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Gregory Nimensky
.Comvict: the rise and fall of an ivy-league hacker
.Comvict: the rise and fall of an ivy-league hacker
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The true life story of Gregory Alphonse Nimensky: hacker, genius, multi-millionaire and convict all by the age of 27.
Introduction 1.0: "Okay guys, the video camera seems to be working. So, who's going to do these girls first?" (or, how we started RealityKings)
There were seven of us spread out inside the penthouse suite at the Four Seasons on top of the Mandalay Bay in Las Vegas. It was myself, Icey Mike, Kimbo Slice, Danny, Trevor and the two whores that were a part of Mike's escort service: Brandi and Tonya. The back left corner of the living room looked similar to mission control at NASA, the LED lights on the eleven 1U rack-mount servers were all flashing in a comfortable syncopated fashion. It was the very same rhythm that, in the past, had reassured me that the emails were streaming out to the world just as I had wanted them to. Kimbo stood somewhere near the door, manning it in a nearly disinterested fashion. Danny and Trevor blew rails of cocaine on the living room table, using a couple of rolled-up hundred dollar bills that they had picked up off of the firm, wiry carpet. Mike and I started bullshitting with the Sony video camera that we had just bought at Best Buy an hour earlier, while the girls were in the master bedroom, getting ready for the long night ahead of them. The CD in the stereo then began skipping, suddenly, prompting me to come over and switch discs. Slot 3 housed the new Jay-Z album. After pressing play, I looked back and surveyed the room, taking in each of the vignettes of insanity that were happening all at the same damn time. Before I could absorb the scene fully, Mike turned to the room and said "Okay guys, the video camera seems to be working. So, who's going to fuck these girls first?" Without any hesitation, and with nary an answer, I followed Mike into the bedroom. I pulled down my pants, got on top of the bed and rubbed my cock until the girls came out of the bathroom, totally nude, ready to fuck on tape.
Introduction 2.0: "Greg, I'm scared. I'm really scared man. It was the FBI."
My little crew had been taking make-believe companies public for about ten months now; there was tens of millions sitting in the bank and I had a net worth of over $200 million dollars. I had all of the material things that one could possibly want: houses all over the map, a luxury car for each day of the week, the trophy wife – and yet, something still didn't feel quite right. Valentina was pregnant now and we were both excited about having a little guy to distract us from the burden of trying to figure out how to spend all the money... and then the phone rang. It was Mammad.
"Hello?" I answered.
"Dude. You need to pay close attention, right now." he shot back.
"What the fuck is going on?" I stammered.
"I was just pulling out of my parking garage and two unmarked cars cornered me; they boxed me in. A male and a female got out and asked me my name. I told them "Mohammad Motazedi" and then they read me my rights and shoved a stack of paperwork in front of me to sign. I didn't get arrested, but they told me that I had better get an attorney, quick. What the hell is going on? I thought that you said that all you were doing was sending out emails to help take my company public. I mean, that's what you said when we were in Dubai. Greg, I'm scared. I'm really scared man. It was the F..B.....I."
Introduction 1.0: "Okay guys, the video camera seems to be working. So, who's going to do these girls first?" (or, how we started RealityKings)
There were seven of us spread out inside the penthouse suite at the Four Seasons on top of the Mandalay Bay in Las Vegas. It was myself, Icey Mike, Kimbo Slice, Danny, Trevor and the two whores that were a part of Mike's escort service: Brandi and Tonya. The back left corner of the living room looked similar to mission control at NASA, the LED lights on the eleven 1U rack-mount servers were all flashing in a comfortable syncopated fashion. It was the very same rhythm that, in the past, had reassured me that the emails were streaming out to the world just as I had wanted them to. Kimbo stood somewhere near the door, manning it in a nearly disinterested fashion. Danny and Trevor blew rails of cocaine on the living room table, using a couple of rolled-up hundred dollar bills that they had picked up off of the firm, wiry carpet. Mike and I started bullshitting with the Sony video camera that we had just bought at Best Buy an hour earlier, while the girls were in the master bedroom, getting ready for the long night ahead of them. The CD in the stereo then began skipping, suddenly, prompting me to come over and switch discs. Slot 3 housed the new Jay-Z album. After pressing play, I looked back and surveyed the room, taking in each of the vignettes of insanity that were happening all at the same damn time. Before I could absorb the scene fully, Mike turned to the room and said "Okay guys, the video camera seems to be working. So, who's going to fuck these girls first?" Without any hesitation, and with nary an answer, I followed Mike into the bedroom. I pulled down my pants, got on top of the bed and rubbed my cock until the girls came out of the bathroom, totally nude, ready to fuck on tape.
Introduction 2.0: "Greg, I'm scared. I'm really scared man. It was the FBI."
My little crew had been taking make-believe companies public for about ten months now; there was tens of millions sitting in the bank and I had a net worth of over $200 million dollars. I had all of the material things that one could possibly want: houses all over the map, a luxury car for each day of the week, the trophy wife – and yet, something still didn't feel quite right. Valentina was pregnant now and we were both excited about having a little guy to distract us from the burden of trying to figure out how to spend all the money... and then the phone rang. It was Mammad.
"Hello?" I answered.
"Dude. You need to pay close attention, right now." he shot back.
"What the fuck is going on?" I stammered.
"I was just pulling out of my parking garage and two unmarked cars cornered me; they boxed me in. A male and a female got out and asked me my name. I told them "Mohammad Motazedi" and then they read me my rights and shoved a stack of paperwork in front of me to sign. I didn't get arrested, but they told me that I had better get an attorney, quick. What the hell is going on? I thought that you said that all you were doing was sending out emails to help take my company public. I mean, that's what you said when we were in Dubai. Greg, I'm scared. I'm really scared man. It was the F..B.....I."