http://www.wired.com/wired/archive/14.05/rfid.html
Pantuck pierces my skin with the gun, delivering a microchip and antenna combo the size of a grain of long rice. For the rest of my life, a small region on my right arm will emit binary signals that can be converted into a 16-digit number. When Pantuck scans my arm with the VeriChip reader - it looks sort of like the wand clerks use to read barcodes in checkout lines - I hear a quiet beep, and its tiny red LED display shows my ID number.
Three weeks later, I meet the smartcard-intercepting Westhues at a greasy spoon a few blocks from the MIT campus. He's sitting in the corner with a half-finished plate of onion rings, his long blond hair hanging in his face as he hunches over the cloner attached to his computer.
Because the VeriChip uses a frequency close to that of many smartcards, Westhues is pretty sure the cloner will work on my tag. Westhues waves his antenna over my arm and gets some weird readings. Then he presses it lightly against my skin, the way a digital-age pickpocket could in an elevator full of people. He stares at the green waveforms that appear on his computer screen. "Yes, that looks like we got a good reading," he says.