a story for shits and giggles, and she provided editorial feedback for free. Could’ve been AI, sure, but Ruby nailed one thing that bothered me. She wanted to see “the human side” of the antagonist.

There’s another way of looking at that, I said. Maybe his manager isn’t an antagonist. She did him a favor, after all. Our protagonist couldn’t quit on her, but her fucking him over professionally made it possible to let go, and that saved his marriage.

Ruby liked that angle, and I succeeded in getting the story published. Thanks, Ruby. Out to scam me but now working for me, free of charge.

She revisited the YouTube channel, expressing the desire to make money.

Question, I said. Would you be willing to have a quick Zoom call?

Ruby declined, saying maybe in a month or two because she had a lot on her plate.

On the text-message front, I had weirdos using numbers with a San Fran area code to pretend like they were reaching out to the wrong person.

“Hi! Is this Mike? My brother’s coming to visit. Daisy said you could cook us a meal.”

“Hi, Mike. I need supplies for the nursing home and was told I could reach out.”

“Is this Daisy? Did you block me? I’m not able to reach you from my cell. This is my work number.”

My favorite included pictures of girls partying. “Where are you, Mike?”

I responded to all of them, saying I no longer cooked and had moved on to nursing-home supplies, and that the only items left to sell were stamps, heroin and cocaine.

“Hi, Daisy. I did in fact block you because you told folks I would cook for them when I’m no longer a chef extraordinaire.”

“Sorry I missed the party. Want to try again another night? My wife would love to join us.”

That one gained interest.

“Your wife would love to join us?”

“Of course,” I said. “She’s like me. Out to make money.”

“What line of work are you in?” San Fran asked.

“Whatever makes money,” I said. “What are you selling?”

“Jewelry,” she said, “but wait. I don’t get it. What’s your main job?”

“Connecting people is my main job,” I said. “You don’t need a scam. You need a network of people with resumes out the ass.”

San Fran didn’t respond until a week later.

“Happy New Year! Is this Mike?”

“Okay,” I said. “I’m sending you the profile of someone named Ruby. Find out everything you can about her, and I’ll make an exception and cook for you. Seriously, you find out the identity of Ruby, and I’ll owe you a favor.”

Next morning, I received Ruby’s pic along with a pic of another woman in the same outfit and posture. Only the face and hair color were different.

Thank you, San Fran. Out to scam me but now working for me, free of charge.

"Are we going to talk money?” San Fran asked.

“What money?” I asked. “I said I’d owe you a favor.”

“I put in time to find out her identity,” she said.

“Which you didn’t,” I said. “You only confirmed she’s a fraud, but for your troubles, I’ll go ahead and deliver on that favor. Give me a day or two.”

I confronted Ruby in the meantime, emailing the two pictures.

Within twenty-four hours, I received a lengthy apology. Ruby admitted the picture she used was not hers, admitted she used an alias and apologized for letting me down.

“I’ll always have work on the editorial front,” I said. “Volunteer work, of course, but I won’t expose you if you continue to deliver. Oh, and I’ll need everything you have on building a YouTube presence, of course.”

“I can still make us money,” she said. Ruby revealed that she was really a day trader looking to branch out.

“Are you an investor or a holder?” she asked.

I had to think about that one. I’d done both my entire life.

*

I once found myself in credit card debt and paid it off by opening an E-bay comic shop. I’d gone on trips courtesy of physical media. Once I saw the world going digital, about ten years ahead of most people I knew, I sold off my CD and Blu-Ray collections.

“I guess you could say I’m both,” I told Ruby.

She sent me a series of videos on Forex trading including instructions for creating a wallet. She required commissions on my first three trades that exceeded a thousand US dollars.

Commissions my ass. The vids were crystal clear. What did I need Ruby for?

I finally blocked her but sent a heartfelt message before doing so.

“Nigerian scams are no longer the lucrative opportunities they once were. Most folks these days can spot that shit miles away, and now it’s just another industry with bottom feeders fighting over breadcrumbs to “make it.” Why not put your time and talent into something legitimate? If your business model was a good one, you wouldn’t have to keep building fake social media presences, reduced to working for free.”

I followed up with San Fran, delivering on my promise.

“If it’s money you’re interested in,” I said.

“Go on,” she said.

“I require a commission on the first three trades that exceed a thousand, and after that, you’re on your own.”

I didn’t share videos. I asked for Zoom calls, and San Fran turned out to be a guy in his twenties. I taught him how to send money to my wallet, spending a few hours a day with him. I told him there was more money to be made if he could recruit others, but I had to vet them.

San Fran delivered, blowing his network wide open. Nice guy, but green like Ruby.

On the day-job front, I received an email from payroll that was meant for another employee.

What do you know? Danelle did her banking at Capitol One. I asked San Fran to check it out, and he emptied Danelle’s accounts.

Effective, I had to admit, but exceeding expectations. I was looking for meets expectations.

Danelle got her money back, of course, but she was insured. I blocked San Fran for flying too close to the sun and had another “day trader” cover his tracks.

For weeks, Danelle kept to herself but finally revealed what happened in a team meeting. Everyone offered their condolences, and I reached out in a DM to express again how sorry I was for her troubles.

“I just don’t want it happening again,” she said.

“You should be okay,” I said. “It’s not like a car accident, unless these things are more common than I realize.”

“A lot of people I know,” Danelle said, “were afraid to admit it happened to them until I shared my story.”

“I might know a way to help but let me look into it,” I said.

I’d seen a documentary about a hacker turned legit because corporations were now paying him to protect their systems. I rewatched the doc, confirming that he offered a plan for people who were compromised. The price was twenty for getting personal information scrubbed via the dark web.

I told Danelle that a friend of mine could in fact help but charged thirty.

She sent the money, and I ordered a plan for her. I asked if the other folks who’d gone through the experience might benefit from the same service, and there were indeed more than expected. I made a good chunk of change before doubling that amount in day trading.

In a rare splurging mood, I bought myself a new widescreen with the latest brightness. I watched local news and laughed at assholes going to jail for hurting people. Reporters had the nerve to call them hardcore criminals.

No one ever accused the mainstream media of getting things right.

Hardcore crime doesn’t involve violence. Hardcore criminals don’t get caught, and the best ones are able to bend laws to build empires.

There’s an expression out there: “Don’t work for money, make it work for you.”

From my experience, I’d say don’t work for other people. Make people work for you.

This is America, the land of the free. Home of the slave.

Which one are you?

BIO: Nathan Pettigrew was born and raised an hour south of New Orleans. His story "Yemma" was recently awarded 2nd Place in the 22nd Annual Writer's Digest Short Short Story Competition. Other stories have appeared in Deep South Magazine, Shooter, Penumbra Online, Stoneboat, and Roi Fainéant Press.