SPECIAL REPORT - Beto O'Rourke's secret membership in a legendary hacking group

By Joseph Menn

SAN FRANCISCO (Reuters) - Some things you might
know about Beto O’Rourke, the former Texas congressman who just
entered the race for president:

* The Democratic contender raised a record amount for a U.S.
Senate race in 2018 and almost beat the incumbent in a
Republican stronghold, without hiding his support for gun
control and Black Lives Matter protests on the football field.

* When he was younger, he was arrested on drunk-driving
charges and played in a punk band. Now 46, he still skateboards.

* The charismatic politician with the Kennedy smile is
liberal on some issues and libertarian on others, which could
allow him to cross the country’s political divide.

One thing you didn’t know: While a teenager, O’Rourke
acknowledged in an exclusive interview, he belonged to the
oldest group of computer hackers in U.S. history.

Members of the hugely influential Cult of the Dead Cow,
jokingly named after an abandoned Texas slaughterhouse, have
protected his secret for decades, reluctant to compromise his
political viability.

Now, in a series of interviews, CDC members have
acknowledged O’Rourke as one of their own. In all, more than a
dozen members of the group agreed to be named for the first time
in a book about the hacking group by this reporter that is
scheduled to be published in June by Public Affairs. O’Rourke
was interviewed early in his run for the Senate.

O’Rourke’s membership in the group – notorious for releasing
tools that allowed ordinary people to hack computers running
Microsoft’s Windows, and also known for inventing the word
“hacktivism” to describe human-rights-driven security work –
could explain his approach to politics better than anything on
his resume. His background in hacking circles has repeatedly
informed his strategy as he explored and subverted established
procedures in technology, the media and government.

“There’s just this profound value in being able to be apart
from the system and look at it critically and have fun while
you’re doing it,” O’Rourke said. “I think of the Cult of the
Dead Cow as a great example of that.”

An ex-hacker running for national office would have been
unimaginable just a few years ago. But that was before two
national elections sent people from other nontraditional
backgrounds to the White House and Congress, many of them vowing
to blow up the status quo.

Arguably, there has been no better time to be an American
politician rebelling against business as usual. There is no
indication that O’Rourke himself ever engaged in the edgiest
sorts of hacking activity - breaking into computers or writing
code that enabled others to do so. Still, it’s unclear whether
the United States is ready for a presidential contender who, as
a teenager, stole long-distance phone service for his dial-up
modem, wrote a murder fantasy in which the narrator drives over
children on the street, and mused about a society without money.



O’Rourke was a misfit teen in El Paso, Texas, in the 1980s
when he decided to seek out bulletin board systems – the online
discussion forums that at the time were the best electronic
means for connecting people outside the local school, church and

“When Dad bought an Apple IIe and a 300-baud modem and I
started to get on boards, it was the Facebook of its day,” he
said. “You just wanted to be part of a community.”

O’Rourke soon started his own board, TacoLand, which was
freewheeling and largely about punk music. “This was the
counterculture: Maximum Rock & Roll, buying records
by catalog you couldn’t find at record stores,” he said.

He then connected with another young hacker in the more
conservative Texas city of Lubbock who ran a bulletin board
called Demon Roach Underground. Known online as Swamp Rat, Kevin
Wheeler had recently moved from a university town in Ohio and
was having problems adjusting to life in Texas.

Like O’Rourke, Wheeler said, he was hunting for video games
that had been “cracked,” or stripped from digital rights
protections, so that he could play them for free on his Apple.
Also like O’Rourke, Wheeler wanted to find other teens who
enjoyed the same things, and to write and share funny and
profane stories that their parents and conservative neighbors
wouldn’t appreciate. It was good-natured resistance to the
repressive humdrum around them, a sort of “Footloose” for those
just discovering the new world of computers.

Wheeler and a friend named the Cult of the Dead Cow after an
eerie hangout, a shut-down Lubbock slaughterhouse – the
unappealing hind part of Texas’ iconic cattle industry. Most CDC
members kept control of their own bulletin boards while
referring visitors to one another’s and distributing the CDC’s
own branded essays, called text files or t-files.

At the time, people connected to bulletin boards by dialing
in to the phone lines through a modem. Heavy use of
long-distance modem calls could add up to hundreds of dollars a
month. Savvy teens learned techniques for getting around the
charges, such as using other peoples’ phone-company credit card
numbers and five-digit calling codes to place free calls.

O’Rourke didn’t say what techniques he used. Like thousands
of others, though, he said he pilfered long-distance service “so
I wouldn’t run up the phone bill.”

Under Texas law, stealing long-distance service worth less
than $1,500 is a misdemeanor, punishable by a fine. More than
that is a felony, and could result in jail time. It is unclear
whether O’Rourke topped that threshold. In any event, the state
bars prosecution of the offense for those under 17, as O’Rourke
was for most of his active time in the group, and the statute of
limitations is five years. Two Cult of the Dead Cow
contemporaries in Texas who were caught misusing calling cards
as minors got off with warnings.

O’Rourke handed off control of his own board when he moved
east for boarding school, and he said he stopped participating
on the hidden CDC board after he enrolled at Columbia University
at age 18.

Hana Callaghan, a government specialist at Santa Clara
University’s Markkula Center for Applied Ethics, said that
voters might want to consider both the gravity of any
candidate’s offenses and the person’s age at the time.

Among the questions voters should ask, she said: “What was
the violation? Was it egregious? What does it say about their
character – do they believe the rules don’t apply to them?” If
substantial time has passed, she added, voters should decide
whether the person “learned the error of their ways and no
longer engages in those kind of behavior.”

When he was a teen, O’Rourke also frequented sites that
offered cracked software. The bulletin boards were “a great way
to get cracked games,” O’Rourke said, adding that he later
realized his habit wasn’t morally defensible and stopped.

Using pirated software violates copyright laws, attorneys
say, but in practice, software companies have rarely sued young
people over it. When they do go after someone, it is typically
an employer with workers using multiple unlicensed copies.
Software providers are more interested in those who break the
protections and spread their wares.

CDC wasn’t of that ilk. Although some CDC essays gave
programming and hacking instructions, in the late 1980s, the
group was more about writing than it was about breaking into
computer systems.

But its focus on creative expression didn’t mean there were
no grounds for controversy. Like many an underground newspaper,
the Cult of the Dead Cow avidly pursued it.

A CDC member who joined in the early 1990s had previously
used real instructions for making a pipe bomb to joke about
shedding pounds by losing limbs. Three teenagers in Montreal
found the file, and one lost two fingers after he tried to
follow the formula, prompting outrage.

Rather than remove similar posts and hide the group’s
history, the CDC warned readers not to take the files literally
and added a disclaimer that survives on its current web page:
“Warning: This site may contain explicit descriptions of or
advocate one or more of the following: adultery, murder, morbid
violence, bad grammar, deviant sexual conduct in violent
contexts, or the consumption of alcohol and illegal drugs.”



O’Rourke and his old friends say his stint as a fledgling
hacker fed into his subsequent work in El Paso as a software
entrepreneur and alternative press publisher, which led in turn
to successful long-shot runs at the city council and then
Congress, where he unseated an incumbent Democrat.

Politically, O’Rourke has taken some conventional liberal
positions, supporting abortion rights and opposing a wall on the
Mexican border. But he takes a libertarian view on other issues,
faulting excessive regulation and siding with businesses in
congressional votes on financial industry oversight and taxes.

His more conservative positions have drawn fire from
Democrats who see him as too friendly with Republicans and
corporations. His more progressive votes and punk-rock past
helped his recent opponent, Republican Sen. Ted Cruz, portray
O’Rourke as too radical for socially conservative Texas.

But the political balance allows him to appeal to both main
strands of political thought in Silicon Valley – a key source of
campaign money and cultural influence.

O’Rourke credits the Cult of the Dead Cow with developing
his thinking in a number of ways. Not least, he fought to
restore net neutrality, the principle which prevented internet
providers from favoring some content over others.

Enthusiastically supported by large tech companies and
consumer groups, net neutrality was formally adopted by the
Federal Communications Commission in 2015. The major
telecommunications companies argued that it limited their
ability to offer new services to content providers, and under
the Trump Administration, the FCC overturned the policy in 2017.
An attempt to legislate its reinstatement failed last year,
although tech trade groups are still trying in court.

Hackers generally support net neutrality as part of a
broader worldview that the free flow of information is necessary
and good.

“I understand the democratizing power of the internet, and
how transformative it was for me personally, and how it
leveraged the extraordinary intelligence of these people all
over the country who were sharing ideas and techniques,”
O’Rourke said.

“When you compromise the ability to treat all that equally,
it runs counter to the ethics of the groups we were part of. And
factually, you can just see that it will harm small-business
development and growth. It hampers the ability to share what you
are creating, whether it is an essay, a song, a piece of art.”

O’Rourke’s generation of hackers, and the Cult of the Dead
Cow in particular, also thought deeply about how to grab media
and public attention for a cause or a laugh. Group members, for
instance, tossed raw meat from a Las Vegas stage, distributed an
essay called “Sex with Satan” and falsely claimed the ability to
hack satellites.

That media sense echoes in O’Rourke’s political life.

As a congressman in 2016, while he and others were holding a
sit-in at the House of Representatives to force a floor debate
on gun control, the Republican Speaker, Paul Ryan, called a
recess. That invoked the congressional rule that C-SPAN can’t
broadcast from its House cameras when the chamber isn’t in

So O’Rourke began broadcasting the protest from his phone
over Facebook, and the network aired that instead. The stunt
drew attention to the majority party’s refusal to deliberate on
the issue, and it showed O’Rourke’s willingness to upend

During last year’s Senate campaign, O’Rourke’s staff took
videos of him interacting with voters all over the state,
editing several that went viral on social media. That helped
O’Rourke raise more money than any Senate candidate in history
despite refusing donations from political action committees.
While losing his race by less than three percentage points, he
drew in new voters and helped flip House seats and other races
down the ticket.

While considering a presidential run, O’Rourke has gone on a
multistate road trip and posted videos of everyday activities,
even including a dental visit.

“Part of my success was being exposed to people who thought
differently and explored how things work,” O’Rourke said in the
interview. “There are alternate paths to service and success,
and it’s important to be mindful of that.”



O’Rourke, too, thought differently. His CDC writing from
nearly three decades ago, under the handle “Psychedelic
Warlord,” remains online.

One article he wrote as a teen mused how the world would
work without money. After changing the system, including the
government, O’Rourke foresaw the end of starvation and class

“To achieve a money-less society (or have a society where
money is heavily de-emphasized) a lot of things would have to
change, including government as we know it. This is where the
anti-money group and the disciples of Anarchy meet,” O’Rourke
wrote under his pseudonym. “I fear we will always have a system
of government, one way or another, so we would have to use other
means other than totally toppling the government (I don’t think
the masses would support such a radical move at this time).”

Another t-file from O’Rourke, written when he was 15, is a
short and disturbing piece of fiction. “One day, as I was
driving home from work, I noticed two children crossing the
street. They were happy, happy to be free from their troubles….
This happiness was mine by right. I had earned it in my dreams.

“As I neared the young ones, I put all my weight on my right
foot, keeping the accelerator pedal on the floor until I heard
the crashing of the two children on the hood, and then the sharp
cry of pain from one of the two. I was so fascinated for a
moment, that when after I had stopped my vehicle, I just sat in
a daze, sweet visions filling my head.”

In another piece, he took on a self-proclaimed neo-Nazi who
maintained that Hitler was misunderstood and didn’t personally
want Jews killed. O’Rourke and a Jewish friend questioned the
man about his theories and let him ramble about Jews and African
Americans, an attempt to let him hang himself with his own

“We were trying to see what made him think the horrible
things that he did,” he wrote in the file.

O’Rourke added that if readers wanted to learn more about
the subject’s Aryan church, they could write to the man’s post
office box in El Paso.

“Surely,” O’Rourke wrote, “they’d appreciate some ‘fan’



In addition to critiquing racism, O'Rourke tried to do
something about sexism in the male-dominated world of hacking.

O’Rourke befriended a 16-year-old California girl who was a
regular on TacoLand, and he put her up for membership in the
CDC. With Wheeler’s approval, she got in, making the CDC one of
a very few hacker groups of the time that weren’t all-male.

“I joined happily, honored, and proceeded to write crappy,
horrific, 16-year-old bloody t-files,” Carrie Campbell wrote to
friends in the group 20 years later. “I loved the community of
smart people (and their girlfriends) to converse with and bounce
ideas off of. The acceptance of my female gender is extremely
rare in the hacker scene and I appreciate it…Somehow I ended up
purely by accident as the only girl in the world’s most
notorious hacker group.”

Wheeler kept the Cult of the Dead Cow small, with no more
than 20 active members at a time and about 50 over the group’s
life. It continues today. The vast majority have remained
anonymous, though most of the core participants agreed to
identify themselves for the forthcoming book, called “Cult of
the Dead Cow: How the Original Hacking Supergroup Might Just
Save the World.” Campbell and Wheeler were two of those who
agreed to be identified as CDC members for the first time.

During O’Rourke’s active period, “we weren’t deliberately
looking for hacking chops,” Wheeler said. “It was very much
about personality and writing, really. For a long time, the
‘test,’ or evaluation, was to write t-files. Everyone was
expected to write things. If we were stoked to have more
hacker-oriented people, it was because we’d be excited to have a
broader range in our t-files.”

O’Rourke wrote a few more essays before entering Columbia in
1991. The introduction of internet service providers and Web
browsers in the mid-1990s wiped out most bulletin boards, but
the CDC lived on.

Its writing moved to web pages that were hosted for years by
a famed Boston hacking collective called the L0pht, with which
the CDC shared four members, including Peiter “Mudge” Zatko,
future head of the cyber security mission at the Defense
Advanced Research Projects Agency. DARPA is the Pentagon skunk
works created after Sputnik to create “strategic surprise” in
international conflict, and it had launched the forerunner to
today’s internet.

O’Rourke saw other members socially until at least 1997,
just as the Cult of the Dead Cow was ramping up a run of five or
six years as the most famous group of its kind.

“I was really at the margins, but I very much wanted to be
as cool as these people, as sophisticated and technologically
proficient and aware and smart as they were,” he said in the
interview. “I never was, but it meant so much just being able to
be a part of something with them…understanding how the world
worked – literally how it worked, how the phone system worked
and how we were all connected to each other.”

At the hacker conference Def Con in 1998 and 1999, donning
costumes and rapping to a light show, the CDC released two tools
to hack into computers running Windows. Back Orifice and its
sequel Back Orifice 2000 were condemned as reckless by some. But
the idea was to cause enough chaos and scrutiny to force
Microsoft to work harder to secure its products, and the stunts
worked, company veterans and outside security experts said.

Like O’Rourke, not everyone in the CDC pursued careers in
the computer industry. Wheeler ran music venues in Texas and
produced records in New York before turning to currency trading.
Campbell is a freelance researcher near Seattle.

When Campbell left the email group for CDC members in 2006,
she asked everyone to keep O’Rourke’s identity secret, because
he had just been elected to the El Paso city council.

They did so, and a few stepped up in late 2017 and early
2018 to hold some of O’Rourke’s earliest out-of-state
fundraisers for the Senate race. The first in San Francisco was
co-hosted by CDC member Adam O’Donnell, an entrepreneur and a
security engineer at Cisco Systems, and Alex Stamos, then the
chief security officer at Facebook, who had worked under CDC
members at a security provider in the previous decade.

Both said that technology was playing an increasingly
fundamental role in national and personal security, the economy
and everyday life, and that O’Rourke’s background in the
industry, no matter how unconventional, would be a huge
advantage in office.

“It’s really exciting,” Stamos said. “I have to support this
guy, someone who has been active in this world since he was a

Chris Wysopal, a L0pht veteran who founded tech company
Veracode with a friend from the CDC, said he had been happily
surprised to hear last year of O’Rourke’s history.

“We need people at his level who come from the hacking
community and get it,” Wysopal said. “But it’s rare to see
someone from that background have the leadership and
communications skills. It’s hard to believe that we might even
see a hacker run for president.”

Back during one of his college summers, O’Rourke crashed at
Carrie Campbell’s house when his punk band toured her area. She
saw him in 1997, too, when he was working at a New York internet
provider and the CDC came to the Hackers on Planet Earth

The next time was two decades later, at a Seattle fundraiser
for the Senate race. O’Rourke singled her out in the crowd and
told everyone she was a great person who didn’t complain that
his band once had eaten all her cereal. But there was one thing
he didn’t mention: how they met.

(Reported by Joseph Menn. Edited by Kari Howard)

(This article is adapted from a forthcoming book by Reuters reporter Joseph Menn: "Cult of the Dead Cow: How the Original Hacking Supergroup Might Just Save the World")