Cocky Scammers get the Virus Treatment

It starts with a scammer who’s just five keystrokes away from total computer destruction, barking orders through a phone line. “Remove the keyboard from your machine,” he demands. “Now, shove it up your—” That voice belongs to Raj Kumar Prasad. Because of what he said, their own keyboard becomes our playground: a virus minefield wired to turn every key press into chaos. Their keyboard isn’t their keyboard anymore. It’s ours.

But none of that is possible until we first jump on a call with them—Mark and his buddy—and hack into their system. We’ll help you, they say. We pretend to need help cancelling a $500 subscription they claim we’ve been charged for. Mark, posing as Geek Squad, has sent a fake email with a bogus charge and his phone number, baiting us to call so he can lay the trap to siphon our money. He asks why we want to cancel. We hedge. We say we don’t want it.

What Mark doesn’t realize is that the tables are turned. He guides us to download remote-access software, instructing us to “run anyway,” even though the warnings are glaring. He insists it’s safe—we’re “connected with a gig store.” Meanwhile, we quietly reverse the connection, slipping into his system. With a couple of super-secret, patented Scammer Payback tricks, temporary access becomes permanent. We toggle our first name on the system. “Is it good, bro?” “So good. It’s good every time, my dude.” Mark has no idea.

Then he pushes for more control: ScreenConnect, a tool built with scam-fighting warnings baked into the installer. He wants its specific features—especially the ability to block our screen—yet the installation process flashes warning after warning, perfect ammunition to wind him up while we play dumb. We read out loud: “Allowing someone to connect means they will view your screen, access files, control your mouse and keyboard, access sensitive information…” Mark groans. He tries to keep subtle control, desperate to click through using earlier software but forced to walk us through manually. He repeats his questions about why we want to cancel. We keep reading warnings: “User Account Control.” “Do you want to allow this app—” It flickers away. He’s straining to keep the scam alive.

Mark pivots to the fake cancellation form, claiming his accounts department will send it. He wants us to log into email—on our computer or even his. Gmail opens on his screen. He promises the refund is coming. He’s going to email the link. It looks stupid at first—scammers usually use spoofed URLs, like “GeekSquaddd.” But when we see the actual website, it clicks: it’s built on Wix. “Get started,” it says. “It’s more than a website. It’s your future. Start now.” There’s even a “do not sell or share my personal information” opt-out banner. While we read this out, our mouse freezes—Mark quietly wrests control of our machine, trying to hide it, but he’s getting irritated. We refuse to let him control the situation.

We poke around: “Basic contact us. Contact us. Greek Geek Squad 24/7 support helpline.” The page boasts: “Geek Squad is a subsidiary of American and Canadian multinational…” Then the screen drops. He directs us: “You see service cancellation. Click the service.” We can’t click anything. A file is gone—“Sorry. The file you have requested has been deleted.” The owner deleted it. He pivots again: “Refund and cancellation form number signs.” We start filling the form. Then something weird happens—maybe his internet dies, maybe he’s hit the tipping point with us. The call ends. Moments later, another voice picks up.

“Thank you for calling the gig for support. How may I help you?” Is Mark still there? “This is Ralph Bartner from the Geek Squad supervisory team.” We clarify our name: Brian Franklin—Franklin, not Franken. He asks if the computer is off. It’s on. He asks if it’s a laptop or desktop. “Desktop.” Then he tells us to unplug the keyboard from the back. We follow the cable, find the USB. “Now what?” “Now shove it up your—shove it up your—” “The USB or the keyboard?” “The keyboard. Shove it up your—”

We ask how they knew it was us. They’re nervous. They think they’ve ended things. But they have no idea what’s coming. We’ve already hacked into their system. We’re going to use that access to shut them down for good. First, we try opening their webcam—no dice. Next, we pull Wi‑Fi data, which gets very interesting. While they were scamming us, the network name was Midas 5G. But we can see every saved network on their device, including any phone tether. Among them: a phone network named “Raj Kumar Prasad.” We have a real name. Which scammer? We’ll soon see.

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Now, back to the mission—and to ruining the scammer’s day. It’s November 21st, Friday. We were recording something else, but Mark is actively scamming someone out of $20,000. We stop everything to mess up his computer. He’s using the same email—Keith Coloulston. Since hanging up, we’ve been coding a program to give them payback, targeting their keyboard. Here’s the early version: we hook the keyboard so every key press triggers a variation of a beep. Notepad is open on his screen. We kill Notepad, so he has to retype everything. “Did you close that Notepad?” Not the final version—think beta. The endgame program will be even more over the top. Still, this one is pure chaos for Mark.

We bring in the beeps as he starts again. “Oh my god. Yes. Yes.” He suspects something. He thinks it’s “doing something.” It sounds silly—deliciously silly. He asks if we’re doing something on the mobile phone—there’s noise. “It’s your phone, guy.” He thinks the sound comes through the phone. We revel in the moment. Yes, we’re petty.

Later, Mark tries to print out bank information he plans to send the victim. He says he’s initiated a print. The machine’s already not responding. He shouts: “Don’t touch anything.” We don’t. He’s angry—really angry. We escalate with a favorite: keyboard scrambling. He closes everything. Typing becomes nonsense. He gaslights the victim—asks if the print is happening on the phone screen. We say we haven’t touched anything. He presses. We note his gaslighting.

We control all the “viruses,” toggling scrambler off and on at will. He suspects someone is on AnyDesk. We toy with him—stop it, then start again. Let him get a little progress; then chop it. Sticky Notes open. He types “Name,” then backs it all up. We time our moves: ready… go. He pecks at the keys without looking up, eyes glued to the keyboard; when he looks back, the text is butchered. We turn the beeps back on—he can’t type correctly.

Then Raj calls his friend. That’s the moment his identity slips. The second voice—the one who told us to do something anatomically impossible—has a real name: Raj Kumar Prasad. It’s exposed. We keep messing with Mark for a while—there’s something about this brand of justice that nourishes the soul. But with a live victim on the line, we need real measures to protect their money.

We take over the scammer’s connection to the victim’s computer—over the connection itself. We pull the form the scammer used, collecting the victim’s address, name, phone number, and we pass everything to authorities. Not just local police—our direct law-enforcement contacts with more leverage than a standard officer. The victim’s money is safe. Before the finale, we geolocate the scammers’ exact coordinates via their machine. The trail leads to an apartment in Cardano, West Bengal. Scanning the network, we find no new computers. Both scammers are likely in the same location, definitely scamming off the same system. We’ve sent all this to local law enforcement. It’s time to shut the scam down.

They’ve told us to do a number of things to ourselves we won’t repeat here. He doesn’t like our keyboard. But here’s the promise: Raj Kumar Prasad dared us to do something with our keyboard; we’re going to do something with his.

We deploy our attack in three stages:

1) First, every time he types, he’ll type his own address. Every keystroke echoes his location. His keyboard is no longer his keyboard; it’s ours.

We wait for the perfect moment—mid‑scam—when they need to type a lot. He’s setting up a new password on the victim’s bank account, guiding them, trying to fix things that our interference keeps twisting. If he helps the victim and types, it won’t be right—it’ll be his address. “Oh my gosh.” He stalls: “Just hold on, sir. Give me a moment.” He types. We watch it happen: his address populates. We tease him: “Hold on. Your caps lock is off. Can you turn it off?” He toggles caps lock, tries again. We urge the typing: Card—“Come on, Card. Type it, you idiot.” He hesitates, afraid to commit. He inches toward his old password and nearly spells it out, but never quite crosses into complete self‑exposure.

At this point, they know something’s wrong, but they don’t understand that they’re inadvertently spelling their address. Frustrated, they start keyboard spamming. The text floods with fragments—“West Bengal,” “insert”—it’s a mess. We pause. “I’ll stop. I’ll stop,” we say, then cue the next phase. “Do the dongs.”

2) Stage two: sound on every keystroke. Earlier we used beeps. Now we switch it up.

We brainstorm mid‑mission. Taco Bell runs inspire a new theme: the Taco Bell gong. Every single keystroke: gong. He checks trays, looks for intrusions. There’s nothing obvious. But the effect is real: he types his address again on the victim’s computer. “West Bengal.” Then again. And again—twenty times. The soundscape turns his attempt at control into farce.

3) Stage three: the big one—five keys to detonation. We turn his keyboard into a bomb. If he hits five keys, our program detonates. He’ll hear familiar audio as his computer implodes into a cascade of chaos.

He moves. He types “finale.” “With five, right?” “Yeah. Finale space 5 K.” We watch the sequence unfold. He’s five keystrokes away from total destruction. On cue, Raj returns to his script: “Do one thing. Remove the keyboard. Now shove it up your—” We don’t budge. The stream is rolling. He runs. Did he shut down? Oh, they did. They keep shutting down, rebooting into a nightmare of their own making.

Then the aftermath: Notepad clones erupt across the desktop like confetti. On the desktop, a message declares: “You’re an idiot.” We savor the timing. We wonder when it will land—then it does, everywhere. Meanwhile, a poor grandpa—the current victim—is still trying to reset his password while the scammers are panicking, shutting down their computer, metaphorically tossing it into a lake.

We’ll reach out and make sure the victim knows he was being scammed and that he’s protected. As for Raj and his buddy, maybe they’ll try to come back online. Maybe not. They’re destroyed—for now. But if they return, we’ll be here waiting.

This is Pro Scammer Payback. Don’t get scammed.

– The scammers tried to bait us with a fake $500 Geek Squad subscription email and push remote access software to seize control. We let them—then reversed the connection and took theirs.
– Installation warnings from ScreenConnect, plus their attempts to block the screen, became leverage to fluster them while we embedded long‑term access.
– We traced saved networks to identify real names, including a phone tether labeled “Raj Kumar Prasad.”
– We protected an active victim by commandeering the scammer’s connection, extracting the victim’s details from the fake form, and sending them to high‑level law enforcement.
– Finally, we deployed a three‑stage keyboard attack: auto‑typing their address, sound per keystroke (Taco Bell gong), and a five‑key detonation that flooded their system with Notepads and ridicule—“You’re an idiot”—while their scam unraveled.

When a scammer tells you to shove your keyboard somewhere, you turn theirs into a minefield. Five keystrokes later, their day—and their operation—are done.