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Somewhere, in one of these many servers on the world, it was hidden and sleeping between resistors and capacitors, made from zeros and ones, in one of these little black boxes with silver tiny legs, to, one day, wake up and attack again. It hat lost many of his heads, but it was still there.
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Hellen and the Cryptographer
2012/13 A.P.W. Langelaan
Thanks to TOP SECRET DRUM CORPS - BASEL for their music.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are products of the author"s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Dies ist ein Werk der Fiktion. Namen, Charaktere, Orte und Ereignisse entweder sind Produkte der Phantasie des Autors oder sind fiktiv verwendet. Jede Ähnlichkeit mit tatsächlichen Ereignisse oder Schauplätze oder Personen, lebend oder tot, sind rein zufällig.
Alle personen, hun namen, hun aantal, hun rol en hun belevenissen zijn geheel ontsproten uit de fantasie van de schrijver en hebben daarom geen gelijknis met werkelijke levende of dode personen.
Hellen just knelt to examine the body more closely, as her phone rang. Annoyed she stood up and turned away from the dead corpse. She pulled her cell phone out of her pocket and looked at the display. As soon as she read the name, her mood changed rapidly. »Hello Sweety,« she squealed into the phone, raising here voice on the Y about two octaves. John hated that.
»Why on earth, you call me on such a mind blogging time?« It was true. This time of the morning was a rare time for John. He either was hard-working and no time at all, or he was sleeping. John had some good news for her. He actually called to tell her that the tour, from the Band he is working for at the moment, had been cancelled, and he would come home early. However, Hellen got interrupted by one of the criminal investigators who tapped her on the shoulder.
»Hold on,« Hellen said, taking her phone down and letting John hang on in the line.
»The victim, presumably, as you might have seen, being shot through the head, we believe, however, that this is not the crime scene where he was shot.« Of course, Hellen hadn’t seen the wound correctly, but she pretended she had.
»The Victim,« the technician passed a plastic evidence bag to her with a ID-card in it.
»His Name is Imanu Zorborsky, and he is from the Ukraine Twenty-eight years old.« Hellen took the bag.
»Anything else will be in our report, which we hope will be ready tomorrow.« The man turned around and continued his work again. Hellen took a look at the ID-card.
»Hello Hellen,« came it from her phone. Hellen wanted to tell John she would call him back.
»Hello Hellen. Hold on.« Hellen put the phone back to her ear and listened.
»Is that a tall skinny guy, with a thin goatee. Looks like he never ever shaved it off. Blond about five feet seven?« Hellen turned around and took a good look at the victim.
»Yes, why? Do you know him?«
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