Don't Open This E-Mail (musc)


The instructions were simple enough. You receive an e-mail with the subject not to open it. You left click on it to delete it, but your hand guides the mouse to the open function on the menu. You don't really want to open it, but then again, you do, don't you?

So, you have a couple of choices, you can either open the e-mail and find out why the sender, who you don't recognize, sent it to you in the first place, or you can obey the subject line. But if the sender didn't want you to read the e-mail, why did he or she send it in the first place? But what if the sender didn't really want you to open the e-mail and thought he or she was doing you favor because of what he or she typed in the subject line. On the other hand, the sender might have known that the surest way for you to open the e-mail was to tell you not to open it, and because of reverse psychology or whatever it was called, you would surely open it.

With a growing curiosity, you double click on the e-mail to open it.

"This is your last chance," the e-mail reads. "The consequences of reading this e-mail are irreversible. If you continue reading, no one is responsible for the outcome but you. Consider yourself warned!"

A slight sweat breaks on your forehead. Your palms grow warm and wet from perspiration. "What should I do?" you ask yourself.

Your curiosity has been piqued even more by this warning. Who would send you such a strange e-mail? You scroll back to the header, looking for clues to find the source.

Reexamining the 'From' and 'Reply To' fields, it appears that the e-mil came from your own account. But you know that is not possible, there is no way that you would do such a thing. Your start breathing a little faster.

You read and reread the message. Then, you read it a fourth time. Your right hand begins to tremble. Do you continue to read, or close the e-mail? Read, not read? While debating the merits and demerits of continuing, your mouse finger gets itchy. As if guided by some strange, mysterious force, your right hand guides the cursor to the scroll down button, and with a semi-nervous twitch, clicks once. Without consciously realizing it, you have scrolled down.

"Dear Mr. William Ian Peterhanson, III," the email starts.

"What the fuck?!" you whisper. "How the hell did, did, whoever, know my name?"

"I know what you did last night, and the night before that, and the night before that," the e-mail continued. "I know your whole internet browsing history. But even more than that, I know what you desire."

"Yeah, right!" you think.

"You may not believe that I know these things, but I do. And because you have opened this e-mail, and continued to read it, you have sealed your own fate.

"Last night, you visited a website known as Choose Your Own Change. It is a site for people with a particular fetish. You went to and added yet another chapter to a story thread. You posted it as anonymous. But I know who the author is."

"Fuck!" You think, "It has to be the webmaster!"

"I am not a webmaster. I am not a computer hacker. I am no one person. I am many people. I am no one. If you don't believe me, here is a sample of the sites that you have visited in the past week, as well as log-in names.

The Evolution Archives, log-in whitetrash
Choose Your Own Change, log-in wigger
Erotic Gay Hypnosis
Piercedskins Website
Yahoo! Groups Male Body Transformation, log-in TrailerPark

"How the hell?" you whisper to yourself. Your computer sits behind a well designed firewall, and you always cover your tracks on the Internet. "What the fuck is going on here?" you ask yourself.

The e-mail went on, "You are probably sitting there in disbelief right now. And, I know that I have your complete attention."

"You got that right," you think.

"You are also probably starting to feel very hot right now," the e-mail reads. It's right. You are sweating up a storm. In fact, it feels like a sauna in your way-too-expensive one bedroom apartment overlooking Central Park.

"You might also start to feel jittery, but don't know why," the e-mail continues. "There is a desire in you to do something, but you don't know what it is. You know you want to do it, but the feeling is quite unknown to you. The desire is growing. It is beginning to consume you."

Once again, the e-mail rings true. You are filled with a desire, a craving for something, yet you don't know what it is. You feel like a caged animal, yet don't know why. Then, you realize what this is. It's a kind of hypnosis. All of this is some kind of twisted prank that is only working because of the power of suggestion.

"Oh, I know what you are thinking Mr. William Ian Peterhanson, III. You are thinking that this is just some kind of trick of the mind. You are probably thinking that it's a kind of hypnosis. That these words are nothing more that words. I assure you, it is nothing of the sort. If this were some sort of illusion, would there be a lit cigarette dangling between your left index and middle fingers?"

Suddenly, a lit cigarette fades into existence where there was just air moments ago. At first, it appears as only the image of a cigarette, like a hologram. Soon, smoke is filling the air, and you breathe it in deeply. The cigarette gains solid form, and without hesitation, you take a long drag, filling your lungs and you experience true bliss.

"Didn't taking a drag from that cigarette do wonders for your nerves? But I know that you are now worried. You are thinking that you aren't a smoker. That you have never even touched that stuff. Fear not Mr. William Ian Peterhanson, III, soon, you will be an expert at smoking cigarettes amongst other things.

"Now, what you are wearing is far too formal for this occasion," the e-mail continued.

You look down at your eggplant Egyptian cotton dress shirt that you bought from Banana Republic. The sleeves seem to shrink towards your shoulders as the collar disappears. The buttons dwindle and the material down the center fuses together. The color diminishes, as the fabric begins to ripple and thin. Your once expensive dress shirt has been altered into an old, stained wife beater.

Your attention is now drawn towards your pants. You are wearing khakis that you had bought from A & F. The color distorts and what was once a pristine, smooth, tan material has become rough, blue, soiled and ripped. Your 2xist boxer briefs have become a pair of cotton boxers.

"Does this seem familiar Mr. William Ian Peterhanson, III? I think it should be. I hope you are enjoying this."

"Who or what or why..." you start to ask out loud, but you realize that your voice... it sounds all funny. It has a strange accent, one that you know and don't know at the same time, and it's at least an octave deeper.

"Now, Mr. William Ian Peterhanson, III, I want you to look at your left arm. Look right there on your forearm. There... See the black cross forming there? It's a Celtic cross. You got that tattoo on your seventeenth birthday. You are mighty proud of that tattoo. In fact, it was the first of three tattoos that now adorn your body."

You can't believe it. Just the e-mail had said, a Celtic cross now appeared on your left forearm. And then, a tribal armband appeared on your right bicep. You can't see the third tattoo, but you know it's some kind of Celtic pattern that is across your shoulders. You can even hazily remember getting them.

"Mr. William Ian Peterhanson, III, you are way too intelligent for your new line of work. Your new job takes a different kind of intelligence and I will provide it for you."

You feel some kind of prickling sensation going through your brain. It seems to be eradicating all traces of your life, your job, your years in college, your senior and junior years in high school. And then new images are processed into your head. Your love of bodybuilding, of cars, of smoking up, of beer. You never went to college, in fact you dropped out of high school after sophomore year. You started to work in a garage. You love working there!

"What am I thinking," you ask yourself. "That never happened. I HATE beer! And education is (un)important. I love beer." You loose the will to fight whatever it is that is happening to you. In a fleeting moment, you look at the screen and read : "I hope you enjoy your new life Billy."


You wake up the next morning, and rush to the bathroom. You take in your short, crew cut, blond hair. Your nose, which has been broken a few times, and your face. Your body seems the same: muscles rippling all over the place, a nice six-pack, guns the size of footballs. And of course your pride and joy, your nice 12-inch cock! You seem to remember a vague dream, rather nightmare you had. Something like you were a stockbroker or something in New York! Like a grease monkey like you could ever do something like that. No, siree, you are still what you always were, trailer park trash. You light up your Marlboro Red and scratch your balls thinking about how happy you are.


The Internet has a soul. It knows what you do, where you go. It feeds on our desires, our hopes and our dreams. It grows stronger with every byte that is added to the World Wide Web. People pour their souls into their stories, into their websites. The soul of the Internet is real. Be careful what you wish for, what you do on the Internet, and what e-mails you choose to open. The soul of the Internet could just send YOU an e-mail next!