Dear NSA: A Collection of Politically Incorrect Short Stories

by Harmon Cooper

  ‘Are you kidding me? Look at this place!’

  ‘Those two probably have drugs on them right now! I bet we’d find something if we stopped and poked around.’

  ‘Put your gun away, old timer,’ Officer Peters said, suddenly growing serious. ‘You flash your shit here and they will flash theirs back.’

  ‘Old timer? I’ll have you know…’ Gunner began.

  ‘Shut the fuck up,’ Cody, the other Vietnam vet mumbled. It was the first time he had spoken since they left the press conference.

  ‘I didn’t come here to be talked to like this!’ Gunner squirmed in his seat.

  ‘Mr. Gunner,’ CEO Bryan Bronson said, ‘remember our talk back at the press conference? We are going to have cameras on us and we need to be on our best behavior. The feed will go live as soon as we get out of the car and begin our patrol.’

  ‘This is our patrol,’ Officer Peters said with a smirk. He pointed out the window at a car on cinder blocks. Two black youths leaned against the car with their hands in their pockets. Both of them looked away from the line of cop cars in a way that made them seem guilty.

  ‘This is what?’

  ‘Yeah, this is it. You think I’m letting you four out in this neighborhood? They’ll eat you alive out there.’

  ‘This is not what Chief Alvarez and I agreed upon.’ Bryan Bronson turned to Officer Peters. ‘Let’s be very clear here. This is a publicity stunt, a stunt that won’t be a stunt if we are trapped inside the vehicle here!’

  The officer’s smile thinned. He kept his eyes on the road, eyes shielded by a pair of wrap-around sunglasses. ‘Mr. Bronson, I suggest you get your finger out of my face. I’m following orders from Chief Alvarez.’

  ‘This isn’t what I signed up for!’ Gunner said from the backseat. ‘I’m not trying to be a distinguished member of my… community from inside an armored SUV!’

  The two Vietnam vets grumbled as well.

  ‘No offense, gents, but you aren’t a part of this community,’ Officer Peters said. ‘I don’t know where you’re from, but you definitely aren’t from around these parts.’

  ‘Enough,’ Bryan Bronson said, his face growing red. ‘I’ll give the Police Chief a call. I’d like to hear this from his mouth.’

  ‘Be my guest.’

  ‘Hello,’ Ryan was on the phone seconds later. ‘Hi, Chief Alvarez, this is Bryan Bronson with Pay to Play. Yes, I am with your officer now. Yes, we are in the Perkins Homes area. I don’t know what you said…’

  He was quiet a moment as the Police Chief explained his reasoning for not letting the Pay to Play volunteer law enforcement officers out of their vehicle. Once he was finished Ryan said, ‘I understand your concern, sir, but it is broad daylight outside and we have helmet cams on that are linked to both our website and our YouTube channel. I’ve visited a dozen talk shows over the last week hyping this event and my company has spent a considerable sum on a viral Twitter campaign.’

  Viral add campaign, Officer Peters mouthed. He turned right on Broadway, following the vehicle in front of him. He figured they would circle the block a few times and that would be the end of it, which was why he was surprised when Bryan Bronson turned on his phone’s speaker function.

  ‘Pull over and let them out,’ Police Chief Alvarez said, his voice crackly. ‘Keep it short and sweet so they can get their footage.’

  ‘But Chief…’

  ‘Enough, Officer Peters.’

  ‘Yes sir.’

  ***

  Officer Peters radioed at the squad car in front and behind him. Together, they turned onto Gough Street and drove into Herring Court. Black youth scattered as soon as the vehicles came to a halt. Bags were dropped, doors were shut and a few people even started getting on the ground with their hands over their heads.

  ‘They’re getting away!’ Gunner shouted. Before anyone could stop him, he kicked open his door and started chasing a man wearing a backward Ravens cap.

  ‘Shit!’ Officer Peters said. The radio on his chest buzzed. ‘Someone stop that stupid mother…’

  Bryan Bronson was already out of the vehicle, running after Gunner. ‘Making a fool of me!’ he said through gritted teeth as he chased the out-of-shape man. For his part, Bryan was an avid swimmer who sometimes competed in triathlons. It didn’t take long for him to catch up to Gunner.

  ‘Slow down… Gunner!’ he managed to say instead of idiot.

  ‘They’re getting away!’ The volunteer officer was huffing hard, his hands on his knees. A thought flashed across Ryan’s brain as he watched the volunteer officer try and get control of his breath. What have I created?

  No time for that thought. A man burst out of a wooden door carrying something in his arms. Gunner immediately began chasing the man through a gap between the low-rise housing. The gap spilled onto the following street, which had slightly larger homes. Officer Peters and another officer were behind Ryan in a matter of seconds.

  ‘Where did that fucking idiot go?’ Officer Peters shouted.

  ‘There,’ Bryan said. ‘I was hoping to cut him off before he got even deeper.’

  The other officer immediately began chasing after Gunner, who had apparently got his second wind. Bryan’s phone buzzed. He instinctively glanced at it to see a message from his secretary: CAMERAS ARE LIVE. His hand came up to cover his helmet cam.

  ‘Return to the vehicle and get inside. This little party is over!’ Officer Peters screamed in Bryan’s face. ‘Over, you hear me!? We can’t have people over sixty paying to be cops!’

  ‘This is not the time…’ Bryan tried to tell the officer with his eyes that the video feed was live. Officer Peters was too pissed to notice.

  ‘Fuck the time!’

  ‘I’ll have you know…’ he began to say.

  ‘Listen you stupid corporate bastard – you’ve created a royal fuck up by bringing these people here. Police officers already have a tough enough job without having to babysit rich geriatrics who…’

  Bang! Bang!

  ‘Shots fired!’ Officer Peters screamed into his radio. ‘In pursuit now. Listen, Mr. Bronson, get the fuck back to the SUV and don’t do anything else.’

  Officer Peters ran towards the sound of the gunfire. Bryan spun on his heels and saw a black teenager lying on the ground with his hands over his head.

  ‘Am I in trouble, officer?’ the kid asked without looking up.

  How long has he been lying there? Bryan couldn’t recall seeing the kid just a few moments ago.

  ‘Just stay down, kid,’ he said, still hiding his video feed with his hand.

  The kid’s head shifted and his eyes leveled on Ryan. ‘You’re not a police officer,’ he said.

  ‘I said stay down.’

  The black youth began to roll over. ‘Hey chill man, I was just out buying some milk for my grandma.’

  ‘Stay down.’ Ryan placed his other hand on his taser.

  ‘Shit, at least let me sit up man. It fucking sucks pressing your face into the dirt. You ever had your faced pressed into the dirt? Man, cops be coming up in the court like on a daily basis or some shit.’

  ‘Language, son.’

  ‘Shit, you should see these cops sometimes just storming up in here. At night there are helicopters. My grandma can’t sleep with the helicopters so she sleeps during the day now.’ The kid pulls himself to his feet. He keeps his hands in front of him, clearly trying to show that he isn’t dangerous. He’s a lanky teen, in a loose-fitting jeans and a basketball jersey.

  ‘Pay to Play,’ he said, reading the logo on Ryan’s chest. ‘What y’all paying to play?’

  ‘You haven’t heard of Pay to Play?’

  ‘Nope. Some kind of lottery?’

  Ryan dropped his hand from his taser, keeping his other hand over his helmet cam. ‘Not quite. It is actually a play on words, words usually used by those who despise what it is I’m doing.’

  ‘What you talking about, man?’ The kid sniffed. ‘Anyway, that’s my milk over there. He nodded at a
plastic sack with a half-gallon of milk in it.

  ‘I see that.’

  ‘Man you gonna let me go or what? I want to get inside before more cops appear. Don’t think they ain’t coming. Hear that?’ They were both quiet for a moment, listening as sirens blared in the distance. ‘Let me get up out of here before they come back,’ the kid said. ‘I ain’t trying to…’

  ‘Mr. Bronson!’

  Slow motion action now.

  Bryan Bronson watched as Gunner rounded a corner behind the kid with his weapon drawn. He fired off a shot; the bullet passed over the kid’s shoulder and directly into the spot between Bryan’s bulletproof vest and into his own shoulder. The sting of the bullet was like a million bees concentrating on a single spot. The bullet was through his flesh before he could react.

  ‘Shiiiit!’ The kid screamed, slow motion too. He started to duck his head as Bryan fell. The boy stumbled over his own shoes, cracking his knees hard on the ground. Not seconds later, a police officer took Gunner down with a tackle. Officer Peters appeared, noticing the youth scrambling to his feet.

  ‘Get down,’ he told the kid, but the kid was too frightened to do anything.

  ‘On the ground!’ Officer Peters said, raising his taser. The kid was up now, his feet gaining traction on the gravel. The trigger of the taser was squeezed and copper wire launched out of the end of the weapon, latching onto the boy’s chest and sending a jolt through his spine.

  Bryan Bronson, a pool of blood forming around him, swiveled to the kid and said, ‘Stop.’ He said it again, louder this time, ‘Stop!’ He watched the kid’s body flop on the ground until the officer’s knee fell on top of him. The black youth was shoved face-first into the dirt as his hands were cuffed.

  ‘He didn’t do anything…’ Bryan tried to say, no longer able to cover his helmet cam. ‘It wasn’t him!’

  Tips for a DEA Sex Party

  Dearest Reader,

  The following top secret slides are best viewed in Landscape Mode, adjustable in the main menu above. Do it now.

  Landscape mode.

  Landscape mode.

  Let’s begin.

  The Gastronomics of Brotherhood

  Clara, [16]

  You’ll be happy to know that by the time you receive this e-mail, the New York Association for Disenfranchised Struggling Writers will be $25,000 richer.

  Having recently stumbled upon a Spanish Harlem born writer of sci-fi meta-fiction, whose newest collection is told from the perspective of an alien who has taken the form of a teenage girl with ASMR (Amazon: Things Heard During Teleportation), I decided to take it upon myself to support the very organization that valiantly cradled this brilliant novelist at a time when he/she – I say this because he/she is transgendered – needed it the most. I hope this donation continues to inspire more great works.

  In other news, I’m halfway through my Kerouakesque road trip and will reach Arizona shortly. The familiarity of my custom RV makes my strict morning regimen easy to follow. In fact, right now I’m dictating this e-mail to Terrance while I receive my usual morning enema.

  You told me in your last e-mail that Will, our black sheep of the family, donated a considerable sum to a children’s hospital in Philadelphia. While I admire my younger brother’s desire to help needy children of ambiguous urban descent, I do think it’s important to note that his donation was $4,000 more than my recent donation to an animal hospital in Oklahoma. Sure, it could be coincidental, but I’m four years older than him and this isn’t the first time this has happened.

  After I donated $10,000 to Austin’s Watershed Protection Agency to help build a habitat for the city’s magnificent Blind Salamanders last month, Will donated $14,000 to Seeing is Believing, a charity aimed at ending blindness in Africa. Two weeks ago, after I donated $20,000 to Blokes for Pints, an organization fighting the three penny increase in beer prices in Britain, Will donated $24,000 to Pub Awareness, a British NGO trying to raise the drinking age and provide counseling for alcoholics. Is our little black sheep of a brother trying to undermine me?

  Please advise,

  Harvey K. Johnson

  ~Message dictated to Terrance during a morning enema. Hi Clara, hope you are well. Yours always, Terrance~

  * * *

  Dearest Clara,

  I’m currently in Southern Mumbai, preparing for tonight’s lecture on gastronomical illnesses. In a few hours, I’ll be introducing the JohnsonMed BioBowel to the Indian public in hopes of fighting secretory diarrhea. No child should die from diarrhea, which, as you know, is something I’m extremely passionate about. The conference is taking place at a lecture hall that sits across from Mumbai Harbor. The weather is skin-peelingly humid, but beautiful nonetheless.

  I’m glad to hear Emma is well and hope she continues making decent grades. My Julia just got accepted to Harvard Medical School, something I’m quite proud of. Good to see she will follow in her father’s footsteps and not Harvey, our impractical brother. Julia is my shining star, despite what happened in Mexico City and her deportation last year from Amsterdam. We all make mistakes, even hallucinatory ones.

  In philanthropic news, I’ve recently donated $29,000 to the New York Fund for Middle Career Writers (NYFMCW). It’s an organization I believe in, although I don’t find much time to read aside from the occasional airport thriller. Thrillers are fast, to the point, and guaranteed to get me through yet another arduous flight. I can’t say the same for literary fiction, but I’ll support it and the hapless fools who churn it out nonetheless.

  I wish I had more time to tour across the country visiting the charities I supported like our older brother, Harvey. Wouldn’t that be nice? Harvey will always be more playboy than workhorse. Yes, I know that you’d like us to forgive each other, but forgiveness will happen in due time. Five years isn’t so long to ignore someone. As I’ve told you before, once I receive a written apology (an email will do), I’ll be ready to put our differences aside. Until that time, things will remain stagnant regarding our relationship.

  See you soon,

  Will K. Johnson

  * * *

  Clara,

  Hello dear sister! In San Francisco now. I remember living here during my twenties and starting my first business, Harvey Johnson’s laundry mat/restaurant/music venue, or as I liked to call it, Harvey Johnson’s Best Of All Places. Imagine a humble start like that (of course with help from Dad) leading up to what I am these days – a fulltime philanthropist.

  I stopped in at an NGO called Keep San Fran Fran San which does work in community development, most notably with burlesque performances and alternative circus acts. While I was there, a tattooed woman with surgically implanted horns performed this trick where she separated a hula hoop into a long rod and swallowed the entire thing! (I won’t tell you how she got it out of her body.) Needless to say, I was highly impressed. I quickly wrote a check to the organization for $6,000 with promises of more to come if they continue to wow.

  While here in San Francisco, I’ve become interested in a group of college students who are setting up an NGO to raise awareness for the Mariko Aoki Phenomenon. The phenomenon is named after a Japanese woman who was the first to publicize the fact that many people feel the need to defecate during and after bookstore visits. This, you might be excited to learn, is one reason book sellers like Barnes and Nobles spend so much time and money designing their bathrooms. Anyway, I like the group and its message, and I’ve decided to fund them for a year. Goodbye $14,000 – hello social awareness.

  I received word through various sources that our little brother Will made a donation to the New York Fund for Middle Career Writers. Of course, it was $4,000 more than my donation to the New York Association for Disenfranchised Struggling Writers, yet another attempt by my younger brother to undermine my compassion!

  To test my theory that Will’s donating money to philanthropic projects that are in direct opposition of mine, I’ll be wiring $10,000 to the Support Our Troops Foundation this afternoon.
If my theory holds true, the opposite of supporting our troops would be supporting Al Qaeda or possibly the Taliban, essentially forcing Will into a show of hand (or forcing him to support terrorist organizations). Only time will tell how our little black sheep will respond.

  In unrelated news, Jack got his first video game system today. At least that’s what his nanny tells me. I’ve been so busy lately with my own work that I haven’t had time to Skype with my only son. I guess it is a curse of the Johnson’s to be constantly engaged with their passions. I suppose there are worse families one could be born into.

  Regards,

  Harvey K. Johnson

  ~Message dictated to Terrance during a morning enema. I think Harvey may have a problem. Always concerned, Terrance~

  * * *

  Dearest Clara,

  I’m on a plane to Frankfurt as I type this. Lufthansa has a wonderful first class service, another reason JohnsonMed is looking to partner with them for emergency medical transport. With the growing speed and efficiency of air travel, this partnership will surely benefit all parties.

  The conference in India ended well. The final banquet dinner featured elephants and a martial arts demonstration by a troupe of finely clothed Sikhs. While the ninja Sikhs were definitely worth a viewing, I can’t say I’ll be returning to India anytime soon. The conditions (even for those who can afford the better conditions) are still lackluster, and seeing so many poor people turns my stomach sour, making it impossible to properly dine.

  In philanthropic news, I recently donated $10,000 to Stop the Burlesque, a San Francisco-based NGO that needn’t much explanation. I also transferred $18,000 to FecalTruthWatch, or FTW, a San Francisco-based organization that exposes fabricated bowel movement ideologies. Conditions such as the Mariko Aoki Phenomenon, or the Annie Tran Method (ATM) – a movement that encourages sexual suppository insertion in men under the guise that pegging is a way to loosen bowels and stimulate nerve endings – are literally tearing our society apart from the inside out. FecalTruthWatch seeks to address this.