Hackers, Redeem Yourselves

I have this dream that is forming in my mind. (Maybe it'll become a teleplay, but that's the other dream.) Anyhow, here's the dream: this geek kid -- perhaps looking a little like Michael Moore but not quite as fat and unkempt -- who at age 28 still lives with his mom, sleeps in his basement room, lives on pizza, doughnuts, and Buffalo wings, and has never, never had a date. His whole world is his Mac laptop and IBM desktop.

[Breaking News: Harry Shearer, one of the lovable voices on The Simpsons, said that First Amendment rights do not guarantee the constitutional right of somebody to have a nationally syndicated radio and TV show. Doh!]

Anyhow, this geek kid -- we'll call him Dylan, for the hell of it -- is a computer virtuoso and he has been responsible for about ten viruses and a worm or two, some of them really harmful and all of them obnoxious. He's just a pain in the ass. OK?

In April 2007, Dylan gets this knock on the door. He doesn't usually answer the door but he's upstairs, watching the MSNBC anchor Alison Stewart on Mom's TV (he has the hots for Alison Stewart but I digress) and commercials are on and he goes to the door and there's this blonde chick in a business suit, one with a skirt, and she's well hot.

So he says, what the hey and he can't see what kind of shoes she's wearing (toes in view?), she tosses her hair back and she's heck, pretty young, just a little older than he is. So he answers the door.

"Dylan?" she says. She doesn't say his last name. She smiles and looks into his eyes, right into his eyes. Oh God, does she smile! And the light catches her eyes and they are the most gorgeous shade of --

"Yes?" he says, with an upward inflection, like a question, and -- ooh! -- his voice cracks.

"Dylan, I'm Monica. I work for Representative Henry Waxman? You know, Congress?" She shows him ID. "We're looking into some missing e-mails that are of interest to the United States government."

He looks at her without comprehension.

"Dylan" -- here she says his last name -- "We know that you're responsible for" -- she rapidly rattles off two of the nicknames for his worms and four of his viruses. "There are more..."

Dylan mutters, "Oh shit. I'm busted."

"Maybe not," she says. "How would you like to use your computer skills to help us?" ... Have you ever heard of Karl Rove?"

"Y-yes. Bush's brain? Boy genius? T- ... T-Turd Blossom?"

"That's the one. He claims that all his emails over the last five years have been erased. We understand that it doesn't work that way. We think you might be able to help us."

***

The year is 2009. Karl Rove, in his prison cell, turns on the TV. His roomy is Rush Limbaugh. Karl hasn't been seen with his supercilious, shit-eating smirk for a year now. Nobody in the prison, guards or prisoners, pays a bit of attention to the little butterball in blue chambray shirt and denim pants like the rest of the losers.

On the TV he hears President Clinton say, "Dylan, we want to thank you for your patriotic service in helping us uncover the scandal which has shaken us for the past five years. Therefore I am pleased to award you the Medal of Freedom." The abashed Dylan, uncomfortable in a suit and tie and with a clean shave, doesn't look at the President but manages a sort of smile as she hands him the medal. Cheers and whoops from the young audience are enthusiastic and loud.

Rove snorts and reaches for the remote to turn to Judge Judy.

Ben Dover (of Fletch) comes in.

"Oh no! Me today?" Karl says.

Ben nods. "Remember? I did Rush yesterday. Drop 'em."