Bunnie Huang wrote about "surreptitious RAM" on p. 206 of his book Hacking the Xbox. Surreptitious RAM refers either to memory modules or memory module adapters that provide some interface other than the commands coming from the memory bus on the motherboard. For example, we can imagine a memory module that has a standard DIMM form factor and interface but that also provides an external USB interface which lets another computer read (and maybe write) the current contents of RAM as a USB mass storage device. The ability to access the contents of RAM over an external interface provide a convenient way to defeat any memory protection policies enforced by the operating system and MMU (even on systems where DMA can be disabled). This is pretty powerful for forensics, debugging, or computer security attacks (given physical access to a PC); Bunnie and trusted computing developers have also described it as a practical way of attacking the implementation of TPMs in PCs. Does anyone want to try to make some surreptitious RAM or a surreptitious RAM adapter? Schoen 16:38, 30 January 2009 (PST)
Pre-built Hardware interfaces
Many, many years ago, I was seventeen years old and at my friend Sharon's house. Sharon's uncle was old dude who used to traffic me. We'll just call him Old Dude from now on. He was supposed to have moved to Atlanta, so I could visit now without having to worry about being roofied and sold or sold dead awake. Sharon was an intense friend; I was under the impression that she needed me. Maybe I needed her; I wasn't great at making close friends. Sharon was under five feet and over three hundred pounds, otherwise pretty with long black hair and deep blue eyes (blue like her uncle's eyes), and white, white skin with a rosy face and very big white breasts. She was a witch; I was with her for a while there. Sometimes she was Christian. Sharon's boyfriend's name was Peter and he was a reasonably tall and solid bright-complexioned black guy, and I didn't know why he dated Sharon because she could come off super-racist. Her mom was a sweetheart, but one day she asked me if I was a sand-n-word. I didn't know what that was. Anyway, Sharon was a chip off the old block but not as nice. She could be mean as fuck. She had sharp toenails and once kicked me in (in) the breast with one of them. Sharon and Peter were in their room fucking, over and over again, while I tried to sleep. Despite neither of them being my type, I was kind of turned on by it, but I was dating Handsome at the time and really couldn't imagine myself in a threesome with Sharon and Peter. I went to the bathroom. Tried to use it, feeling nervous, looking at the syringe imprint on the beige wall. My parents were great but they weren't very observant. I wouldn't let my kid stay the night where there was a syringe imprint in the wall; that's a tip of the iceberg kind of thing. The door burst open. "Hey!" crooned Old Dude. Old Dude was skinny like a whip, muscular, despite his crack addiction my physical superior. "Get the fuck out of the bathroom!" I yelled, getting up to push him out of there. He grabbed a hold of me and started rubbing me. "You're wet." I remembered him killing the cat, while he held onto me and I tried to stop him. I saw him in the mirror. A handsome devil, not quite as handsome as when I met him. "Not. For. You." "I'm going to fuck you in the ass, this time." I grabbed the first thing I saw, a toothbrush, and lodged it into his eye without thinking about it. "OW!" he screamed, and he smashed my head into the porcelain sink. I was a genius as a little kid; this kind of treatment left me permanently brain damaged. I saw red, blood in my eyes, took my pocketbook off of my shoulder (went everywhere with it; it had helped me with self-defence before) and looped it around his neck three times so swiftly you'd think I was some kind of cow-person. Pulled in opposite directions. He grabbed at his neck but I kept pulling. "You shouldn't have threatened my mama," I told him. "And my dad; that was a big no-no. I bet you didn't expect to run across someone as crazy as you, but you did it to me, and I'd rather be a murderer than be you any day. Shouldn't have killed poor Mitzy in front of me, holding onto me as you did. I'm going to murder you for that cat. She was more valuable than you." The toothbrush was still in his eye. I lodged it deeper and his eye popped out of his head, hanging by the optic nerve and vein. I puked and thanks to my brain damaged perception (which would be eventually diagnosed as schizoaffective disorder; I was biologically prone to bipolar disorder and my damaged perception would make me hallucinate in real time), I stepped outside of myself and watched me do what I did. "How do you like that? You like foreign objects in your body, Old Dude?" I yelled at him. Sharon and her mom were convinced their house was haunted, which might explain why we were so rarely caught in these fights. Sharon's dad was an alcoholic, passed out on his couch. Sharon's mom was always working. And I was convinced Sharon had schizophrenia, so screams might leave her paralyzed in bed. I watched me kick his legs out, stepping on him, still choking him as if I were his executioner. My dad once said to me, "I don't believe in vigilante justice." Maybe I was disappointing him. My dad was very nice, a grouch, but a good person. "Do you think you should be judge, jury, and executioner?" "Shut the fuck up!" I yelled at the non-corporeal form of my dad. I started counting. I was going to count to 500, but at three hundred, Old Dude wasn't breathing. I couldn't hear his heart. I was at the thresh-hold of being a second degree murderer, first degree if you realized I'd wanted to kill him for a very long time. I wasn't going to give him mouth to mouth. Christ, he didn't deserve it. I got up and kicked him in the ribs. "Wake up!" I screamed at him. Kicked him hard again. He awoke. He couldn't get up. "You cunt!" he rasped at me, dragging himself out of the bathroom. "You horrible whore! You no-account ugly slut! I'll never fuck you again, I swear!" "Awesome. Call 911. I won't do it for you. Otherwise, I think you'll die." On Monday, Sharon came to class, half-amused, with a story about how the mob tried to execute her uncle and failed. "I'm sorry," I said. "I'm not. He's a dick." I was a free woman. A relatively normal one. Tomboys were a dime a dozen. I put these things in a locked compartment in my mind and promised myself not to think about it for a while.