A woman's voice beckons from the computer. Images flash across the screen - parted lips, bound wrists, flesh. Her seductive tone summons you closer, inviting you in...
"Do you want to see more?"
If you click "yes" - and you know you want to - you'll be logged on to the internet site shutitdown.net, and the game begins. What follows is a miasma of hellish images that leave unsuspecting voyeurs suffering from morbid hallucinations and unspeakable terror.
When four bodies are discovered among the industrial decay and urban grime of New York City, brash young detective Mike Reilly teams with ambitious Department of Health researcher Terry Huston to uncover the cause behind their violent and inexplicable deaths.
The only common factor shared by the victims? Each died exactly 48 hours after logging on to shutitdown.net. Were they being punished for their inquisitiveness? For succumbing to temptation? For indulging their guilty pleasures?
WOW! I enjoy IT!
Captain Stabbin | July 12, 2004 3:07 PMBLEURGHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!
I came here looking for hellish images...
Pumpy McFart | February 12, 2003 8:12 AMAND THERE AINT ANY!!!!!
Chapter Four
Finding the lifeless body of Inspector Bob Richards had really taken the shine off an otherwise beautiful sunny day in New York. Everything had seemed so peaceful walking through Central Park, children playing on swings, joggers and their dogs running and crazy Lady having a very one-sided conversation with a startled squirrel. Tarquin left and an anonymous message with the police and decided it was safer to get out of its good friend's apartment and get some fresh air. Back on the streets his senses bristling, Tarquin moved among the busy pedestrians hurrying on their way to places of work and some carrying shopping almost all of them talking into mobile phones. His keen senses had already spotted his tail, a man in his late forties, six foot two, carrying a newspaper, with an uneasy gate. He was disappointed, and wondered if this was the best America had to offer him.
He'd hoped to pick up some scrap of evidence from Richards apartment. His friend had been on the case from the very beginning and it had been his telephone call that had brought him to America. He wanted more than ever to track down the individuals who seamed be to be culling at will, Spy Net operatives. Tarquin decided to give his tail the slip, hailing a cab. Once inside he paid the driver and explained he wanted to play a trick on a friend, just two blocks after starting their journey Tarquin gave the word and the driver swerved right and braked hard. Rake pulled himself from the car and it screeched away. Hurrying into a department store, he made his way through the rails of clothing and pushed through a fire exit. Even if he had been followed the crush of people milling about in the general direction of the main exit would slow any pursuer.
Just one name remained on the list buried in Rake's pocket, and so his next move was to the address of a Ms. T. McSupport. As far as he could tell form the noise in the background when he called the number he'd been given, it seamed that she was a dancer as well as a actress. It was almost two o'clock when he arrived at her apartment in the inappropriately named Carol Gardens district. It was a ground floor flat and after knocking on the front door he moved to the rear. A strip of packing strap and a touch of good old brute force. He pulled at the window frame, slid in the flexible strap and flipped first one then the second catch open. In a second he was inside steadying a plant pot and cursing the absence of gloves. Tarquin found a darkened corner of the living room, come kitchen space and settled down in a chair.
Pete | September 10, 2002 5:39 PMCHAPTER THREE - TV IS OUT
TARKUIN: MY TV IS OUT THANK GOD I AM BLIND
TV: I AM OUT
TARKUIN: I WILL ORDER A PIZZA
TELEPHONE: I AM OUT
PIZZA: I AM ALSO OUT
TARKUIN: GAHHHHH!! WHYYYYYYY!?!??!
.ns.
netshade | September 9, 2002 10:32 AMPete, you scare me.
k | September 7, 2002 11:36 AM"DO NOT REMOVE THONG OR I WILL DIE OF MY EYES"
Powerful stuff indeed. Wow Lina, only you could promote work of this calibre.
Chapter two.
The flight over to America had done little to weaken Tarquin's reserve and our hero had used the time wisely fending off the attentions of a amorous male flight attendant and foiling a drunken fight between two passengers. In the time that remained Rake had learnt a little Russian and began to learn a little about Java script. As the flight landed in New York, Rake idly flipped through the last pages of "Exploring Architecture of Everyday Life". That Newman guy really knows he's stuff he mused, but I do wonder if ultimately the Ethnomethodology lacks the scope to deal with our search for understanding, simply because it's distorted by one's own emotional self. Breezing through customs well ahead of the ordinary passengers, he stopped at the security office and arranged for his baggage to be forwarded to the Paramount Hotel watching with amusement as overweight flunky in a ill-fitting suit dashed of to ensure that everything be done just so.
He's last visit to the America's had somewhat raised he profile, having saved the live of the President from a murderous assassin, the security forces felt somewhat in his debt. Under pressure Tarquin had come up with the Pretzel story to excuse the Premiers absence, much to the irritation of the White house PR machine. A car was of course waiting for him in the car park; it careered across the terminals drop-off point and speed towards him. News of his arrival had once again proceeded him and a blasé of automatic gun fire wasted passengers and airport staff randomly around our hero while he ducked behind a trolley leaded with bags. He pulled the ceramic four shot pistol from the inside of his left leg and waited for the exact moment to return fire. The car swerved at the last moment to dodge and parked jeep and Rake took aim, and fired a single shot through the head of the driver. The car swerved out of control and crashed in to an ornamental flowerbed, bursting into flames. Welcome to America!
Welcome to America, beamed the concierge at the Hotel Paramount. Rake had always loved the American inability to grasp understated, and as he walked throughout the silver and gold of the Paramount's entrance halls, here he felt sure he could remain undetected among the business types and the odd couples that seamed to be chatting nervously in the bars. Reaching his room, which he had taken the precaution of changing at the desk, he plugged up his laptop and decided to check on the latest developments through www.shutitdown.net/ which of course was a cover for "spy-net's" server. Although the site was encrypted the room change was necessary to be sure he remained unobserved. Pulling the laptop as far from the socket as he dared he rested his head on the soft down Pillows and switched on the television. There was something about hotels and poor television and the two seamed to go together like money and crime.
Pete Carrier | September 7, 2002 7:19 AMhahaha
atleast I finally get to see NYC!!!! :P
jamiee | September 5, 2002 9:11 PMINSPECTOR BOB: I NOT LIKE MYSTERY OF THIS. DEAD MAN IS GOOD FOR NO ONE.
TITY MCSUPPORT ACTRESS: BIKINI!
INSPECTOR BOB: OH MY GOD TH E KILLER IS ME!
TITY MCSUPPORT ACTRESS: I WEAR THONG TO DISTRACT YOU!
INSPECTOR BOB: AGGHHHH MY EYES!!! DO NOT REMOVE THONG OR I WILL DIE OF MY EYES!
TITY MCSUPPORT ACTRESS: OKAY I WON'T YOU HAVE TO PAY ME
INSPECTOR BOB: I CAN ONLY PAY YOU FROM FLESH OF VICTIMS I HAVE
TITY MCSUPPORT ACTRESS: OKAY
THE END
.ns.
netshade | September 5, 2002 9:13 AMActually Sherlock Holmes would have resided at 22b Baker Street, but sadly, as he's a fictional character Abbey National have a branch there.
Pete C | September 2, 2002 4:07 PMA telephone rings in the unlikely cottage home of super sleuth Tarquin Rake on the wild Cornish moor, seven and quarter miles west of Bodmin, turn left at the post box and mind the sheep. This can only mean one thing! Sure enough our hero, one of a growing group of unlikely characters and twisted alter egos has been called upon to solve a particularly challenging case. Climbing on a totally impractical Ducati 944, Tarquin picks he's way down the treacherous path from the isolated cottage. Sheep cough in the distance, their minor illnesses hardly worthy of comment in a fast paced international crime thriller, but somehow appropriate to the shutitdown readers. Wind howls, evoking feelings of unseen monsters hiding in the moonlit shadows of passing clouds on the uneven bracken. Rake, reaching the road opens the throttle and powers the eager machine into the darkness, his driving style every bit as confidant as our knowledge, dear reader, that he alone will solve the puzzle, and likely as not, get the girl. Even if that girl does has a small fury animal somewhere about her person.
To be continued…
Peter C 151Baker Street London | September 2, 2002 3:57 PMAngela Bennett is a computer expert. This young and beautiful analyst is never far from a computer and modem. The only activity she has outside of computers is visiting her mother. A friend, whom she's only spoken to over the net and phone, Dale Hessman, sent her a program with a weird glitch for her to de-bug. That night, he left to meet her and was killed in a plane crash. Angela discovers secret information on the disk she has received only hours before she leaves for vacation. Her life then turns into a nightmare, her records are erased from existence and she is given a new identity, one with a police record. She struggles to find out why this has happened and who has it in for her.
Sandra Bullock | September 1, 2002 9:46 PM