pilotes pour ordinateur portable Toshiba SATELLITE CAK ou installez le logiciel Qualcomm Atheros AR// PCI-E Fast Ethernet Controller ou télécharger le logiciel pour l'installation automatique du pilote et la mise à. Télécharger De Pilote Et De Logiciel Toshiba Satellite CA Pour Atheros Wireless LAN Driver Toshiba Web Camera Application Je cherche pour la première fois à faire une maintenance personnelle. veuillez s'il vous plait m'aider. Télécharger les pilotes Laptops. Type de Driver. Tout. Pays. Tout?land Islands , Africa, Albania, Algeria, Andorra, Angola, Anguilla, Antarctica, Antigua.

Nom: driver toshiba satellite c55-a-19k
Format:Fichier D’archive (Driver)
Licence:Usage Personnel Seulement
Système d’exploitation: iOS. Windows XP/7/10. MacOS. Android.
Taille:57.36 MB


Move unintelligible On payfones: follow the fone line up from the fone, and sometimes you'll find a little black box with two screws in it. Occasionally you'd see a professional autoduelist arrogantly wearing his kill patches on his left sleeve, and Association rank patch on the right. Now you can use a fone, laptop, your mom, anything you can plug in a jak. First, you need to be root somewhere on the 'net. It's not something you joke around with. Zedk X Skorp — Out. How do you like it?

15 avr. TOSHIBA SATELLITE CAK Driver Scan Result. PC Name: Batterie à méthode de contrôle compatible ACPI Microsoft. Microsoft. mise à jour le lundi 8 novembre PC Portables / 15 pilotes - 24 Novembre - -- téléchargé 20 fois. Satellite Satellite Pro A60 Celeron D/XP Pro. Download the latest drivers for your Toshiba SATELLITE CAK to keep your Computer up-to-date. Telecharger driver toshiba satellite c pc Toshiba.

In a sense theirs is a journey thatUs been underway for months. They are the unwavering, working nowhere jobs to eke out a small line of credit, cleaning tables in a Camden Town pub, collecting fares on an Edinburgh bus. They've been part of this process for so long it hardly seems believable they've finally arrived, they've finally stood in the last queue, passed through the last gate, collected with others in this one prodigious body. They're finally where theyUve been imagining themselves all this while.

And they're ready. Hooting, whacking their hands together, stamping their feet. The camera flies in, unable to capture the stark density of this congregation, the neophilic energy swarming at its center, the passion, the manic vortex, the bright suspense.

And then the stage goes black. Impulses are coded, transformed into a gray haze of electricity and computerized garble, shot into the sky. Midafternoon into Toronto, sun glistening off cool cobalt blue towers, pith of the financial district.

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Past midnight into an arid village thirty minutes outside Milan, not a drop of precipitation in the last five years, stars and space debris busy in the night. Late morning into Mexico City, stagnant sulfurous fog already brutally hot, businesspeople in respirators crabbing down streets jammed even on this Saturday in November, lungs aching, telltale pollution sores sprinkled around their nostrils and on their tongues.

Excited electrons teem. Cathode-ray tubes oscillate. Video amplifiers fire. Circuitry scintillates, decodes, transfigures white noise into pattern and shape, chaos into cosmos. Snowstorms bloom across screens. Ghosts flare and die. Double images roll, stabilize, wed. Twenty-five meters above the stage the holounit unfolds marvelous forms and applause lurches through the hall. A beautiful naked woman with dark red hair and pale freckled skin, sixteen meters tall, the mad Pre-Raphaelite dream of a haunted Rossetti, floats over the crush.

Two delicate batwings, blanched flesh and cartilage, extend from her shoulders. She lifts her right hand, opens the palm in which blinks a crystal blue eye, surveys her surroundings.

The eye closes. Her palm folds. Lowering her head, hair spreading over her shoulders like wind, she curls into herself, rotates, loses age and size, dissolves into a fetus, becomes a plant with short parrot-green stems and swollen wet flowers shaped like the plum-colored lips of a vagina.

These separate slowly and release a swarm of tiny transparent fish with blueblack wings and scarlet hearts pumping rapidly in their chest cavities.

Thousands of tiny orange bubbles swell from their gills. They morph into copper snakes, purple geckos, angels with monkey faces, transparent fish again, and then a young man in an olivesheen business suit and derby sitting in the lotus position under a banyan tree.

He is speaking to a naked tanned boy with white hair and four arms who sits across from him, also in the lotus position. Around the man and boy grow Venus flytraps, ferns speckled with diamonds. With the slender fingers of his third hand the boy toys with what appears to be a ruby hose on the ground. Its head wobbles and falls off. You stoop, pick up the head, try to attach it.

But it falls off again. This is a process. You are part of this process. This is how the process functions. The hose is an umbilical cord connecting them. It pulses softly like the tentacles of an anemone. The tanned boy with four arms squeezes it. Rich blood surges. The first computer-enhanced chord reverberates, numbing as the blast from a tactical nuclear warhead.

A spotlight zaps Tango Deltoid, lead guitarist for Dr. Teeth, who launches into a speed riff. The holounit throws his image far above the mob, cuts to his right hand sheathed in the Fender electronic glove that metamorphoses his gestures into complex synthetic sounds.

Cycla Propain, female percussionist, kicks in with a power roll. Right behind her come bassist Kupid Zitch and keyboardist Rheum Goldbug. The decibel level soars like fourteen military jets taking off in unison in a one-room flat, shakes like the LA Shudder on Black Tuesday.

People don't hear Dr. They feel them. They lean into the shockwaves, surrender to the tempest of static bursts slapping their spleens. And they send up a great unified howl. Begin to ululate into soundjolts. And then she appears. First as a sixteen-meter head levitating over the multitude, blond hair teased like MonroeUs, features dipped in shadow like the Virgin's.

Then the face tilts up, huge and glaucous as a geisha's, to reveal the black-and-blue splotches around her browless methyl-yellow eyes, across her left cheek, the dried-blood look at the corners of her carmine lips, and that world-famous patented smile aglitter with teeth filed to wickedly sharp points.

The clamor increases. The gigantic mouth opens and a thirty-meter-long gold-leafed cobra springs across the ceiling. Slithers down a wall. Disappears into the audience as on stage the real Kama Quyntifonic swoops in with the vocal, part primal-scream, part haunting melody, part tribal chant, camera riveted on her spectacular lingerie, raven corset rimmed in red, on those shiny Mylar thigh-boots, real nazi, that brass chastity belt with the medieval lock and that sexy nail-studded dog collar that just cries out Wake up you Quayles, I'm a marketing strategy!

Dancers in tattered army pants and body suits, shoeless, skin blotched with ersatz scabs, flood around her, crawling on their knees, wriggling on their bellies, hobbling on wooden crutches, and Tango Deltoid, velvet hangmanUs noose around his neck whipping crazily back and forth, blue hair spattering sweat-beads, leads into the chorus with a compu-guitar solo electronically altered to sound more like frightened rapidfire human cries at two a.

Burn this place Burn your face Burn this case Cuz I donUt care I don't care Cuz I been here and I been there Rotten has left the building Buddha's forgot to pray My melanomaUs spreading And IUm not even gay Fans charge the stage, throw themselves at the bodyguards who now begin doing their work, unused to the sheer numbers of the devout, the sheer concentration of their zeal.

They catch torsos in midflight and catapult them back into the rabble thatUs become a living version of a stuntmanUs air mattress, but the fans keep coming, they keep massing in. Some carry brass knuckles, some sand-socks, some offerings -- jewelry, credit slabs, cans of mace -- and they scrabble over each other, dive from each otherUs shoulders, cast themselves headlong at the strong-armed men who are breathless, nonplussed, increasingly agitated in the face of this assault.

At the rear of the auditorium bobbies shout into two-way radios, secure those flak jackets, lower those plastic visors, adjust those chin straps. The holounit zeros in on the woman dancer whose eyes seem to have melted into myriad epicanthic folds, the scrawny Arab guy in seizures on the floor, then keep the camera on the credit, keep the camera on the credit Quyntifonic again whoUs begun shoving her way through these invalids, pushing them onto their sides, kicking their crutches out from under them while she begins the bridge to 'Happy Daze' and behind her a ten-by- fifteen-meter screen drops and a black-and-white film, shaky, deliberately amateurish, loops images from Epidemics Hostels around Britain.

Rows upon rows of beds. Skin stretched mummy-like over skulls of the dying. Arms the thickness of pencils. Legs the thickness of cricket bats. Specters in wheelchairs.

IVs pumping in the morphine, keeping the flow heavy and steady. Quick cuts to the South American war, military jets defoliating what'd been left of the rainforest, tunnels of napalm seething. Remains of LA the morning after the Shudder, megalithic shards of concrete and steel and cable heaved into smoky streets, flames from ruptured gas lines blooming around public housing projects, water spewing from fractured mains, shirtless people in ragged jeans staring into the camera as they stagger through the radioactive wreckage, muddled and embarrassed at what has gone on around them, at what part they took in all this, not even beginning to figure out yet things only get worse after this.

But the camera fails to record the underfed girl, thirteen years old, maybe fourteen if you really stretch your imagination, bald except for that filthy yellow Plughead tassle dangling from her forehead, eyes the color of Wedgwood, right ear vangoghed, hovering at the corner of the stage, just a meter away from the nearest bodyguard, an Iraqi who's struggling with another girl whoUs trying to shinny over him and deliver a cluster of artificial roses to Kama Quyntifonic's feet. He's holding her by a fistful of lavender hair as she writhes and snaps at his face like a Diacomm Doberman-tiger chimera.

The underfed girl cradles the canister in her arms, some metallic doll, rocking it gently, scanning the situation around her, patiently taking stock as the lavender-haired fan bites down on the bodyguardUs hand, fiercely, for the count of three, seven, and when he screams she bursts by him and almost attains her goal.

Four more guards sweep her over their heads before she can reach Quyntifonic, and they toss her into the free-for-all in the orchestra pit. The camera catches her body spin awkwardly through the smoggy air and land at an unnatural angle on a suddenly bare patch of concrete. Quyntifonic's holographic head releases a ten-meter-long rat. A bat. A scorpion. These creatures dive at the spectators, who send up a communal shout of delighted horror, and then engage in fierce battle on the vaulted ceiling, stinging, gnawing, sucking, while the film keeps looping images of destruction behind the authentic Quyntifonic standing among staged corpses and carving crosses and circles into her right arm with a dagger.

Teeth's in a frenzy. Tango Deltoid's sunk deep into soundfields reminiscent of the mumbles and fumbled words you hear during the hypnagogic span just before sleep. Cycla Propain and Kupid Zitch're pounding out an electronic seizure, wet hair slicked to temples. And the temperature in the hall is rising, the air thickening, and Rheum Goldbug's zipping along the keyboard in rill after throbbing rill of sick sonics thatUre just pure clicking mega nazi.

The thirteen-year-old twists a valve at one end of the canister. She eyes the spectacle before her, raises the bullet-shaped capsule above her head. Thin blood zags down QuyntifonicUs right arm and Dr. Teeth has never played better than right now, this very second, and a Virus BabyUs upper torso loops on the screen it'd fit comfortably in a shoebox, silently opening and closing its mouth like some goldfish and the bobbies enter the rabble to retrieve the lavender-haired girl with the injured spine and the dancers lie motionless at Quyntifonic's feet and a line of gas jets opens at the rear of the stage freeing a hundred plumes of brilliant combustion.

Burn this place Burn your face Burn this case Cuz I donUt care I don't care Cuz I been here and I been there WeUre talking situation zero Nothing more to lose or gain WeUre talking Krishna's left the disco And my progens gave me AIDS And then: the silver glint wobbling like a football in the fracas of laser lights, halting at the apex of its flight for the shortest period of time you can imagine, revolving, then plummeting among the dancers and musicians, mist from its nozzle spraying a wide white V and, just like that, a vast wave of people rolls back from the stage and Quyntifonic's down.

Kupid Zitch and Rheum Goldbug too. Tango Deltoid's twitching, grand-mal-style, hugging his guitar, his glove generating a brain-splitting screech, coiled into himself like worms when you touch them with something hot. Cycla Propain sprawls forward into her drumset. The dancers try standing but are flat and still all at once. The bodyguards and roadies go to their knees.

The holounit shuts off. Deafening feedback shoots through the speaker system. For three heartbeats the audience falls silent. Then a colossal animal sound of fear rises into the hot atmosphere, and the stampede begins. The bobbies barely have time to lift their stunguns before the mass belts into them, the momentum kicking them back, someone on the PA system pleading for calm.

Feedback rams through the hall. Shouts for help go up everywhere. The press of wild- eyed fans slams against the exit doors. A Datacidist wearing small nails through her ears trips and her ribcage implodes; her loverUs elbows crack as he bends to wrestle her up.

A guy in LA Gear desert camouflage propels into a wall and hears his own lower jaw disengage; a disoriented boy yanks on the complicated blue scarab-and-iron jewelry jangling around the downed guyUs neck. An berthrasher whoUs just lost her tongue attempts clambering over a hill of people but slips back into the fray. Some suffocate in the immense army of bodies surging forward. Others lose fingers to the dying who struggle to the very end, only dimly aware of the explosion somewhere above and behind them as the gas jets on stage touch the screen, and the screen ignites and touches the holounit, and a cloud thick as burning tar churns along the ceiling, flames tonguing fuschia and tangerine, the sprinkler system cutting in only to make the smoke thicker, like inhaling battery acid, like drinking lye.

And all across the globe dead-channel ash rains on television screens. Vous me demanderez: "pourquoi il n'y a pas de Cray 2 dans ta liste? Par contre, … ma connaissance, les 29 Cray 2 produits sont encore tous en fonction. Je l'ai remise en forme pour votre amusement dans le magazine de ce mois-ci.

Alors amusez vous bien. Donc: 3. Un chiffre suivi d'un? But the irritation was worth the information he had heisted. This information could make somebody rich.

Or kill them. As he rubbed his eyes to adjust to the ambient light in his motel coffin, his gaze fell upon the glowing time readout, which indicated that he had scant minutes to deposit more money or get the hell out before he was a permanent guest in another, less comfortable coffin. Well, he didn't want to stick around in case Nikar had traced his connection, so he kicked the door-opening lever and slid out of the coffin, grabbing his few possessions and stashing them throughout his attire.

He fingered the datacube he had just filled, admiring the rainbow it reflected, marveling at the value of such a small, simple object. After his moment pause, he stashed the cube in an especially secure area and climbed down the ladders and out of the motel. It was night outside, but Edge could see quite well even without his cybernetic enhancements, thanks to the myriad of glowing holographic advertisements floating some 3 meters off the ground. Just to amuse himself on his somewhat lengthy journey, Edge activated his battle targeting systems.

Watching the highlighted outlines of pedestrians and flickering readings "displayed" directly through his optic nerves, Edge entertained himself by seeing how long it took to target and eliminate mentally everyone in his field of vision. After walking a few more blocks, this diversion became tiresome, so he deactivated his battle systems and passed time by counting the number of weapons he saw that their owners were trying to hide.

Busy night. Edge finally walked through a door almost entirely concealed by garbage, sat down at the bar, and ordered a shot of good whiskey. Sipping on the dark liquid, Edge looked around the bar, examining newcomers and hired thugs.

One of the non- usuals looked like a very expensive assassin. By the time Rook walked in, Edge was wondering if he'd even show up. Edge caught Rook's eye and Rook headed straight for him, sitting down next to him. What kind of stuff? Too many stray ears.

Let's head back to my office after I get a beer. He leaned his head back, elbows still on the bar, and looked into the mirror behind bar. That assassin seemed to be staring at him. A nanosecond later, his battle computer kicked in and dropped him to the ground, just as a xenon laser crackled through the space he had just occupied. Extending his arm and flicking his wrist, Edge buried a small monomolecular throwing blade into the assassin's forehead, ending the almost-silent confrontation. Rook was staring down at him.

Edge followed, and paused to recover his blade and, on a spur of the moment, search for some sort of identification. Finding only a photograph and a credstick, Edge resumed following Rook out the door. Reactivating his battle computers for security as he reached the door, Edge instantly evaluated every person on the street for possible threat.

Finding none, Edge stepped into Rook's car. As Rook drove toward the office, Edge examined the photograph. Of him, from his last ID renewal. Made sense. Edge decided to run a transaction audit on the credstick when he got a chance and then check BankCom for similar transactions.

Find out who had paid to ice him and get a better of idea of what he was up against. As Rook's bulletproof car reached the titanium doors of his garage, they slid up silently and quickly, sliding back down as quickly as soon as the car had passed through. The car doors opened automatically and both men stepped out.

They passed another set of titanium doors, opened by Rook's handprint, and entered an elevator. Rook inserted his cardkey and a panel slid back to reveal a button for the basement.

Having pushed this, Rook asked, "So just what did you get? You just waltzed into the Nikar hypercomputer and leeched out all their tech? No, really, it took some effort. I'll want damn good compensation for this. Especially since I just risked my life for it, and I'm likely to do so again.

Nikar Mildiv You realize how much that thing'll bring in? No problem there. It'll still net you Several billion minimum? Now let's take a look at this data. Rook gently placed it in the cube dock and watched it recede into the computer, which flared to life.


Rook sat down and Edge walked around the desk to look at the screen, which was spewing pictures and data almost faster than he could correlate.

When you're convinced of the quality, copy some data to show your customers before they buy, and get 'em over here.

I'm not trusting this cube to no one. Not even to you. You may be well defended, but you're totally vulnerable on the streets with no enhancements. I'm gonna call in some of my best clients on this. Where else am I gonna fence this? Or do you wanna front me the cash? You got a hundred billion up-front? A billion for copying a tenth of the data up- front.

Two billion. I'll need it to stay alive here. But you'd better make that one hell of an innocuous transaction, or I'll have the feds on me as well as Nikar.

OK, I'll give ya two billion for it, I'll wire it to an offshore account and transfer access to you. Now copy it. Want any coffee? By the way, can I jack in here? The socket's on the side of the desk. He plugged the deck into the socket and hit a key to activate it. Just before sliding into cyberspace, Edge pulled out the credstick he had found and plugged it into the port on the side of his deck.

Fiery neon flashes and glittering shards of data flew past Edge as he began to navigate the darkness of the Matrix, lit only by the passing data and glowing corporate mainframes. Edge knew this area of the matrix like the back of his hand.

Just go past the red Coca-Cola tower, go down when he came to the CitiBank pyramid, knock on the front door of the blue-green complex and As soon as Rook was convinced Edge was totally under, he hit a few keys on the computer, telling it to copy all of the cube. Edge hit a few keys to read the account number off the credstick and to autopilot to the proper record. As he came to the proper record, the surface slid away like a camera iris to admit him. He then keyed in the Nikar account number he had seen in the record.

The autopilot took control again and slid him over to a very large record, which opened like the assassin's had. Edge slid in and looked for any transfers near the time he had stolen the data. But as Nikar's account closed, the surface became a dull black, and a thin red line replaced the violet one which connected the Nikar account to the CitiBank computer.

Edge's consciousness divided six ways and shot out through the walls and reassembled a safe distance away. Then it hightailed it back out of cyberspace. Edge yanked the deck out of the socket and pulled the electrodes from his forehead, which he realized was covered with a sheen of sweat. You look like you had a hell of a time in there. Looks like Nikar installed some custom security software on their account. Almost got me.

You finished copying that data? Rook ejected the cube and gave it back to Edge. They had to have traced the connection. You'd better hide that cube good.

Or find another base of operations. I'll program the system to let you out. The credit is in your account, and here's ten thousand cash, in case you run into problems with Nikar. I'll see you around. If I survive. Edge decided to head to a hotel he'd never been to before, and pay in cash, to make himself as hard to find as possible.

Walking away from the building, he failed to notice the black car pull into the alley behind Rook's office. He accessed his map of the city and located the nearest hotel, five blocks north and two blocks ea The shockwave knocked him down before he heard the explosion, which totally obliterated the building he had just left. Edge scrambled up and looked back at Rook's office. Or tried to, hindered by the smouldering crater sitting where it had been. He walked through the back alleyway one block and went through a store to the north side of the building.

He hurried across the street into another alleyway when a punk jumped out from behind some garbage. Tired and irritated from recent events, Edge didn't really feely like spending time on this one and certainly didn't need anybody telling Nikar he was still alive, so he just flipped over the punk, extending his fingertip razors at just the time to sever the kid's jugular. This had the unpleasant side-effect of requiring Edge to wipe his blades on the punk's jacket.

Of course Edge could always use another blade, so he took the punk's. Edge continued on his journey unaccosted until the desk of the hotel. Twenty-four hours. Edge tossed him the coins and received the magnetic key.

Third row, second level. He unlocked the door, slid in, locked the door, and crashed. If there's enough interest, there might be more to follow Creath peterc gnu. Le second groupe 2 , indique les permissions pour le groupe d'usage 5.

Ici encore, c'est root. Enfin, le dernier groupe 3 donne les permissions pour les autres usagers. Les links sont des redirections. Maintenant, comment setter les permissions? Ainsi, le programme su est setuid root, puisque le s apparait dans le champ du user. Le nombre octal pour setter gid est le 2, ainsi chmod donne ceci: -rwxr-sr-x 1 root bin Mar 11 Ceci est souvent fait via rsh remote shell.

Pour obtenir un sous-shell, tapez simplement le nom du shell que vous voulez obtenir. Vous serez alors dans le sous-shell. Toutes les actions que vous poserez dans le sous-shell n'interferont pas avec celles du shell principal. Ainsi, chaque utilisateur peut modifier et ajouter des variables d'environnement dans son. Ainsi, Crack. Ex: nice Crack.

Ainsi, nice nohup Crack. Utile pour masquer vos actions Il y a bien s—r moyen d'effacer, mais faut le savoir vous devriez voir ca dans comp. Bon, c'est tout pour cet article We have reason to believe you may be interested in the products and services our new organization, BlackNet, has to offer. We buy and sell information using public key cryptosystems with essentially perfect security for our customers.

Unless you tell us who you are please don't! Our location in physical space is unimportant. Our location in cyberspace is all that matters. Our primary address is the PGP key location: "BlackNet " and we can be contacted preferably through a chain of anonymous remailers by encrypting a message to our public key contained below and depositing this message in one of the several locations in cyberspace we monitor.

Currently, we monitor the following locations: alt. BlackNet is nominally nondideological, but considers nation- states, export laws, patent laws, national security considerations and the like to be relics of the pre-cyberspace era. Export and patent laws are often used to explicity project national power and imperialist, colonialist state fascism. BlackNet believes it is solely the responsibility of a secret holder to keep that secret--not the responsibilty of the State, or of us, or of anyone else who may come into possession of that secret.

If a secret's worth having, it's worth protecting. BlackNet is currently building its information inventory. We are interested in information in the following areas, though any other juicy stuff is always welcome. If you are interested, do NOT attempt to contact us directly you'll be wasting your time , and do NOT post anything that contains your name, your e-mail address, etc. Rather, compose your message, encrypt it with the public key of BlackNet included below , and use an anonymous remailer chain of one or more links to post this encrypted, anonymized message in one of the locations listed more will be added later.

Be sure to describe what you are selling, what value you think it has, your payment terms, and, of course, a special public key NOT the one you use in your ordinary business, of course!

Then watch the same public spaces for a reply. With these remailers, local PGP encryption within the remailers, the use of special public keys, and the public postings of the encrypted messages, a secure, two-way, untraceable, and fully anonymous channel has been opened between the customer and BlackNet. This is the key to BlackNet. A more complete tutorial on using BlackNet will soon appear, in plaintext form, in certain locations in cyberspace.

Join us in this revolutionary--and profitable--venture. VOC file that was synthesized not sampled to match the phone Co's specifications for how a quarter should sound thus it is slightly different from the tone dialer's sound, and more like the real thing --Cut Here-- begin quarter. So why the hell should I put one here? Give this phile to whoever the fuck you want, just make sure it all stays together, same title, same byline.

Phield phreaking gives you everything you've ever wanted: free long distance calls, free teleconferencing, hitek revenge, anything you can do from your own fone line and more, without paying for it, or being afraid of being traced.

Le navigateur que vous utilisez est une ancienne version.

Just be ready to bail if you see sirens. How to make a beige box: Easiest box to make. Cut your fone cord before the jak, strip the wires a little. You should see a red ring wire and a green tip wire.

If you see yellow and black wires too just ignore them. Put one set of alligator clips on the red wire and one on the green wire, and you're set. You want to use your laptop computer, but you don't want to ruin your modem's fone cord? Just unscrew a jak from a wall, unscrew the 4 screws on the back, and do the same thing as above. Now you can use a fone, laptop, your mom, anything you can plug in a jak. How to use: What you have is a lineman's handset.

You can use it from any bell switching apparatus from now on sw. These are on fone poles, where your fone line meets your house, and near payfones. I'll go into detail below, but basically just open any box on a telefone pole, and you'll see sets of terminals screws , with wires wrapped around them, just like on the back of a fone jak. These screws are where you need to attach your alligator clips to get a dial tone. Don't unscrew the screw, you'll just phuck up some poor guys line, and increase your chances of getting caught.

After the wire goes around the screw, it normally twists off into the air. Put your clip on the end of the wire. Do the same with the other clip.

If you don't get a dial tone, then switch terminals. On telefone poles: TTI terminals: These must have been built by phreaks, just for beige boxing. By far the easiest sw. The only drawback is that they only connect to one fone line. These are the fist sized gray or black boxes that appear where a single fone line meets the mother line. They look almost like outdoor electric sockets, that have the snap up covering. They normally have the letters TTI somewhere on the front. No bolts or screws to take off, just snap up the top and you will see four screws.

Clip in and happy phreaking. Just click the top down and no one will ever know you were there except for the extra digits on their fone bill. Green trees: just about the hardest sw. Usually green trees are right at the base of fone poles, or within a foot or two of them.

Now you will see a sheet of metal with a few square holes in it, that has a bolt where the doorknob on a door would be. Ratchet this one off and the metal sheet will swing open like a door. On one side of the sheet will be a paper with a list of 's this tree connects to. Inside you'll see a mass of wires flowing from gray stalks of plastic in sets of two. The whole mass will have a black garbage bag around it, or some type of covering, but that shouldn't get in the way. The wires come off the gray stalk, and then attach to the screws that you can beige from, somewhere near the ground at the center of the tree.

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These are on a little metal column, and sometimes are in a zig zag pattern, so its hard to find the terminals that match in the right order to give you a dial tone. They open the same as trees, except there are always 4 bolts, and when the half slides off, inside is a big metal canister held together with like 20 bolts. I wouldn't open it, but with a little info where two underground fone lines are spliced together.

Also inside is either pressurized gas or gel. Pretty messy. Bell canisters: attached to fone poles at waist level. They are green or really rusted brown canisters about a two feet tall that have a bell insignia on the side.

They will have one or two bolts at the very bottom of the canister, right above the base plate. Take the bolts off and twist the canister, and it'll slide right off. Inside is just like a green tree, except there normally isn't the list of 's it connects to. Mother load: Largest sw. A large gray green box, like 6x4, attached to a telefone pole about three feet off the ground.

It opens like a cabinet with double doors. Fasteners are located in the center of the box and on the upper edge in the center. Take the bolts off, and swing the doors open. On the inside of the right door are instructions to connect a line, and on the inside of the left door are a list of 's the box connects to.

And in the box are the terminals. Normally 1, fones yyy- sxxx, where yyy is your exchange and s is the first number of the suffix, and xxx are the fones the box connects too. On houses: follow the fone line to someone's house, and then down there wall.

Either it goes right into there house then you're screwed or it ends in a plastic box. The newer boxes have a screw in the middle, which you can take off with your fingers, and then put the box back on when you're done, but the older ones are just plastic boxes you have to rip off. Inside are 4 terminals, yellow, black, and red and green, the two you need.

Find the Christmas colors, and phreak out. On payfones: follow the fone line up from the fone, and sometimes you'll find a little black box with two screws in it. Undo this, and you'll find a nice little fone jak.


You don't even need your beige box for that one. If there's not one of those, follow the wire to a wall it goes into, and sometimes there'll be a sw. Payfones are normally pretty secure now though, and you probably won't find any of those. Anyway, free long distance calls should be pretty easy, and get teleconferencing info from somebody else, just make sure you ANI the you're calling from before calling Alliance. Hitek revenge! Possibilities are endless, you have total control of this lamers line.

His fone will be busy until ma bell figures out what the hell is going on, and since the last place they look is the mother load, this usually is at least a week.

Then, of course, is the funniest prank: Beige box from a major store, like Toys R Us that's my favorite and call up ma bell "Yeah, I'd like all calls to this number forwarded to asshole's " Fuck the police. And hurt people if necessary. Call revolution delphi. Attorney Frances Hulin announced today. The message read: "I am curious, Bill, how would you feel about being the first president to be killed on the same day as his wife It would be best, I think, to not continue with your immediate plans.

Perhaps a vacation. You will die soon. You can run, but you cannot hide. District Judge Harold A. Baker in Danville today and was released on his own recognizance. Hulin said the charge resulted from an investigation by the Secret Service and the UI police.

Investigators determined the message originated at the UI, and a computer trace identified Reincke as the apparent author, Hulin said. While being questioned by agents, Reincke admitted he had sent the message, according to the press release. But former teachers, still baffled by the news, speculate it was a joke that got out of hand.

He graduated from Dundee Crown, a high school of about 1, students, in May Teachers there described Reincke as smart and popular, a computer whiz and an excellent soccer player. He's a pretty intelligent young man. He was released on his own recognizance and will appear in court again on Monday.


He is accused of sending an electronic-mail message via a computer to the White House on Dec. The message read: 'I am curious, Bill, how would you feel about being the first president to be killed on the same day as his wife He told authorities he used the sign-on 'just to be cocky,' according to a court affadavit filed by a federal agent. The message was traced to the computer laboratory at the Illinois Street Residence Halls in Urbana, where Reinecke lives.

Questioned at his Townsend Hall dorm room earlier this week, Reincke refused to discuss his reasons for sending the message. Several of his friends also declined comment, saying Reincke had asked them not to talk to reporters. He doesn't talk about anything radical.

Everybody just sort of figured it was a gag. Basically, he was all academics, and soccer was the only sport he played. He was very popular,' Reymond added. I don't know what brought this on.

The Secret Service electronics crimes bureau contacted Badger's office about 10 days after a threatening e-mail message was received at the White House on Dec. He declined to elaborate. Most students who are misusing electronic mail don't understand that they're doing something wrong and readily agree to stop, he said. But the number of complaints has risen in the last few years, and about one e-mail message each month is serious enough to be referred to the UI's student discipline system, he said.

Students are getting more adept at computers, and e-mail is a new opportunity for most of them, Badger said. It's very tempting,' he said. The average computer user probably can't trace an anonymous 'e-mail' message, Badger said. But those who operate campus computer systems can usually spot identifying marks that go with every e-mail message, he said.

If it's important to figure it out, then we can do it. But the receiver can't do it. It's always easy to track who they are. He called Reincke's alleged message a 'stupid mistake.


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Rien ne s'y voit. Les trois principaux logiciels antivirus de Symantec Norton Anti-Virus, SAM et Norton Anti-Virus pour Netware figurent parmi les meilleurs vendeurs de l'entreprise et sont mis … jour plusieurs fois par an. Mais, ils ne le sont pas. On ne sait jamais quand ils frapperont. Plusieurs souches virales sont actuellement connues dans le monde.

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