$97.89 stolen from my checking account, and I helped them do it.
You may have been scammed too, or you could be next. That’s why I’m writing this. Do you think this is for entertainment? Do you think I enjoy admitting I was taken — a foolish old man? I’m embarrassed. At least it wasn’t a dating site and some hot lady’s uncle stuck in Africa needing bail money. My wife would have killed me if that were the case.
No, I called 888 instead of 866 — the prefix for my bank’s customer service. My bank changed from Columbia Bank to Umpqua Bank a few years back, then changed again from Umpqua back to Columbia a few months ago. So when “customer service” answered instead of “Columbia Bank,” I wasn’t alarmed. A mistake any tired old fool would make, right?
In the back of my mind I was thinking customer service might still be sorting out the transition between the two banks. So when they asked me to verify information — not a lot, and I didn’t give much — it didn’t raise the flag it should have. They didn’t need much. No more than what’s printed on any check you write every month to pay your bills. Address. Routing number. Account number. That’s it.
I stopped, hung up, realized the numbers didn’t match, and called Columbia directly.
I didn’t think much more about it at the time, because really — they didn’t have any more information than if they’d pulled one of my checks out of the trash. One of your checks. One of those checks you toss in the garbage, out by the curb, that the Girl Scouts forgot to collect because they showed up without their uniforms.
Yesterday — June 18th, 2026 — a membership card arrived in the mail. Premier Plans. The website is real: premierplans.net. The card had my legal name on it, not the name I go by. All the information I’d need to verify a legitimate membership, plus a notice that I’d be charged $97.89 monthly by remote check. They even included a sample image of what the check would look like.
I checked my bank. It matched exactly.
So here is what you do first. Do not call them. I’ll say it again — do not call them.
Call your bank. This time, with the correct number — the one on the back of your card, not the one in their email or on their card.
Long story short: we opened a fraud case, stopped the pending payments, closed the compromised account, moved everything to a clean one. Life goes on. I may get the $97.89 back. I’m not holding my breath.
Then I did something they didn’t expect. I called the scammers back.
They answered fast. Smooth. Professional. “This is a company that represents several plans — Premier Plans is just one of them. You want to cancel your membership and get a refund? I can absolutely do that for you. Can I get your name? And your address — that’s all I need.” A pause, some typing. “Yes, I see it right here. Refund issued. Membership canceled. Funds in your account in five to seven business days. Thank you, and have a good day.”
Polished. Confident. Completely fake.
So what do I actually get out of that call? My money back? Slim to none. But maybe — and that “maybe” is exactly how they stay in business. Keep the mark calm, keep the illusion alive, keep Johnny Law looking the other way for one more day.
Bottom line: will I starve? No. Am I embarrassed? Darn tootin’. So why am I telling you this?
Because this isn’t clickbait. This is real, and this is how we stop them.
What they didn’t figure on is who they scammed. Someone who writes and publishes on Substack. Someone who runs his own site at elephantsinkroom.com. Someone who posts on eight other platforms and asks every single reader to restack, repost, reshare — and send it to your parents, your grandparents, anyone who might be next.
I am eighty years old this November. I am exactly who they prey upon.
They picked the wrong one.
Let’s make them hurt. Restack this. Share it. Send it to someone who needs to see it before they pick up the phone.
