Dear NSA: A Collection of Politically Incorrect Short Stories

by Harmon Cooper

  As for your Yahoo! password: It's Aquarius. All the people you listed are Aquarians. If you want a difficult password to crack, try using a password generator. Just a helpful hint.

  You know, contrary to what many people believe, we here at the NSA offices aren't really the bad guys. Sure, we spy on people; sure, we read through the e-mails sent between EU offices; sure, we listen to Angela Merkel talk on the phone; sure, we know what you made for dinner last night and what you plan to make for breakfast the next morning; sure, we are trying to have Edward Snowden assassinated. But the point remains – we do this solely for your safety. We spy because we care.

  Think of us as a loving father who snoops around while you’re sleeping, but still buys you awesome birthday gifts (like that iPad we bought you last year with your federal return), and generally has your well-being at heart. We keep our eyes on you so you don’t have to. Think of us like a twenty-first century Mr. Rogers.

  We care about you, Mrs. Moloch. We care about Chester's living testicle and your two adorable children, Jerry and Susie. We even care about your nephew Michael, even though he’ll likely spend the rest of his life in timeout. We care about your neighborhood, the Sonic you work at (love that Chili Cheese Coney!), and the entire state of Alabama. We care about all the states, even the ones that aren't officially states (like Puerto Rico, American Samoa, Iraq and Afghanistan).

  People criticize us here at the NSA, but that's only because we can be a little overbearing sometime. Most good parents are. Maybe that's what went wrong with you, Mrs. Moloch. Maybe, your mom and all her boyfriends and your dad with his 1980s cocaine problem and his obsession with muscle cars and handlebar mustaches negatively affected the outcome of your life. Maybe it was your late 90s love of pop punk or that steamy sex tape you made in college (also available online/check Pornhub’s amateur section), or the mental breakdown you had in 2003. Who are we to say? It's just what our research indicates.

  Oh, but we're getting ahead of ourselves, let's just end this e-mail by reminding you that we care. Really, we do. So keep up the good work, and if you see any more of your family members doing anything suspicious, please drop us a line. We'll be waiting, or more accurately, we’ll be watching.

  Looking forward to your reply,

  Your friends at the NSA

  Pay to Play[15]

  ‘I am a firm believer that the good of America rests in its citizens, all of its citizens no matter their age,’ Bryan Bronson said. The blue and white lights of the O’Reilly Factor Studio blazed all around him. A remotely controlled camera zoomed in on his face.

  ‘I couldn’t agree with you more.’ Bill O’Reilly said. ‘But America is curious Bryan, what gave you the idea to form the Pay to Play Company?’

  ‘There are distinguished citizens all over the country, those who have made contributions to police departments or state law enforcement. My company matches those individuals with police departments, allowing for these distinguished citizens to take part in daily law enforcement operations. The idea to form Pay to Play came after desiring to participate in law enforcement activities myself.’

  O’Reilly nodded thoughtfully. His eyes flickered to his producer, who was telling him through a hand gesture that he had four minutes to wrap-up the interview. ‘What about those people that say you aren’t qualified, that these distinguished citizens you send out to police departments aren’t qualified to handle an arrest?’

  ‘Are you telling me that those who have served in Vietnam or possibly the Korean War aren’t able to take this job seriously?’

  ‘I’m not saying it,’ Bill O’Reilly said, his hands coming up. ‘These are just opinions online, mostly from liberal news media sites.’

  ‘To be American is to have an opinion,’ Bryan Bronson said matter-of-factly. ‘However, I can assure the American public that we do the upmost job in protecting our distinguished volunteer officers and their communities. In fact—’

  O’Reilly interrupted him. ‘But what about the fact that these volunteer officers have guns? I mean, we are talking men as old as I am – not that I couldn’t hold my own – going against young thugs and violent offenders.’

  ‘Our volunteer officers go through an extensive training program before they are released into the field.’

  ‘And what about those who criticize this and say…’ O’Reilly placed a pair of glasses over his angry hemorrhoid of a face and read from a sheet of paper. ‘The Pay to Play Company attaches rich white citizens with police departments, allowing them to play cop for a day and add fuel to the already tumultuous race relations that plague this country.’

  Bryan Bronson laughed. ‘Well, clearly this writer is angry at something. A racist writer, I might add.’

  ‘It sounds like it, but it is a legitimate concern from some camps about the Pay to Play Company.’

  ‘I can assure the American people that our volunteer police officers are the very example of the melting pot that is America. We have people whose great grandparents were German, or Irish, or English. We even have an African-American who served with the Galveston, Texas police department. As you can see, we are a diverse bunch.’

  O’Reilly nodded. ‘Well, I for one like this initiative. It is a great incentive to a generation of Americans who care about their country, who care about the direction it is going and want to get involved.’

  ‘It sure is,’ Bryan Bronson said with a large grin. ‘And to show the American people what my company is all about, I’ll be going into the field in Baltimore next week with a team of our newest volunteer police officers. We’ll all be wearing helmet cams, the feeds of which will be viewable on YouTube and our website. It is time we cleaned up the streets together as a nation.’

  ***

  ‘Let me see the notes again for tomorrow’s Baltimore meeting,’ Bryan Bronson said to his secretary. He sat in the Pay to Play offices on the 55th floor of the JP Morgan Chase Tower. From his window he could see the skyline of Houston; a clump of white clouds sat over a city covered in reflective buildings. Houston was money with whipped cream on top.

  His assistant, a young blonde straight out of a legal thriller, hurried into his office. She walked briskly in her high heels, which always made Bryan Bronson think just how ridiculous high heels were.

  ‘You should wear something more comfortable to work,’ he chided her, ‘shoe-wise. What if there is a terrorist attack? How would you get down the stairs?’

  ‘Sorry sir.’

  ‘Never mind,’ he said as he rifled through the files she’d given him. ‘Are these them?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘This isn’t what I was expecting…’

  Two of the three men in the picture were out of shape. One had a face like a pug, Richard Banks, and the fittest of the bunch, Brandon Cody, was an inch less than five feet tall and puny. At least these two were Vietnam vets. The third man in the group of pictures, Bo Gunner, owned a multimillion dollar milk delivery company. Just looking at this guy gave Bryan Bronson an uneasy feeling.

  ‘You said you wanted the freshest trainees to prove how well they were trained,’ his secretary said. ‘These are the new guys.’

  Bryan Bronson glanced down at the paper again, at the donor form. Richard Banks had donated a pair of squad cars to the Kansas City Police Department and funded a complete overhaul of their uniforms. Brandon Cody had paid for half of Georgetown, Texas’s new MRAP, just in case there was an attack in Williamson County. Bo Gunner had been donating money to Birmingham, Alabama’s Police Department since the 70s. His donations since that time totaled nearly four million dollars.

  ‘And none of them have criminal records?’

  ‘Bo Gunner has a few things that have been removed from his record. Apparently, he has a lot of power in Birmingham. He ran for mayor twice in the Nineties and nearly won.’

  ‘This is a big media event…’ Ryan set the papers down, rubbed his temples. ‘I was hoping our volunteers would be more… photo-friendly.’

  H
is secretary nodded in a way that told him she’d already thought through this problem. ‘The reason I think these guys are perfect is this – they’re your average Americans. They don’t look like Clint Eastwood or… or…’ she cleared her throat. ‘He’s the only older actor I know. The point is this – they are normal, which makes the company look less threatening.’

  ‘Good point,’ Bryan Bronson said, nodding. ‘I’ll review these files on the trip to Baltimore tonight. Also, please arrange for me to meet with the three before we are placed in front of the media tomorrow. I want to get a feel for who they are. I have a feeling this Bo Gunner guy is going to be a tough one.’

  “Why’s that?’

  ‘Just a hunch.’

  ***

  ‘Pleasure to meet you, Mr. Bronson,’ Bo Gunner said. He was the first to speak at the meeting hall in Baltimore; he’d nearly barreled over to Bryan when he entered the room. Gunner’s chest was protected by bullet proof vest and a camouflage headband was wrapped tightly around his skull. The skin on his face, ripe from years of afternoon whiskey sours, was covered in pockmarks. A recent dye job made sure his hair was dark brown.

  ‘Mr. Gunner, right?’

  ‘Well lookie there, I didn’t expect you to know my name,’ his said, revealing a pair of canine teeth.

  ‘Have you met the others?’

  Gunner nodded past a few Pay to Play Company men, all of whom wore polo shirts with the company logo across the breast. Bryan Bronson’s eyes followed Gunner’s nod to the two other volunteer police officers. The one named Richard Banks was even heavier than Gunner. The other man, Brandon Cody, had sallow cheeks and white hair, which he’d combed to the left to cover a bald spot.

  The men quickly joined Gunner and Bryan. Banks and Cody were both in their Pay to Play gear. They had helmets on, bullet proof vests, fanny packs full of supplies and Glock 22s on the left side of their waist. On their right sides they had the standard issued tasers, made exclusively for Pay to Play by Raytheon. Gunner wore matching gear, aside from the fact he didn’t have a helmet on.

  ‘Brandon Cody,’ the small man with sallow cheeks said. ‘I’m looking forward to serving, sir.’

  Bryan laughed cordially. ‘We aren’t going to Afghanistan,’ he said.

  Richard Banks said, ‘We may not be going to Afghanistan, sir, but we are going to one of the most dangerous neighborhoods in Baltimore. If you prepare for every day to be a fight, you’ll be ready when the first swing comes.’

  ‘No better target practice than a bunch of towel-heads,’ Gunner said. ‘Hell, at my shooting range we’re still using Osama targets. I’m not saying I could have done a better job of getting him out of that little complex in Pakistan, but our boys did leave behind a helicopter, which the Chinese now have and hell, who knows what those little slanty eyed bastards are going do with it.’

  ‘And where is your helmet?’ Bryan Bronson asked, disregarding the man’s racism. He tried to swallow a sinking feeling in his chest when dealing with Gunner. He’d dealt with countless men like him before, showy fools who were more talk than substance.

  ‘No helmet needed, doc,’ Gunner said. ‘Just a camo sweatband will do.’

  ‘You aren’t allowed to come to the field with us unless you have your helmet. Your helmet has a video camera, which is important to our project here today and it will protect your head just in case something goes wrong.’ Bryan snapped his fingers and one of the Pay to Play lackeys appeared. ‘Find this man his helmet.’

  Gunner started to say something, but Richard Banks, the larger of the two Vietnam vets, placed his hand on the boisterous man’s arm. ‘What?’ Gunner asked.

  ‘Just do what they say.’

  ‘Like hell I will!’ Gunner whipped his shoulder away. ‘I’ve donated four million dollars, that’s the number four with six zeros after it, to my local police department. I paid the fifty thousand dollar training fee to take part in the Pay to Play program and I’ll be damned if someone—’

  A helmet was placed in his hand by one of the Pay to Play employees. CEO Bryan Bronson took a step closer to Gunner, eying him down. ‘Listen, Bo, while we are out on the streets, it is incredibly important that you follow the orders and the rules that were explained to you during the training courses you took with my company. The media will be here today, and we need to put on a good face for them. Can you do that for me?’

  Bo Gunner mumbled something as he strapped his helmet on.

  ***

  ‘The Pay to Play Corporation matches community-minded candidates with police departments all across America. These candidates are volunteer police officers, yet they are able to do their jobs and apprehend criminals to the full extent of the law,’ Bryan Bronson said. He stood behind a podium in front of his company’s yellow, shield-shaped logo. Strapped to his head was a riot gear helmet; across his chest was a bullet proof vest with the company logo on the shoulder. His whitish blond hair jutted out of the front of his helmet, arranged by his stylist.

  ‘The company has contracts with 1,500 police departments across America, and we have successfully placed 5,000 volunteer police officers in the field. The officers do their job for the love of their country, the love of the freedoms it has provided them. Pay to Play is on its way to becoming a fortune 500 company with nearly a thousand more contracts to be signed by the end of the year. We believe that the community knows best when it comes to policing itself; our volunteer police are the elite of America,’ he said, sweeping his hand at Banks, Cody and Gunner. Gunner was sweating profusely, clearly not accustomed to the twenty cameras aimed at him. ‘Our members are professional, qualified and competent.’ He smiled at the cameras. ‘Are there any questions before we go out into the field?’

  One reporter shouted, ‘What about the allegations that your company simply provides a way for wealthy Americans to pay to administer the law?’

  ‘Ah, I’ve heard this one before,’ Bronson said, his smile still intact. ‘These allegations are baseless. The volunteer police officers that Pay to Play plants in police departments nationwide pay a training fee to us. They aren’t paying to join the police; they are paying for us to train them to be better volunteers.’

  ‘Isn’t that essentially the same thing?’ the same reporter asked. ‘Aren’t they guaranteed placement with police departments? Further, Pay to Play’s yearly tax statements show that–’

  ‘Let’s keep the mood light, shall we?’ Bryan Bronson said with a tight grin. ‘Any more questions?’

  ‘—Government subsidies…’

  ‘Please, next question.’

  ‘What are the injury rates associated with Pay to Play’s volunteer police force?’ a female journalist asked.

  ‘Only two people have been injured on the job, and those two were injured by natural causes.’

  ‘Clifford Jackson was shot in Chicago,’ the reporter said quickly.

  Bryan nodded, ‘Yes, he was shot… by himself. He shot himself in the foot because he didn’t follow proper procedure. Are there any other questions?’

  An older reporter with a pen and pad raised his hand. ‘How do you think Pay to Play contributes to the ongoing debate about the way race is viewed and arguably administered in America?’

  ‘Pay to Play is a company that does its best to do exactly for America what needs to be done.’

  The journalist said, ‘That isn’t an answer.’

  ‘Pay to Play is a company that strives to improve itself alongside the communities it takes part in through mutual respect, self-governance and the belief that freedom in America is directly tied to those who protect our freedoms both nationally and globally. Without rule of law, we are not free. There is nothing liberating about chaos.’ Bryan Bronson waved his hand. ‘No more questions; we need to get into the field. Be sure to view our helmet cams on our website or on our YouTube feed. Thanks for coming here today.’

  The sound of flashing cameras filled the air as he stepped off the podium.

  ***

 
; The Pay to Play members moved in a black SUV with a police squad car in front and behind them. The driver of their vehicle, a Baltimore police officer named Chad Peters, was less than thrilled to see Bryan Bronson walk up, dapper and corporate as they come, alongside three guys who should have retired long ago.

  ‘All right,’ Officer Peters said in a thick Boston accent. ‘We are going to a place called Perkins Heights…’

  ‘Perkins Homes,’ Bryan said looking at his phone, ‘is a public housing project between Little Italy and Fells Point...’

  ‘Great Mr. Wikipedia,’ Officer Peters said. ‘But that’s old info. Sure, it’s still a public housing project, but mostly we call it the ghetto around here.’

  Gunner laughed.

  ‘Am I right?’ Officer Peters said, nodding out the window.

  The streets outside were rundown and dirty, a far cry from the more prominent areas of the city. Pawn shops, fried chicken places, shoe shops, convenient stores and everything in between protected itself from the public through barred windows.

  ‘There definitely are a lot of black people living here,’ Gunner commented. ‘Just look at this shithole. It’s sad to see people living like this, but it is their choice. This is America, the land of opportunity. Come get you some!’ He shifted in his seat, clearly up to something.

  ‘What are you doing back there?’ Bryan Bronson asked, annoyed. It hadn’t taken long for Gunner to get under his skin. The man was loud and a par below most the members of his organization. It was amazing he had passed the training module.

  ‘Just making sure everything is in place,’ Gunner said.

  Banks, one of the Vietnam vets, said, ‘Put your gun away. We ain’t even there yet!’