Senor Miguel vs the FBI
When those in power are corrupt, the people over which they have power must rise. In the words of our forefathers, the same forefathers that these modern weavers of mistruths lie in the name of, ‘that whatever any Form of Government becomes destructive of these ends, it is the Right of the People to alter or to abolish it.’ These true patriots of yesterday spoke out against the tyranny they were faced with and so we must do today. It is in times like these that heroes emerge from the mass of the people and fight. And in case you were wondering, fighting for the cause comes in all shapes and sizes.
I was a junior in high school. My previous bouts of activism had included joining Amnesty International and wearing Rage Against the Machine shirts. But at this time, in this day and age, I needed something stronger. I needed a bigger message.
I sent a false tip to the FBI. It was an accident. I never meant for it to happen. It was hilarious, but wrong. Like laughing at a clown slipping on a banana peel.
The FBI has a ‘Submit Tip’ page. If you have any information could might assist the FBI in fighting terrorism, you would go there. I was feeling particularly saucy when I discovered this and learned you can type in information and print it out. I would never be bored in homeroom again. I quickly began all sorts of crazy variations, tips being submitted by people such as “Dr. Pimp,” “Derek Jeter’s Mom,” and “Captain Kill.” They would report anything from rampant communism to just dropping a line to say hello.
The infamous incident revolved around my friend and homeroom buddy Sarah. During a rehearsal for an upcoming production, Sarah broke a prop backstage. The prop was fixed with no permanent damage, but I teased her nonetheless. I went in one morning and decided the FBI might be interested. With Sarah and my friend Brian reading over my shoulder, I began typing up a tip on behalf of one “I. Cup”:
Dear Mr. Ashcroft,
It has come to my attention that one Sarah Page has broken a prop backstage in the production of ‘How to $ucceed in Business Without Really Trying.’ As she is a communist, I think it is best that I personally handle the situation. In my culture, we typically kill such offenders and bake them into a pie. No doubt you would like some Sarah Pie as well. Feel free to join me this Saturday for pie and tea. Our mutual acquaintance Mr. Bush is cordially invited as well.
Love,
I. Cup
As I finished up typing I pressed the ‘Enter’ key and looked over towards the printer to see if it was working. When it didn’t come out right away, I looked back at the screen.
I was smacked in the chest with intense feelings of paranoia, horror, confusion, and amusement all at once when I read the words, ‘Thank you! Your tip has been submitted!’
“Guys…”
Brian and Sarah read the screen. Brian’s eyes shifting from Sarah’s shocked expression to my desperate attempt to hold back laughter.
“Mike… I’m going to kill you…”
“Please don’t.”
The bell rang. Before I headed off in the direction of my Sociology class, Sarah and I had a quick discussion to alleviate whatever fears we had.
“OK, if they call us down to the office, meet me in the parking lot. We’ll take my car to Mexico… and freedom.”
“Mike, this isn’t funny.”
“Don’t call me Mike… call me Senor Miguel.”
The next two weeks were pretty tense. The performances came and went without a hitch but I was still somewhat paranoid. Sure I joked about the whole thing, but there was this terrified part of my brain that caused me to jump every time I was in class and the phone rang.
It was two weeks and a day after the tip was sent. I was feeling better about the whole thing. The FBI doesn’t have time for stuff like this, they wouldn’t even bother. And if they did, they would have done something by now. I had no idea how wrong I was.
I was in my Modern Drama class, beginning a test on Chekhov’s The Cherry Orchard. The phone rang and I looked up out of habit. Dismissing the nagging fears in my head, I turned back to my essay.
“Michael?” Mr. O’Brien called.
I looked up from my test once again.
“They want to see you in the Vice Principal’s office now.”
As I walked down the hall, I thought of all the things that they could possibly want me for. Maybe my mom needs me to pick up my brother from school. Maybe someone found something of mine somewhere. Maybe I’m kidding myself. I couldn’t think of anything that would merit interrupting a test.
As I entered the office, there was this one moment. It was the split second between knowing what was in there and knowing they would never take me alive. There were three big secret service guys in there, complete with suits and shades. I had this one moment.
In that split second I did a million things. Most notably, I recognized, then realized, then panicked, then reassured, followed by another panic. After that I get a hold of myself and remembered what I was. I was an actor. I’ve convinced audiences that I was a gay barber, that I was a sex-changing therapist, and that fairies could wear boots.
The next fraction of that moment I wondered why I kept getting cast in these questionable roles. But no matter. When I walked into that room, I would be Brando. I opened the door and stepped into the room.
Waiting for me was the new vice principal, Mrs. Kat D’Ambra. Former English teacher turned V.P., she was just as intimidating as these agents.
“Mike, these men are from the FBI, Agents Pinaire, King, and Smith.”
I was horrified. I couldn’t believe it. This guy was Agent Smith. One of the coolest villains from any movie was going to interrogate me. I almost lost it, then quickly collected myself again. He even looked like Hugo Weaving. But they’d get nothing on me. I may not be Brando, but I’m certainly a better actor than Keanu Reeves.
“Now, Mr. Doyle, we at the FBI received an interesting message, a prank really, via our Terrorist Tip Page.” His voice was calculated and confident. He reached into a briefcase and emerged with a piece of paper. “This, Mr. Doyle, is that very message. Our computer staff traced the origin to your school account. No doubt you realize pranks of this nature are a drain of the Bureau’s resources, and that this a crime of a very serious nature.”
He pulled out another folder. This was getting weird. Having memorized lines to work with was one thing, but this was a little less predictable.
“I’m told that you’re looking at colleges now. And if I’m not mistaken your first choice is… Marlboro College. Is that right?”
SHIT. I had to work my magic before they brought out something really underhanded. Hot damn, I got it!
“Oh, man. Really? You got that message from MY account?!”
“Does this… surprise you, Mr. Doyle?” Wow, this guy was creepy.
“No, but it really… a few weeks some asshole… sorry, Mrs. D’Ambra, I’m just kind of upset… but somebody hacked onto my account and screwed a bunch of stuff up. Changed my password and deleted one of my papers. I only got back onto the network last Monday, and they can’t get my files back either.”
Agent Smith turned and whispered something to his tight-lipped associates. He looked angry. He turned back to me.
“Well, Mr. Doyle, this new information certainly changes things.” He handed me his card. “My number is on that card if you can think of anything that might help.”
Apparently his name was John Smith. So weird. More interesting to me was his position at the FBI.
“You work in the Fraud department?”
“Certainly, Mr. Doyle. There are a lot of liars in this great nation.” He looked out the window. “It’s our job to prevent those lies from… hurting any patriotic civilians such as yourself.”
As he and his cohorts walked out of the office, the craziest, most surreal, unbelievably strange thing happened. He looked back at me over his shoulder and then he said, “Honesty, Mr. Doyle, is… by far… the best policy.”
The next morning in homeroom, I opened up the FBI webpage.
Dear John Ashcroft,
Fuck You.
Sincerely,
We, the people.
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