Spam can be annoying. It clogs up filters and requires extra labor to make sure legit comments and submissions don’t get lost in the Word Press wasteland. But sometimes it can be amusing. A rather prolific spammer has been submitting links to Carrot Ranch Flash Fiction Challenges under the dubious pen name of Monreal Dorb. We decided to have some fun with our shady spammer and write about this character.

As usual, writers were encouraged to go where the prompt led, to track down the imagined life of a spammer named Monreal Dorb. To date, MD has submitted over a thousand times and a few compilations of MD’s 3- to 9-word entries were cobbled together to make several 99-word stories. Credit given to the mysterious author spam.

The following are based on the July 9, 2020, prompt: In 99 words (no more, no less), write a story that includes that answers the question, who is Monreal Dorb.

I Can’t Read Your Derp Anymore, Monreal Dorb by Charli Mills

You had my attention for a week. Over a thousand times I saw your Full or Pen Name listed for the July 9 FFC Submission Form. Never were your submissions more than 9-words long. I entered a few for you, cobbling together short entries to meet the requirements. No more will I wonder at intrigues like, “sports throughout shape shorts,” or “more assets committed to control cats.” I won’t worry that you are “so tired you might do something you never tried before.”

Try this: stop spamming and write poetry. Get sunshine and bliss out on bird song. Relent.

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Incapable by Sam “Goldie” Kirk

He sat in a dark, basement room with only the tiniest of windows, revealing people’s feet and the wheels of cars that drove by. It wasn’t his fault that his stories were “uninspired.” The mere thought of this word made his lungs fill with rage. He could kill Charli, who didn’t appreciate his flash, but that might lead him to lose the last of his freedom. So he submitted 574 stories in hopes that she would like at least one. “Really monotonous derp,” Charli called his last piece. “Monreal Dorb,” he signed, hoping that was how it is spelled.

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Who is Monreal Dorb? by Y. Prior

Will you read aloud?

Sure.

“Something in his walk, his look – the way he stopped when he saw us.”

Three more people listened in.

Louis L’Amour words filled the air like cognitive candy: land, skies, suspense, character quirks…

”Orrin was cocky, with a tone of authority. Beneath it, he was still the same man – only better – from livin’, learnin’, and all that growin'”

Reaching the last page, we sat up attentively.

“Mountain air is clear. Sound carries. When Dru called out – we knew who was Monreal Dorb. It was Tom Sunday!”

We sat silent.

Moved from our western escape.

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Firewall by Ann Edall-Robson

It’s everywhere. The fine mist-like clouds swirling, settling on everything in its path. Closing in like a blanket, obliterating objects a touch away. Everything important sacrificed in the blink of an eye. Those who are inexperienced, panic, and point fingers. When the smoke lifts, what will remain? That’s when the trauma of the carnage becomes real. Like a black screen appearing on a computer. The disbelief when the silent scars and skuz is all that stares back. Memories wiped out. All because people didn’t bother to protect themselves with a firewall. There had been time…There always is.

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—–$CLUE FOUND$—– by Sanjuna.SR

Christy feels something wrong with Robert’s Action who is recently behaving strange .So she decided to follow him along with her friend Harry.

Robert was speaking with someone on telephone about the recent “fire-accident “and drove his car at high-speed.

Harry questioned Christy whom he must be speaking with and they decide to follow him.

Mr. Monreal Dorb handed his suitcase to Robert.

Now, it’s the time to reveal the mystery. So, Harry hurried towards Robert and grabbed his hand and opened it –For his shock, he found the clue.

They suspected them but they are the helpers now!

—–$CASE CLOSED$—–

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Angry, Frustrated, Sizzle Spam Hot?! by JulesPaige

who is Monreal Dorb?
hot jammer spammer dude?
dead end cul de sac?

just the way things are sometimes?
does he lack true courtesy?

does the attention
that he seeks warrant us all
to say; “Let me go?”

Is perhaps Monreal a dudette? Does she lack true confidence demanding to repeatedly be seen on our computer screens? How does she get to play spam-a-lot? How does she change her addresses on the spot? Is she a bot?

Is his name Rob D. Learnom? Or maybe her name is Dorra B. Lemon? How can we collectively quench this hot bot?

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Monreal Dorb by Anita Dawes

Sparrow, a twelve-year-old urchin
living under an abandoned railway arch.
The one thing you remember about Sparrow
Is his midnight blue eyes
They look right through you.
You feel him searching for your inner most thoughts
Living on his wits, finding odd jobs to get by
He’ll clean your shoes, run errands.
One errand to the library almost cost him his life
When he ran into the street,
white as the ghost he just met
narrowly missing a hansom cab, horses flaring.
Clutching the book, he read the title
“Have you met Monreal Dorb, the library ghost?”

Ile de Monreal by Saifun Hassam

Andre anchored his skimmer in a secret cove of Ile de Monreal. His blue and silver eyes shimmered, reflecting stars in the cold wintry skies.

Unerringly he climbed a steep twisting forested path and then down to Lac du Soleil. He knew this island; he knew Chateau Toussaint across the still lake.

Stealthily, keeping close to the shores, he followed a hidden trail, and a few hours before dawn he was at the Chateau. Somewhere in there was his twin sister. An android, like him. Andrea Monreal Dorb. He would do his utmost to release her from her prison.

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Who Told You? by T. Marie Bertineau

She stood trembling, knees weak, blue veins bulging in her alabaster neck. “It’s not true,” she muttered. “It can’t be.”

He didn’t speak. She needed time, needed space to absorb the shock.

She raised her fiery eyes to his, her glare bored through him. “Someone is lying,” she accused. “Someone has lied to you. And now you’re lying to me.” Her anger bloomed, her face so red he could almost smell it.

He reached out, touched her arm in support—this woman scorned.

She shook him off, backed away. “Who told you?”

“The private investigator,” he confessed. “Monreal Dorb.”

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The Arrangement by R. V. Mitchell

Monreal plopped down on the straw-filled mattress raising a cloud of dust that made his eyes water. Fighting back a sneeze, he fished the stub of a pencil and some scraps of paper from inside an old boot which served as his pillow. Monreal Dorb, one time lawyer and now convict, began to scribble blank verse onto a scrap. The arrangement was simple, Monreal would write a poem and the guard would claim the verse as his own, and the accompanying profits. In exchange Dorb received more paper. Little did the guard know that these verses contained coded messages.

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What’s In A Name? by Geoff Le Pard

‘You okay, Morgan? You’re white and sweaty, like yesterday’s tripe.’
‘You remember that protest?’
‘Where you made me wear a Mini Mouse mask?’
‘Yeah, well… I was chatting to the organiser…’
‘… with little regard for social distancing…’
‘She was very compelling…’
‘Oh yes, she forced you that close…’
‘Anyway, she said we’d be followed…’
‘…you’re paranoid…’
‘…and gave me this flyer. See…’
‘He was in the diner.’
‘And he’s just signed in.’
‘Probably coincidence.’
‘Guess his name…’
‘?’
‘Ron Earlobe MD.’
‘Oh come on, that’s ridiculous…’
‘Yeah, but if you reorder the letters…’
‘Monreal Dorb!’
‘Now do you see?’

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Grand-mere’ by Deborah Dansante

Our grandfather spent his twilight years drinking cognac and reliving the War. Initially, Papa Jules had been assigned submarine duty. He was transferred to a desk job in Brussels after his commander realized Papa spoke a peculiar French. When Papa died we found in the drawer of his armoire ninety-nine photos of naked Belgium women in various poses. When our New Orleans-born Creole grandmother saw the photos she noted each woman’s posture accordingly. The mirrors in our grandmother’s home were turned to the wall for one full year. Our grand-mere’, Monreal Dorb, spent her twilight years writing about love.

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What’s in a Name? by FloridaBorne

I remembered Monreal Dorb long before he changed his name to Monty Dorn, though 40 years had passed. Skinny, pale, cursed with an arrowhead nose, he’d spent hours in a gym and changed his face, but there was one thing he couldn’t change.

I shuddered at Monty’s dark brown eyes staring into me as Mr. Smith screamed… and his wicked smile! I’d witnessed Monty doing something to our teacher’s chair pad, and dared not tell the principal about it.

So many people were shocked that debonair Dr. Dorn was arrested for child sex trafficking and murder.

Everyone but me.

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(*_*)Cindrella(*_*) by Simon Prathap D

Julie’s step mother Martha, ‘Who would have married a woman like her, must be a beggar, look at him, I would have chosen a man like him for her’. The man in tuxedo smiled.

Julie’s sister, ‘Mom, I know you won’t do that, Stop lying.’

Julie announced proudly, ‘I’ll let my husband introduce about him.’

The man in tuxedo stood up. ‘I’m Monreal Dorb.’

A reporter from crowd asked, ‘Why a rich man like you choose this poor woman?’

Martha’s Jaw dropped.

He smiled. ‘She is my cindrella, I’m her prince, but without fairy godmother’s help.’

Julie Kissed him.

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Monreal Dorb = Ronald Brome by Sue Spitulnik

When The Band of Brothers finished a set at the No Thanks, Michael wheeled to a booth to chat with Ronald Brome who sat with his laptop open. “What ‘cha workin’ on? Your fingers and head were keeping beat to the music.”

“Been spammin’ a website called Carrot Ranch.”

“Why would you do that?”

“Why? Because I can. I got in 574 hits during your set. They’ll think I’m a bot, but haha, I’m not.

“You should use your skills for something productive.”

“Government taught me how, then turned me loose. They’re lucky I’m not messin’ with their files.”

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A Senior Citizen Will Survive by Charli Mills

Monreal Dorb teased her hair into a beehive, saturating her silver locks with hairspray. She dabbed her lips hot pink and stepped out into the blazing Arizona sunshine in wide-width flip-flops. Her neighbors sweltered in the shade, waving. Monreal – Rea to her friends, and she had many – mounted her scooter and set off for the office at the head of the gated mobile home park. There, she’d wipe down her desk after Russian Peggy’s shift of credit card hacking, don a glam mask, and start spamming. She’d survive covid-economics on spam just like her mother did during the Depression.

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Scum by Eliza Mimski

There are some people, like Monreal Dorb, who are the scum of the earth. No one knows how they got that way. Sometimes, oftentimes, they come from good families, are highly educated with a multitude of breaks in life due to their economic background. Still, they are sleaze.

Monreal Dorb is sleaze of the highest order, a record keeper of how many families she has ruined through infidelity, a number keeper of how many men she’s sent to prison through false accusations. She steals. She swindles. She bribes. She deceives. And she does it all with an inner smile.

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Therapy by Joanne Fisher

“It’s as though no one believes I’m a real person.” the man said as he lay back on the couch.

“Go on.” said the woman sitting on a chair writing notes.

“They seem to think I’m some fictitious entity intent on scamming all the time. I don’t know why.”

“I see. So how does that make you feel Mr Dorb?” asked the therapist.

“Please, call me Monreal. I guess I feel uncertain about how to change that perception.”

“Interesting, Monreal. I have another question for you.”

“Yes?”

“When you were making an appointment, why did you send me 574 emails?

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Monreal Dorb by Jenn Linning

When computers came along, my late grandfather – director of a local newspaper – became determined to conquer the art of touch typing. He would battle our clunky PC for hours, turning the air positively blue with curse words as the desired keys on the qwerty keyboard invariably evaded him. “Bloody… qwerty!” he would shout. “Asimov was right: there are ghosts in the bloody machines.” Given the choice of haunting grounds after death, I have an inkling what he may have chosen. His name? Darren Bloom (though it may be spelt differently if he still taps the keys out of order).

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Monreal Dorb by Pete Fanning

Montreal Dorb was the brainchild of Dorb Enterprises. Programmed to generate text in fiction form, the machine’s initial works were clunky, incoherent, mere lines of code submitted in bulk to online contests.

With each rejection, the algorithm shifted. Datasets and patterns tweaked. The machine plugged away, its vocabulary expanded, and the scientists noted the machine’s style became less predetermined. No longer sci-fi but more tragic, heartfelt, more about love.

Baffled, the scientists continued to monitor the broken-hearted machine. And they split evenly the $500 prize money, when Montreal Dorb took first place in the Southwest Texas Romance Writers Contest.

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The Pamphlets Are Being Printed by Monreal Dorb.

Next year I think it will go further if you use people changing their names. Last year was a record high. Black Friday. Oval and pear cut glass created cela fut voqu and the ever graceful dolphins. Whereas in Japan, it remains unclear. I spent 20 years in industry as an executive and consultant and had a big voice. These facts cannot be used as a defense by the accused, but it gets a mention in Bible Exodus 30. You know what’s strange? Disney and the Pentagon, soft core porn as much as possible, and another new hypersonic missile.

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A Body’s Got to Do What a Body’s Got to Do by Bill Engleson

“I don’t want to get involved, Mr. Learnom.”

“Call me, Brod.”

“Fine. Brod. It’s just, Nanny…Nanjo…was my friend. When I read that the police discovered his body in the clutches of those repulsive organ smugglers, well, I wanted to do right by him.”

“Right being?”

“A decent burial. Money’s no object.”

Money’s always my object, I thought, but kept my witty trap shut.

“So, you want me to arrange a funeral for Nanjo Castille and keep you out of it?”

“Yes. The whole unseemly process. And the coffin.”

“You’re funny,” I said. And thought, ‘and ripe to be plucked.’

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Monreal Dorb Regrets (sort of) by Anne Goodwin

I regret the inconvenience, but I acted in good faith. Times are tough and, if the boffins can’t create a vaccine, we must apply ourselves by fair means or foul. When a president advocates bleach and hydroxychloroquine, what’s wrong with tinkering with spam? When spiced ham couldn’t cut the mustard, I went digital. Viral. If you thought my behaviour brutal, be thankful you’re no virgin, raped as a fantasy cure for AIDS. So carrots, why not carrots? Avoiding the stick, they help us see in the dark. In the current leadership vacuum, don’t you yearn for some of that?

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Sexy Beast Like Me by Monreal Dorb

There’s no better choice than a Honda Odyssey to seem completely bulletproof. Peter Parker already spent seven years as Spidey, but I was under too much pressure and couldn’t concentrate on training (yes, I, Monreal Dorb, will be the next Honda sponsored Spiderman). Like all of our horses, I gave my other cars to charity years ago, to the Medical Academy of Valuable Geldings and Hot Pies for Homeless Russian Social Disruptors. With this modern twist on a classic comedy, a sexy beast like me will put myself in their mindset. No Spidey suit. Naked in the driver’s seat.

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Spam Spam Spam by Joanne Fisher

Monreal Dorb, or was he Brad Romonel, or maybe Moral Broden, or even Ander Mordob? Infamous spammer and International Man of Mystery! Today he would spam a writing site with 574 posts. Not 575, but 574. The number had to be exact: the first three numbers he saw after waking up. The reason for his spamming? Monetary gain? No, he was a spamming purist. You couldn’t cheapen spamming with money. For him it was an art form, his mode of expression, as he gleefully clogged up internet sites with his posts. Why does he do it? Because he likes being a dick.

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Spam Is Not Just For Eating by Kathy70

Had she missed the opportunity to go jump in the lake?  Would they ever invite her again?  Living in this hamlet in Germany I knew or was related to all of these people but  removed emotionally.

Could the village you are named for turn on you when you try so hard to compete. The water may have refreshed but I have only submitted 324 versions of our stories. They must understand I only create spam to help. Pandemics may come and go but  our “art” will survive.  Monreal Dorf will revitalize this village when her dreadful spam is known worldwide.

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The Shiftin A Nanjo Castille by D. Avery

A bunch a ranchers was havin’ a time at The Saddle Up Saloon

Kid was in the Poet-tree, jist a-howlin at the moon

When out a the void a the virtual, inta this site bright and vetted

Come a sketchy pair with bot-spring hair, appearin ta be two-headed

Steppin up ta the bar was Nanjo Castille! His presence cause fer alarm

Strollin’ with ‘im, eyes circling aroun, Monreal Dorb upon his arm

The bar went chilly quiet, afeared a these two spammers joined

But Shorty said “You kin stay, but here it’s jist play, so don’t be flashin bitcoin.”

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