Diary of a madman sells for $40,000

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http://www.rte.ie/news/2011/0603/kaczynskit.html

Unabomber' Ted Kaczynski's personal journals have sold for over $40,000 in an online auction of his belongings, authorities said. The journals fetched the highest bid of any item so far at the auction, which included his hoodie and sunglasses, along with a typewriter.

The US federal government held the auction of dozens of items, which began on 18 May, to raise funds for Kaczynski's victims and their families.

Kaczynski, who claimed to be motivated by a love of nature and hatred of technology, became one of America's most notorious criminals when he was arrested over the killing of three people and the wounding of 29 others with homemade bombs sent through the postal system from 1978 to 1995.

He was living in a remote Montana cabin when he was captured in 1996 .

Lynzey Donahue, spokeswoman for the US Marshals Service, said Kaczynski's typewriter, which he used to write a manifesto he sent to the New York Times and Washington Post in 1995, sold for $22,000.
The hoodie and sunglasses, which resemble those worn in a widely circulated sketch of the Unabomber suspect, sold as a set for $20,025.
Ms Donahue said his handwritten autobiography went for $17,780.

Terry Turchie, a former FBI official, and former FBI special agent Kathleen Puckett, who participated in the hunt for Kaczynski, said in a statement last month the auction would strip Kaczynski of everything 'he ever owned or wrote, ensuring that he will never profit from the terrible tragedies he brought to innocent lives.'

The 69-year-old, a former mathematics professor, is serving a life sentence at a federal prison in Colorado.

US agents seized the Unabomber's property when they raided his cabin.

Kaczynski mounted a failed attempt in court to block the auction, and said in a 2007 letter to Reuters that his papers should instead be made available to researchers and libraries to keep his beliefs in circulation.

Who would buy them?

Snakeblood

Saul Rough Self-starter wrote: »

http://www.rte.ie/news/2011/0603/kaczynskit.html



Who would buy them?

The Duobomber, in the inevitable sequel.

Buddly

When I read the thread title I thought you were referring to trent

ejmaztec

He must be ten times madder now, knowing that he's not getting a cent from the sale of his stuff.

Chuck Stone

I love nature so I'm gonna blow up some humans.

ejmaztec

Chuck Stone wrote: »

Dear diary, I love nature so I'm gonna blow up some humans.

fyp

bonerm

How much did Adrian Mole's diaries go for?

Dravokivich

Saul Rough Self-starter wrote: »

Diary of a madman sells for $40,000

Ms Donahue said his handwritten autobiography went for $17,780.

Which is it?

mikom

bonerm wrote: »

How much did Adrian Mole's diaries go for?

13 and 3/4 Euros.

Rented Mule

I thought this was about Ozzy Osbourne's second solo album.

Latchy

I thought this was about Michael O'Learys autobiography

markesmith

I thought it was Gogol

bigneacy

Rented Mule wrote: »

I thought this was about Ozzy Osbourne's second solo album.

i bet you feel silly now....

iguana

Buddly wrote: »

When I read the thread title I thought you were referring to trent

That's exactly what I thought too.:)

prinz

Saul Rough Self-starter wrote: »

Who would buy them?

Museums probably. Or collectors of high profile criminals memorabilia. It happens.

Dangerous Man

'I hate technology,' muttered the Unabomber as he filled the dishwasher in his remote Montana cabin.
The Unabomber slumped into his lounger, hit the vibrate button - but not before he grabbed the TV remote from the arm. It always vibrated off the side when he didn't grab it first. One time it went right down between the arm and the seat of the lounger - took a good five minutes to get it back out of there again.

'Vibrate...' thought the Unabomber, picking at some old pork stuck in-between his teeth and casting his eyes around the room. 'A lot of things vibrate in here' he mused, looking at his cell phone sitting beside the microwave, a PS3 joypad tossed from frustration on the floor (Black Ops my hole) and his ex-wife's personal massage stick. He always thought that one was weird - he never saw her use it or complain of back pain - which was why she said she needed it to be begin with. 'Bitch...' he muttered - still sore by absence, still sore that Montana wasn't good enough for her. Still sore that she wanted a 'better life' up in fancy New York City. What was wrong with the cabin? It was roomy - had everything - was warm in the harsh Montana winters (dimplex central heating, cost a bomb); it had central air conditioning, satellite TV, TIVO - WiFi - what more could that bitch want? It was all for her, he did it all for her!

The Unabomber felt his heartbeat accelerate a little. He tried to calm down. He remembered what the doctor said about taking it easy - especially with a recently installed pacemaker.
He let out a long, deep breath, rubbed his eyes - and switched on the TV.
48 inches of LED, 3D glory. He chuckled a little as he whizzed through the menus on his Sky Box, settling on one of his favourite episodes of Family Guy.

Yet, she was still in his head. He couldn't stop thinking about it. He turned off the TV and went into the bedroom. 'Lights' said the Unabomber and was immediately bathed in a warm glow. He went to the closet and looked inside. 'Old junk,' he thought, disappointed at the mess. There was a George Foreman grill, a Gameboy - one of those old Nokias - an actual house phone? Then, at the bottom, he found what he was looking for - a typewriter.

He took it out, pulled the plastic cover off. He tested the keys; they gave a satisfying, tactile click. Nothing was broken. It was simple, reliable (unlike her) and everything worked as brand new. He brushed aside the clothes on the dresser and set it down.
'I'll show her,' he thought... rummaging through the drawers for printer paper. He put it in the typewriter and sat down. He sat still for a minute, looking at the thing in front of him. He then typed the words '**** her.'

It still worked - the ink was still fresh. 'Bitch. Slag. ****.' He pulled the paper from the typewriter. It still wasn't enough. He thought about letters, he thought about making her feel as bad as he did - but how? She'd left him. There was no relationship there; she was up in New York now - she had forgotten him. He thought about killing her but quickly set the thought aside. His feelings of hatred were just unresolved feelings of love. He still loved her.

He couldn't continue like this. The doctor told him about stress. The doctor told him to 'let go, take it easy.' Easier said than done though. He needed a release - he felt like he was going to explode.

'Explode.' He said. He said the word aloud. 'Explode - EKS PLO U-DAH.' Maybe that was the answer - maybe, rather than taking this out on myself - I should take this out on others? The Unabomber went back into the sitting room and turned on the TV. He flicked to the PC channel and started browsing the net. '...bombs...bombs... Ah, bomb making.'

He downloaded a video on bomb-making and amatuer terrorism from YouTubeTerror, forwarded it to his i-Phone, and made his way to the basement.
He pressed the button for the elevator, and answered the automated message - 'Level Z access - authorization please.'
'Client J - green code,' replied the Unabomber, leaning into the retinal scanner. One day he'd get around to changing his password - he'd always wanted 'Decker B6463.'
'Approved' said the computer. The doors hissed open and the Unabomber went inside. 'Basement Level 2' said the computer. The doors shut and opened again just three seconds later. The Unabomber stood out into the basement and went to his workstation.
'Lights' said the Unabomber. 'Screen,' he said and an enormous clear grass screen descended from the ceiling 'Grid,' he said, and the glass screen blinked on with a faint glow permeating the glass. It displayed a green grid with co-ordinates along the side and bottom. 'Cigarette' said the Unabomber and pulled a pack of smokes from his hip pocket. He lit the cigarette with some matches. It was going to be a long night, he knew. He sat on his chair, and began inputting data onto the screen - working out equations, numbers - critical mass, timings.
He sat that way for thirteen hours before calling it a night. He stood back from the screen - yet another cigarette in his hand - and looked at his work. It was all there, pretty much. There were still some outstanding issues such as targetting and delivery methods but he was already almost there. He nodded his approval, said 'screen' and made his way to the rear of the basement. He kept a bed there and fell asleep as soon as his head hit the pillow.
He was tired, but didn't sleep easy. The project work had impacted on his brain -- his dreams were a mass of numbers and equations - bombs and explosions. In his dream he was in one of the lower basement levels, where most of the work is carried out. It was noisy as hell and the walls were beginning to shake. People were running all over the place; the monorail was shaking - in danger of collapse. He could feel pieces of the ceiling come down around him; it was a disaster! An earthquake?
'It's not an earthquake,' she said.
'What?'
'It's not an earthquake. Wake up.' The dream faded and the Unabomber awoke. The room was bubbling away in front of him as his eyes regained their focus. 'You did it again honey,' said Jane. 'We really ought to get rid of this thing' she said, leaning across the Unabomber to switch off the lounger.
'FFFFFFFFFFFFFUUU' said the Unabomber.

Badgermonkey

Here wordy, less words.

Mickeroo

prinz wrote: »

Museums probably. Or collectors of high profile criminals memorabilia. It happens.

Possibly someone who'll write a book on the guy and make $$$$$$$$

sensibleken

i thought this was Trent related

Dangerous Man

Badgermonkey wrote: »

Here wordy, less words.

Dude, I'm in work.

Badgermonkey

Dangerous Man wrote: »

Dude, I'm in work.

You can dance and text at the same time?

Dangerous Man

Badgermonkey wrote: »

You can dance and text at the same time?

Text? I'm so good at my job I'm using a laptop.