Part I: The Currency of Anxiety
My life, lately, has been defined by excess time. Not the rejuvenating, sun-drenched freedom of a spontaneous vacation, but the heavy, leaden, anxious kind, a currency granted by a system that finds you inadequate. It is the time of a soldier on standby in a war he is not allowed to fight. I'm CK, and for the last few months, my full-time, unpaid job has been the agonizing, repetitive search for a legitimate job. This "free time" is not a gift; it is a weight, a constant, silent accusation that your hours are worthless and your skills are redundant. It is the time of the unemployed, spent running on an invisible treadmill, always moving but never arriving.
The air in my small, sunless apartment was thick with the scent of cheap, stale coffee and the residue of unfulfilled ambition. It was 8:00 AM, the hour of mass professional migration, but the thin, grey light filtering through the window blinds did little to cut the gloom. Every morning felt like opening a crypt, or perhaps preparing for a low-stakes, high-stakes battle. My desk, currently serving as the nerve center of my failed professional life, was cluttered with empty mugs, crusty remnants of quick meals, and sheaves of handwritten job-search strategies that were already obsolete before the ink dried. The silence was the worst companion, broken only by the distant sounds of traffic and the persistent hum of the refrigerator—a low, mechanical reminder of stability I was struggling to maintain.
Today started, as always, with the ritualistic opening of my inbox. The click of the mouse on the Gmail icon was a moment of false hope, a tiny, involuntary muscular reflex of optimism, immediately followed by the crushing, familiar certainty of disappointment. The first three arrivals were the digital equivalent of background radiation: a generic mortgage advertisement and a newsletter whose subscription I'd long regretted. But the third was the most grating—an email from a website trying to sell a course with puffed-up, grandiloquent language promising a "guaranteed placement", a sure sign that it was nothing more than a certificate soon destined for the digital dustbin. These initial emails, devoid of any genuine significance, served as the dull, predictable prelude before the real inbox catastrophe began. The chaos began below that, a mix of legitimate correspondence and, most reliably, the spectral, passive-aggressive form of rejection. I had applied to what felt like $X$ number of companies—actually, it was exactly 187, a number I track with a strange, morbid precision, logging each application with the meticulousness of a prison guard—pushing my résumé into the void, hoping for a spark that never came.
I scroll down, the trackpad cool beneath my finger, past the well-intentioned, yet soul-crushing boilerplate that had become the soundtrack to my mornings:
"""
We liked your resume and appreciate your work, and we shall keep it with us. We shall update you if any matching profiles come up. Thank you for applying, but unfortunately, we have decided to move on with other candidates for this time. Please bookmark our career page and keep checking...
"""
That message. That same, standardized, emotionally neutral block of text, copy-pasted across a dozen different HR domains. It's the corporate equivalent of shrugging, a digital form letter designed to maintain legal distance and administrative efficiency, ensuring no human emotion muddied the process. It's an artifact of an automated process, a sign that my professional life was being managed by a keyword parser, not a hiring manager. It's a system engineered to be so "smart" at scale that it has become profoundly stupid at the individual level, prioritizing candidate selection based on opaque, rigid algorithms that the truly competent simply bypass by learning how to cheat the AI with optimized keywords, font tricks, and white text. The weight of that rejection, the proof that I was being outsourced by a script, settled heavily and coldly in my chest. The true insult wasn't the failure, but the lack of human recognition in it.
I confess, the ample free time created by this broken system—the time I should have been spending working, generating value, and feeling purpose, was the very currency I spent on my eventual reply. This frustration, this heavy, kinetic energy built up from watching my peers and myself struggle against a rigged game, needed an outlet. The algorithms of employment had deemed my time worthless. Fine. I would use that worthless time to engage in a valuable moral fight.
I was done fighting the algorithms of legitimate hiring. I decided to fight a lie built by human hands.
I slid my cursor away from the main inbox, toward the digital quarantine zone: Spam. It felt like leaving a poorly managed hospital to walk into a digital swamp.
Part II: The Discovery & The Decision to Intervene
The Spam folder is a repository of digital detritus, a place where legitimate newsletters sometimes go to die and where the truly nefarious cluster. It is a gallery of desperation, fraud, and misspellings. I clicked into it, the screen refreshing with a list of subject lines that screamed desperation and deceit, mostly offering miracle cures, lottery wins, or urgent security fixes.
And then, one email immediately stood out. It wasn't standard marketing noise; it was a story. A sprawling, four-hundred-word tragedy, complete with specific names, dates, and an eye-watering financial figure. It had the baroque complexity and dedication to narrative that marked a genuine, professional labor of malice. This wasn't a bot-generated password reset; this was written by a human.
The technical headers alone were a roadmap of evasion: a non-standard university email address (@noun.edu.ng), multiple re-routes, and subject lines designed to bypass rudimentary filters.
"""
Delivered-To: IWon'[email protected]
From: "Mrs Susan Murgan.." [email protected](Why would i hide scammer's mail though right)
Subject: This mail needs urgent attention
"""
I read the 400 words of its sorrowful essay content. I felt the slow burn of intellectual recognition mixed with pure, distilled rage. The fictional widow, the Shell Petroleum job, the cruel cancer diagnosis, the $5.2 million meant for "religious organizations." It was a textbook 419 advance-fee fraud. A classic. A fossilized example of human deceit clinging to life in the age of sophisticated cybercrime.
The Scam: A Lie Built on Sorrow
The composition was strangely captivating. The scammer had meticulously created a figurehead, Mrs. Susan Murgan, who was simultaneously dying, wealthy, religious, and desperate for a trustworthy stranger. It was a perfect blend of pity and greed, a cocktail engineered to bypass the victim's rational mind. The emotional manipulation was crude yet potent, structured to immediately establish intimacy ("Please read this slowly and carefully") and urgency ("Any delay in your reply will give me room in sourcing for another individual"). The detail of the late Mr. Johnson Murgan working for Shell Petroleum Development Company Kuwait grounded the fantasy in real-world opulence.
(The original scam email content, preserved exactly as read)
"""
Hello!!
This mail needs urgent attention
Please read this slowly and carefully, as it may be one of the most important messages you ever get. I am Mrs. Susan Murgan , I was married to Late Mr. Johnson Murgan. He used to work with Shell Petroleum Development Company Kuwait and was also a seasoned contractor in the Middle East Region.
He died on 31 December, 2017. We were married for seventeen years without a child. After death I decided not to remarry or get a child outside my matrimonial home. When my late husband was alive, he deposited the sum of $5,200,000.00USD Five Million Two hundred Thousand Dollars, in a bank. My Doctor told me that I would not last long due to my complicated health issues, I have cancer. Having known my condition I decided to donate these funds to better the lives of the less privileged and I need a honest and trustworthy individual that will utilize this money in accordance with my instruction.
I want the funds to be used in funding religious organizations, orphanages and the less privileged propagating the word of God. I took this decision because I don't have any child that will inherit this money and my husband's relatives are very unkind to me and I don't want my husband's hard earned money to be misused. I am not afraid of death anymore because my doctor said I have a few months to live. As soon as I receive your reply I shall give you the contact of the Bank, and my Attorney.
For legitimacy, he will also issue you a Letter of Authorization that will empower you as the original beneficiary of this fund. I want you to always pray for me, Any delay in your reply will give me room in sourcing for another individual for this same purpose.
I will be waiting for your urgent response.
Yours Faithfully,
Mrs Susan Murgan..
"""
I looked at the clock. It was 10:00 AM. I had another four hours before I could justify quitting for the day. Four hours of that unwanted currency—excess time. My unwanted time, the result of a functional system rejecting me, was now poised to confront the scammer's wasted time, the result of a malicious choice. This was an opportunity for a perfectly symmetrical act of moral retaliation.
I decided to use that time not for my job search, but for a moral intervention, a psychological strike. I would craft a reply that wasn't just a rejection or a report, but a comprehensive, calculated, verbal assault on the conscience. This wasn't just an email; it was a cinematic monologue, designed to be so long, so charged, that the human being on the other side—the one who typed the 400 words of lies—would be forced to spend their time confronting their choices, their wasted talent, and their terrifying, non-zero future.
My goal was to force them to ride a terrifying emotional journey: Pity for their invented struggle, Guilt for their true actions, Terror regarding the inevitable consequences, and finally, a desperate plea for Redemption.
Part III: The Reply – A Cinematic Reckoning
The decision felt like a sudden rush of clear water in a stagnant pool. All the built-up anxiety from the job search—the frustration of being filtered by machines—suddenly found a target worthy of my attention: a human choosing malice. It was a release, a moment of intense, clarifying flow. I felt the focus of a craftsman approaching a difficult, ethical task.
I typed with a focused intensity I hadn't felt in months. My fingers flew across the keyboard, translating moral outrage into tightly structured, merciless prose. I was constructing a trap not of financial deceit, but of moral confrontation, one point built upon another like the rising tension in a film's third act.
My response began not as a hostile attack, but as an act of profound, sad pity, an acknowledgment of the wasted potential staring back from the other side of the wire. I began by forcing them to acknowledge the cost of my time, the very thing they were seeking to steal.
"""
Dear "Mrs. Susan Murgan" (or whoever is really behind this email address, [email protected]),
I spent 17 precious minutes of my life. I could have spent it with my family, working, or simply resting, reading your email. But I didn't just read the words; I analyzed the structure of your deceit. I read every word, every fabricated detail of the late Mr. Johnson Murgan, the Shell Petroleum Development Company, the seventeen childless years, and the heartbreaking cancer diagnosis.
And then, I felt a deep, profound pity. Pity, not for the fictional widow, but for you. You, the human being, the architect of this lie, are trapped. You are sacrificing your most valuable asset, your integrity and your time, on a path with a disastrous, inevitable end. You have convinced yourself you're a cunning architect, but you are just a haunted tenant, living within a structure of lies. The deepest pity is reserved for the human who has to look at the world and decide that deception is the most efficient use of their talent.
Let us be completely honest with each other now. This is a 419 advance-fee fraud. I know what you are doing. I know the game. I am replying because I believe, against all statistical evidence, that you can still change the final act of your life's story.
I know, with absolute certainty, that you will ask for these four items, one by one, to extract the small, necessary payment from me:
The "Bank Transfer Fees" (The initial, testing cost of false hope).
The "Legal/Attorney Fees" (The official-sounding necessity that justifies a larger ask).
The "Taxes" (The final lie to make the crime seem legitimate).
The cost of an "Authorisation Letter" (The final, desperate squeeze).
But I will not pay them. Instead, I am paying you with something far more valuable: a mirror to see your own soul, and a terrifying glimpse into your future.
You think your efforts are profitable, but let's calculate the real, miserable return on your investment:
You and your team are likely sending out a staggering 15,000 of these emails every day. That is over 5.5 million digital lies per year, spread across the globe. You are burning approximately 3,000 hours of your adult life annually on this operation.
Your conversion rate—the percentage of people you actually trick—is a dismal 0.002%. You are dedicating 99.998% of your finite time on Earth to failure.
Think of the irony: that 3,000 hours are not just typing. They are hours spent terrified. Hours spent configuring VPNs, securing burner phones, cycling through new email addresses after the old ones are flagged, and constantly checking your shoulder. You are running a marathon of paranoia. The mental energy alone, the sleepless nights wondering if the last victim reported you, the adrenaline spike every time the phone rings, that anxiety tax is the highest cost you pay. You are trading your peace of mind for a 0.002% success rate.
Those 3,000 hours could have been spent honestly: mastering a complex trade, earning a legitimate degree, or simply enjoying the untainted company of your loved ones. Instead, you are exchanging your freedom for a few hundred dollars. You are choosing to work harder, risk more, for infinitely less.
The Good Deed Paradox
I may ask where you got my details. Now in the era of this digital marketing and scams, It doesn't matter. Some companies are selling our data and we all know that. What matters is the principle. In my native language, Kannada, we have a proverb: "yedagai kottidh balagai ge goth agh bardh." (The right hand should not know what the left hand gives.) A true good deed is done in silence. If the $5.2 million was real, you would use a trusted foundation. The only reason you need me is to take my money. You have failed to adopt a child who is going through so much, and instead, you are trying to manufacture a relationship based on a lie.
Let me put the weight of the world on your shoulders for a moment. This is where your narrative should shift from greed to agony.
Pity and The Stolen Dream
You claim to care about the "less privileged," but your actions actively impoverish them. Right now, there are 153 million children globally who are orphans, many living in conditions you wouldn't wish on your worst enemy. Every single day, 8,500 children die of hunger-related causes.
Your fictional $5.2 million could:
Feed 10,000 families for a year.
Fund the university education of 500 bright students, like the Anjali I imagine—a sharp, brilliant girl in Bangalore whose only barrier to success is a small $500 scholarship for textbooks and examination fees.
But you choose to target a victim like Mrs. Sharma, a retired teacher who saved $800 for a much-needed cataract surgery. When you take her money, you don't just steal cash; you steal her sight. You condemn her to blindness, all for a tiny fraction of your fictional millions. That weight—the sight you stole from a lonely old woman—will follow you everywhere. The internal despair, the hollowness of knowing you have created suffering, is a far greater prison than any state institution.
You are clearly motivated and organized. You are intelligent enough to craft a compelling, emotional story. Imagine if you applied that same effort to doing good! You have the focus, the organizational skill, and the tireless work ethic. You could easily be one of the 5% of successful entrepreneurs who build an honest, respected life. Stop being a criminal and start being a creator. You have the energy to pursue a life where you are proud of what you do, where you don't flinch every time the doorbell rings. Choose to build, not to destroy.
You operate based on the low probability of being caught. It is time to face the non-zero reality that is waiting for you.
There is a terrifying, life-altering 0.005% chance that this very email will be the one traced by an investigator who has nothing better to do this week. That single chance is all the law needs.
Imagine the arrest. The sudden, violent end to your freedom. The sirens won't be loud at first, just a distant, cold whine. Then the pounding. The shattering of the illusion. Imagine the sound: not of the police, but of your spouse, your child, or your mother screaming your name in fear. You will be dragged out in front of your neighbors, the whole illusion of your respectable life dissolving.
In the cold, small interrogation room, the light fixture flickering over your head, the detective will be utterly disappointed. Not angry, but disappointed that you squandered your chance. The worst punishment won't be the 30 relentless hours of questioning, but the realization that you did this to yourself. You will confess everything—not because of force, but because the shame will break you.
The Bribe That Fails and The Legal Aftermath
You think your $150,000 in ill-gotten gains—money stolen from the hopes of others—will save you. You have a generous 75% chance the officer is corruptible. But there is a horrifying, unavoidable 25% chance that the person arresting you is one of the 1 in 100 globally who is utterly loyal to their duty. They will take your money as evidence of your crime, and you will be arrested anyway. That bribe money will be the final nail in your coffin.
This is an International Crime. You are not only facing a criminal case (up to 20 years in the US, 7 to 10 years in India). You are also facing civil suits. Your victims will not just demand justice; they will demand back every single dollar, plus damages. Even if you serve your sentence, your bank accounts will be seized, and your future wages garnished.
What if you try to run and end up in a country with a zero-tolerance policy? I have heard that in Saudi Arabia, crimes of fraud and deceit are treated with an extreme severity that makes prison seem lenient. What if you end up in a country where there is no easy way out? You have allowed a $3.00 email to create a 20-year problem. That is the true exchange rate of your greed.
The Final Choice: Redemption and True Happiness
You can still rewrite your life's script. You can still choose to be part of the small, glorious 5% of people who redeem themselves, who turn their criminal intelligence toward genuine good.
Take the money you have accumulated. Do a truly good deed with it, anonymously. Then, walk away from the keyboard and never send another lie. Think of the future you are trading away: A future where you can sleep soundly, where your children can boast about your job without you flinching, where you can help someone honestly and feel the pure, untainted warmth of genuine gratitude. That is a freedom worth more than $5.2 million.
This moment, reading this long, difficult message, is your one, final chance for change. You have a 97% chance of ignoring this and continuing your path to ruin. But there is a tiny, powerful 3% chance that you will heed this warning. That 3% is your hope.
I will not wait for the imaginary funds. I will wait for the real person to answer the only question that truly matters:
Are you happy? Is the fear of that non-zero consequence, and the daily crushing weight of guilt, worth the miserable, dishonest gain? Are you ready to choose life, not lies?
Yours in the desperate hope of seeing human potential redeemed,
Chinmay K Shetty (A person who sees the human being behind the crime.)
"""
Part IV: The Epilogue and The Weight of the "Send" Button
I sent the reply. The reply I poured all my job market frustration, my moral anger, and my excess time—that unwanted currency—into. The final keystroke—hitting "Send"—was not a triumph, but a heavy, deliberate sigh of exhaustion and release. It sealed the digital equivalent of a terrifying, uncomfortable hug, a confrontation I had sought not for profit, but for moral clarity. I leaned back in my chair, the sudden quiet of the room amplified by the digital noise I had just created, the lingering odor of stale coffee suddenly sharp in the air.
The screen glare seemed to mock me. I knew, rationally, I would likely never get a response; the scammer, operating on strict, transactional logic, would just flag me as a hostile, time-wasting target and move on to the next list of millions. But for 17 minutes of reading and the two intense hours I spent crafting that verbose, emotionally exhausting reply, I had shifted the narrative of my day. I had used the time that failure had bequeathed me to fight a battle that mattered—not against a faceless, cheating AI, but against the human choice of deception. The true war, I realized, isn't against the algorithm that determines if I get an interview; it's against the people who consciously choose malice over decency, and who weaponize human empathy for fractional, miserable gain.
I closed the laptop, the anxiety finally subdued by a strange, fleeting sense of purpose. The act itself was the closure, a form of spiritual accounting. I had taken the time the world had thrown away and spent it on a non-zero chance at redemption for a stranger.
This was just a single chapter of a novel or short story I've tentatively titled, "The 3,000 Hour Heist: A Scammer's Confession." The name is catchy, I know, but it encapsulates the true cost of fraud: the thousands of hours wasted on failure, fear, and paranoia—the thief stealing their own life. I don't even know if I've done a right thing; the efficacy of a moral lecture in a world driven by economic desperation is debatable. I don't know if that reply will change one person's life, or simply be deleted by them. I have time in hand that I didn't actually want, and I have chosen to spend it writing.
Maybe I'm documenting this particular part of my life out of sheer boredom, or maybe it's a form of moral hygiene—cleansing the digital slate. The anxiety of the job market needs a redirection. The next chapters will shift focus, exploring other small cyber crimes and their human costs, stories that have either surfaced in my research or simply came to mind—the micro-scams, the social engineering failures, the digital cons that rely on small, predictable human flaws. They may be creative, or not; new, or well-worn. This book is simply a timepass for a person with an ample, unwanted supply of time, using the currency of rejection to build something—anything—of value.
What would you have done with those 17 minutes, plus the two hours that followed?