TBT #23: Really Stupid Ideas

Norman was watching some cop show on television, when the idea hit him. With the by-any-means-necessary approach to anti-terrorism policework that’s become all the rage since 2001, exactly how far do the so-called ‘deep cover’ undercover agents go? From what he saw on TV, they seemed willing to engage in illegal activity after illegal activity, so long as it led to the capture of some terrorist or big-time lawbreaker. The question he asked, then, was whether there existed a team of men and women who engaged in sexual activities with these terrorist suspects in order to win their trust and extract information. Logically, he decided, such a unit simply must exist — what better time to learn secrets than in the post-coital glow that enchants us all? Employing further logic, he came to the conclusion that the only real name for this elite undercover police program would be the “Undercover Fucksquad.”

He liked the way the name sounded. For him, it was the Best Thing Ever for January 31, 2004.

Part One

It was early in the evening and Norman was shaving in preperation for a night out. His friend, Steve, stood just outside the door of the bathroom, waiting patientlly for his always-tardy buddy.

“Steve,” he said. “Undercover Fucksquad!”

“What?” asked Steve. “Undercover Fucksquad?”

“I googled for it, you know,” he continued, shaving the little spot under his nose. “No matches for Undercover Fucksquad! Do you know what that means?”

“You haven’t turned SafeSearch off?” suggested Steve.

“Nope!” he cheered. “I checked that. What it REALLY means is that I’m creative!”

“Undercover Fucksquad makes you creative?” Steve was confused.

“Yes!” he exclaimed, breezing out the bathroom door. “Now let’s go!”

Part Two

He and Steve had stopped to pick up Steve’s girlfriend, who was named Lauren. Norman was still excited about Undercover Fucksquad, but was beginning to develop some concerns.

“Lauren!” he said, as she answered the door in a very nice black dress. “I need to ask you something.”

She looked from him to Steve. “Happy New Year, guys.”

“Yes yes,” he waved off her holiday greeting. “Lauren, I need to know. As a woman, what sounds better to you: Undercover Fucksquad or Operation Fucksquad?”

Lauren was taken aback. “Wait,” she said. “What?”

“Oh,” Norman said, realizing his mistake. “They are both names for an elite undercover government spy agency that has sex with people to gather intelligence.”

“Is THAT what it is?” asked Steve.

“What else could it be?”

“Porn, I guess.”

Norman thought about this for a second. “It’s more espionage than porn, I think. The focus would really be on the squad part of the fucksquad.”

“What is this all about?” asked Lauren.

“I’m going to write a story about it! About the Fucksquad.” He sounded triumphant.

The three were silent, standing at the door. Lauren finally spoke.

“I like Undercover Fucksquad better,” she concluded.

Part Three

“So I’m concerned about the future of the Undercover Fucksquad,” Norman said somberly to the girl sitting across the table from him. They were sitting at a small table that sat against the wall of the crowded danceclub they were visiting. He had been sitting there alone for about fifteen minutes when this girl, clearly a bit inebriated and quite near-exhaustion, fell into the chair across from him.

“WHAT?” she yelled over the throbbing bass.

“The Fucksquad!” he yelled. “THE FUCKSQUAD!”

“WHAT?” she yelled again.

He spoke very slowly, yelling each word as if it were a command given to a pet. “I. AM. WORRIED. ABOUT. THE. FUTURE. OF. THE. UNDERCOVER. FUCKSQUAD.”

The music blasted through their ears, clefs buried in their brains. She leaned her head against the wall for support, and giggled like mad.

“Oh!” she laughed.

“Yes,” he said. “I am really struggling with this FUCKSQUAD.”

“Oh!” she said again, laughing against the wall. She was quiet for a minute and then leaned close to him, whispering (and sort of slobbering) to his ear.

“Oh, okay,” she whispered. “Do you have a place?”

Part Four

“Wait,” Steve laughed. “She asked you to go home with her?” Norman and Steve were standing in front of the bathroom mirror at the danceclub. Steve, as always, was checking his hair.

“Well, she asked to go home with ME. Which, really, is a bit presumptuous. I don’t think it’s right to just go inviting yourself over to people’s houses.”

Steve looked at his weird friend. “You’re weird,” he told him. “You haven’t been laid in forever. Why NOT do it?”

“It’s just not something I’m thinking about right now! I’m not even considering it. Steve, you have to understand, when I get an idea my mind works at about ninety miles an hour, just processing and extrapolating and expanding on that idea until I finally have a story I can write.”

“And your next story will be about this, uh, Operation Fucksquad?”

“UNDERCOVER Fucksquad!”

“Oh, right.”

“Do you like Operation better?”

Steve raised his hand, as if to make a point, but then dropped it quickly. “Uh, no,” he said.

“Yeah,” Norman said, staring beyond the mirror, “Undercover is so much better. Operation really doesn’t get across the undercover aspect the way Undercover Fucksquad does.”

“Fancy that,” said Steve.

“Yeah…” Norman mumbled, trailing off.

“So what’s the story going to be about, really, in the end? The characters, I mean — what are they like?”

“I don’t know yet. I just… — okay, this is going to sound a bit stupid –”

“THIS is the stupid part?”

“Yes, shut-up. Anyway, I think maybe, I just wanted to write about how numb people get, you know. How it’s so easy to lose feeling when we do something as a profession, or even just something we do out of sheer responsibility.”

Norman turned the tap on to wash his hands again.

“It’s so easy to lose feelings for things, isn’t it?” he continued. “And to just sort of… drift.”

Steve stared at his friend again, mouth agape. When he finally spoke, it was in a slow, wavering tone.

“So, wait,” Steve said. “You’re going to try to make a profound statement with a story called Operation Fucksquad?”

He pressed on the soap dispenser. “Undercover Fucksquad,” he said quietly.

Part Five

The next morning, Norman woke up to the sound of a construction worker outside his window banging a large metal object against a larger metal object and yelling the word ‘faggot’ at his companion who sat in a van reading a newspaper. Norman struggled to get out of bed, and wandered into his living room, where Steve and Lauren were sleeping on his couch, still in their clothes from last night.

As Norman opened his fridge in the hopes of discovering some food, Lauren began to stir. Not yet opening her eyes, she slurred her early morning words. “Hey, Nor,” she forced.

“Hey,” he said, pouring a glass of orange juice. “You want anything?”

“Mmm,” she said. “Not yet.”

“Okay,” he said quickly. “Let me know if you guys do.”

As he turned to walk back to his bedroom, she called after him.

“Hey,” she mumbled sleepily. “How’s that whole thing coming — that, uh, fucksquad thing?”

Norman stopped at the door to his room and leaned against the frame. His bedraggled hair made a point atop his head.

“Yeah,” he answered. “I’m not doing that anymore. It was kind of a stupid idea.”

(Happy New Year’s Everybody!)