The ICE Guys
America's (favorite) buddy cop duo
Content clarity: Absurdist and chaotic humor and pure fiction blown out of the water. In no way is this reportage or meant to reflect actual happenings/events. Do not try this at home. Thank you and enjoy!
‘The ICE Guys’ opens with b-roll of a quiet suburban town; possibly on Massachusetts’ South Shore. Shoppers are seen going into family-owned pharmacies, pedestrians crossing the street wave high to cars at the stop signs. They know the driver.
A church bell tolls in the background and a sedan (a Crown Vic) is zoomed in on. It’s pulled over to the side of the road and it gives off a vibe of not belonging where it is parked.
The car is foreign to the town; the occupants are newcomers. Are they intent on being welcomed?
Barry O. sits in the driver seat with a Nikon camera aimed at a white house. It has a long driveway and there are two cars parked in front of the porch. The house has blue shutters on the windows and a farmer’s porch with a dog leash attached. Nick F. jitters in the passenger seat, anxious for the action.
Nick F.: Come on! Let’s just rush in there, grab the nonagenarian, and then drag her back out here. Bingo, bingo, bongo; and then we can get out of here.
Barry O. (finishing chewing on a bite of his Wendy’s burger): We can’t just steal people from their homes. We’ve got to —
Nick F. (interrupting): Yes we can! We’re ICE! What’s she going to do? Go to the police and say “Hi, I’m an illegal immigrant. Can you go arrest the illegal immigrant police? They were mean.”
Barry O.: You’re right, but it’s unethical to steal someone off their couch. Once she leaves the house, we’ll snatch her. Didn’t you play assassins in high school? It’s the same rules: we can’t snatch her from her house.
Nick F.: It’s just an old woman. She’s going to die soon anyway; her family will barely notice - I’m sure of it.
Barry O.: They are still there to try and stop us at the point of contact in the breezeway or living room or kitchen - wherever we find her. It’s dangerous.
Nick F.: People keep baseball bats near their doors, but we have moire firepower. You don’t bring a Louisville Slugger to a gun fight.
Nick F. moves to cock back his pistol. He’s ready for a war in this front yard. Barry O. needs to talk him down from cold murder.
Barry O.: Woah! We do NOT need that here! This isn’t Minnesota. Ok? We’re in a quiet town. We’re going to keep this humble, moral, and civil. We get in, we get out, we get paid.
At the mention of Minnesota, Nick F. starts getting flashbacks. He goes silent for a moment. He grinds his teeth when the name ‘Tim Walz’ hits his memory.
After a beat, he opens back up.
Nick F.: She was going to run him over! And probably write a lame poem about it! And the other guy, he…he…well…he was wrong too!
Barry O.: None of that is happening here, ok? Let me be clear, this is one of the easiest jobs I’ve had. It’s not like the whole city or state its rebelling against us. All they do here is flip middle fingers and harbor illegals. We’re here to flip the bird back and snatch these illegal birds.
Nick F.: Whatever. Let’s go get this target off our to-do list! We’ve got like twenty million more to traumatize after this.
An hour has passed and there has been no more motion in the house. It’s getting dark out; it’s 4:55 pm in February.
Nick F.: If we’re not going to grab the bitch, can we head back to the house then?
The two are renting an Air BnB. It’s on a side street in the next town over. Thanks to ICE’s budget, they were able to spend $1,000 per night and were able to extend such a stay for however many nights it took to acquire and delete their target.
Barry O.: I’ve never heard anyone complain so much in my whole life. You make Laura Ingraham sound like Murphy.
Nick F.: Who’s ‘Murphy’?
Barry O.: You know, from the law. ‘Murphy was an optimist.’
This is not Barry O.’s first go-around. Nick F. was able to see some action in Minnesota, but Barry O. joined the enforcement when it was created, all the way back in historical 2003. He has worked through Operation Community Shield, he threatened Janet Murgia, he even hunted down every remaining family member of Chy Lung! Nick F.’s young career has been marked by violence, murder, and protests; he had been crafted into this job, assimilated could even be a good word, to believe barbarians of the American empire are out for blood. He’s a rottweiler that bit a mailman and is looking for the entire postal service. Barry O. is the border collie making sure the horses stay out of the hospital.
When he was assigned to work this case - collecting the body (not necessarily dead or alive but wink wink) an Irish national known as ‘Kit’ - Barry O. was anticipating a somewhat relaxing run down. He’d follow her for a week, learn her habits, and find a spot in public, preferably in front of her family and/or friends, to drape his butterfly net over her head and send her to a mystery. And then the managing director of the northeast, the boss to whom Barry O. would be reporting, added a caveat to the case. Barry O. was getting a partner.
Nick F. had been pulled out of Minnesota due to his expressiveness towards violent tendencies. The ICE agents in Minnesota were allowed to create panic and were given guns within the first minutes of their “training” (which consisted of a PowerPoint slide of different ethnicities where the trainees had to decide whether the person was allowed [white] or not), but it was strictly against the rules, with a no tolerance policy, to premeditate any harm to immigrants or Americans. Hans Landa was the final slide of the training, emphasizing the calmness with which enemies of the state were to be collected and effectively terminated from the states.
Barry O. was reluctant to take on this kid. What if Nick F. got into a hairy situation or started spouting off terrible vulgarity? Barry O.’s name is then attached to the same acts by association. If this kid chose not to behave, then Barry O. could be on his final mission with ICE. Twenty-three years would go down the toilet.
Nick F. was assigned to Barry O. under the hopeful assumption that Barry O. would be able to corral the mind of Nick F.; to change his stances from being blatantly racist to being thinly-veiled. If Nick F. could make it through the mission with Barry O., the new tameness he’d acquire would be satisfactory to the enforcement. Barry O. could teach him about diversity, equity, and inclusion. It would be awesome if Barry O. could lessen the grip conspiracy theories had on the young man (such as being a Holocaust maximalist, that the United States will be where Jesus Christ pops up first next - hence, ‘America First’, and that the GOP is being controlled by Israel and the CIA in a Jewish network intent on replacing the rest of the world’s religions, etc.), then that would be the cherry on the vanilla cake.
With the two of them being rooted in Chicago - Nick F. being born and raised there and Barry O. having spent the last forty years living in the city (with a minor tenure in Washington DC) - there was an added connective advantage the two could have together. They could bond over Chief Keef and O-Block, their hatred for Jerry Reinsdorf, or even their opinions of tourists coming to “flick The Bean.”
Nick F.: You know Tucker Carlson is a fed, right?
After a night of showering (separately), knocking back a few mojitos, and setting off fireworks, Barry O. and Nick F. had returned to the same house where they believed the enemy of the state named ‘Kit’ - a ninety-one year old Irish immigrant illegally staying in Massachusetts - was hiding out. Equipped with binoculars, Nikon cameras, and a conspicuously large automatic rifle, the veteran of the enforcement and the young gun made conversation while waiting for the alien to leave her UFO. She has been spotted moving between the kitchen and the bedroom.
Barry O.: I met him once. His hands are really soft.
Nick F.: Are they really? I should’ve guessed that coming from a former Dem. All of ‘dem are allergic to manual work.
Barry O.: Oh yeah? What exactly have you built?
Nick F.: You wouldn’t know that I clogged the toilet in the Air BnB on our first night. That’s because I knew how to use a plunger to get all the shit, literally, to flush.
Barry O.: How did you clean the poop off the plunger?
Nick F.: I used toilet paper just like wiping as ass, duh.
Barry O.: You should shave the hair in your asshole. It makes the whole process way simpler and you’ll be cleaner than ever.
Nick F.: Won’t that be itchy when it grows back?
Barry O.: That’s how you know when to shave again.
After a moment of silence that is just long enough to make Barry O. regret giving this advice and for Nick F. to realize Barry O. might be right, the conversation on our friend Tucker continues.
Nick F.: Okay. But, yeah, he’s definitely a fed.
Barry O.: What do you think he’s trying to push? He seems pretty normal min terms of commentators to me; especially white wing ones.
Nick F.: It’s ‘right’ wing.
Barry O.: Same thing. Once you’ve been around the block enough, you start to see some patterns.
Nick F.: I don’t know. Our friend Tucker seems to change his opinion at every turn. I’ve heard he’s a huge fan of the CIA, like he’s gotten paid by them to push that the CIA works and that they’re not spying on Americans. They can turn your TV speakers into microphones, you know, and record all of your conversations. I heard that on a podcast once.
Barry O.: Was it John Kiriakou? I don’t know what to make of him. What if he’s still connected with the CIA to make up stuff and throw us off their scent. Being so committed to a life of secrets makes him hard to trust for me.
Nick F.: Speaking of trust, when’s this broad gonna come out? It’s 10:45 - she should be leaving for church soon, right?
Barry O.: That’s what she did last week, so I’d guess so. But don’t count on it. She could be changing her schedule whenever. Retired people have their own marching drum beats.
Nick F.: I don’t think that’s the saying, but I know what you mean.
An hour passes and Kit remains locked in her castle. The blinds to the bedroom open and Nick F. slaps Barry O. excitedly in the chest.
Barry O. (rubbing his chest): Yes, I know! I’m looking at the same house, good God.
Nick F.: She’s gotta be coming out now, right?
Barry O.: All I have is hope that she will.
Nick F.: Hope…I think I saw that on a poster before. It was blue and red.
Barry O.: Now, let me be clear, if Kit does come out, we’re doing this in a calm manner. This is a quiet town, there’s not going to be any need for weapons. Out of many agents, we are one partnership - we’re not superheroes.
Nick F.: But we can still have fun catching her!
Barry O.: Yes, we can.
Nick F.: That was a poster too!
Barry O.: Not everything is a poster!
New motion is detected in the kitchen of Kit’s apartment.
Nick F.: Are you seeing what I’m seeing? Look!
Barry O.: Shhh! Again, let me be clear, this is about stealth and swiftness. Slow is smooth and smooth is fast.
With her pillbox hat askew and wool coat lifted to her jawline, Kit finally made her way out of the house. Clutching her pocketbook, she scuttled her heels down the driveway as quickly as she could before stopping just short of the road to look both ways.
Nick F. (in a hushed voice barely heard by Barry O.): By order of the Peaky Blinders!
Barry O. (whispering back): Isn’t your whole brand, like, all about being gung-ho American? Why would you use a British catchphrase?
Nick F.: I didn’t. I said “by order of the Peaky Blinders!” You know - like the gang.
Barry O.: Yeah, the gang from Britain.
Nick F.: They’re not British. They’re from England. They’re English. When have the English ever done anything to us? We kicked the British’s revolutionary asses. And England probably helped us too.
Barry O.: First, no. I don’t even want to get into how geographically offensive that thought pattern is. Second, the French helped too. And, about the French, you feel —
Nick F.: Fuck those handlebar mimes! And, by the way, you know who’s in Paris? Ni —
Barry O. (snapping almost too loud): I know the song!
Nick F.: Fuck it! Let’s grab her!
Barry O.: No, wait. Watch.
A Toyota Highlander slammed on its brakes. Our ICE agents sat in their Crown Vic pointed south. With ‘Kit’ on the other side of the road, she hopped into the once speeding Highlander and drove to the north.
Nick F.: She’s escaping to Canada! We’ve got to get her now!
Barry O. (as he turned the ignition and went to pull a U-ey to follow ‘Kit’ and her driver): Canada is 250 miles away. We’ll catch her before she gets there. Oh how I wish we had drones to do this work for us; I’m getting to gray for these chases.
Nick F.: You want to use drones on everybody. Fucking lazy.
Barry O. (now pointing the Crown Vic directly at the Highlander): Drones work! Pakistan, Yemen, Somalia: we could fix a lot of them with drone strikes - I swear!
Nick F.: And Israel too.
The Highlander abides by traffic laws and comes to a stop sign. Barry O. skirts on the pavement in an attempt to stop, but ends up slamming into the back of the Highlander, crumpling its rear hatch and cracking both the Highlander’s back window and the Crown Vic’s windshield. ‘Kit’ turns around from her seat on the rear passenger side to see a Crown Vic with both doors wide open, unoccupied. The church was two blocks away on the left. The Highlander even still had its left-turn blinker on.
Barry O. ran into the driver side of the car while Nick F. ripped open the door ‘Kit’ was sitting behind and his eyes grew as wide as your mother’s gullet, as did Kit’s in unison. Nick F. grabbed the ninety-one year old woman and removed her from the vehicle, spilling the contents of her pocketbook, indirectly removing one of her heeled shoes off of her panty-hosed leg, and cracking her chin open on the pavement which released a short howl from the old woman - as if she had been leaving the Christmas Tree Shop and tripped over the wiring of an outdoor patio display.
Pop, pop, pop! Nick F. jerked his head up, finishing zip-tying Kit’s hands behind her back without looking. He kept a boot on her back as he stood and made eye contact with Barry O. who was now panting heavily and holstering his gun as he stared into the driver’s seat. The horn beeped as the driver’s head hit the horn on its way to slouching into a cupholder. Blood evacuated the driver’s neck as if he were debating college kids about the second amendment.
Nick F.: What the fuck just happened! Barry O.!
Barry O. (still staring a thousand yards through the slumped and bloody driver): He had a scraggly beard and was wearing a turban! He started reaching into his pocket - I thought he was going to detonate his suicide vest!
Kit (wiggling and crying under Nick F.’s size seven boot): Aziz! My Uber driver! You damn Peaky Blinders!
Nick F.: He doesn’t have any bombs! What the fuck Barry O.!
Barry O. (now rounding the vehicle to stand beside Nick F. over Kit): Maybe the car was the bomb! He had a turban - you saw it! He would have run me over! You saw the danger I was in. What other choice did I have?
Nick F.: Fuck dude! Fuck! Noem’s going to have our asses! Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God,…
Barry O.: Yeah, she’s going to have our asses decorated with medals for keeping this town safe from terrorists! That was heroic of me; I saved our lives.
Kit: He wasn’t a terrorist!
Barry O.: Shut up! Let’s get her in the back.
Nick F. opened the rear trunk of the Crown Vic and stowed away the Irish woman’s wrinkled body. As he closed the trunk and Barry O. climbed back into the driver’s seat, Kit screamed desperately for help. Patrons had filed out of the near by coffee shop and those dining at the patio next door exited their tables to watch the commotion and to film themselves launching insults at the ICE agents.
“What the fuck did you do!” yelled the crowd. “You killed him!” Barry O. stared wildly into the sea of onlookers and their concerns. “Fuck you! We don’t want you here!”
Barry O.: Come on! Let’s go! Listen here - we gotta get out of here!
Nick F., with Kit shouting and the mob encroaching like Dee Ford in an AFC Championship game, panicked. He needed someone to stop yelling, either the crowd, Barry O., or Kit. Being overwhelmed, Nick F. cocked back and socked the old woman in the noise, c hipping several bones in her face and sending blood down her chin like a goatee. He slammed the trunk down on Kit sprinted into shotgun and told Barry O. to gun it.
Nick F.: Get me out of here!
With the door still open, Barry O. slammed on the gas, pushing aside the damaged Highlander and escaping down a side street, aimed towards the highway to go anywhere. On their way out, Nick F. fired three shots in the air to ward off the crowd. They scatter and Barry O. picks a playlist on his phone for the getaway. It’s his playlist called ‘The Dream is Dead’ and it’s got a lot of Green Day and Rage Against the Machine and such.
Nick F.: Good fucking God! You said this was going to be an easy one!
Barry O.: I thought it would be. I didn’t know she was going to have a terrorist driving her around. That wasn’t in any of our recon.
Nick F. (with Kit’s screaming being muffled by the trunk and her kicking against its door like a baby in a pregnant belly getting weaker with each pothole hit): Oh man…wait! Did you not have your mask pulled up? Dude! They’re going to know your face!
Barry O.: Let them know my face. Let me be clear, we did a good job there; just as we have been trained to do.
Nick F.: I don’t remember Hans Landa killing the milkman for hiding the Jews! That wasn’t part of it.
Barry O.: No, but they shot the hell out of his floorboards.
Nick F.: Still. We don’t have immunity for just killing Uber drivers.
Barry O. (laughing uproariously): Hahahahah! You have much to learn about this job.
Kit (in the trunk with blood drying across her body): Never in all my years…wrecks of the hesperus. Where’s my daughter who I live with! I need to bully her to feel better! Who’s going to watch ‘The Andy Griffith Show’ now while I’m gone?
The car flies down I-90 west across Massachusetts. The buddy ICE agent duo has made its sweet escape from the Kit scene. As they take the exit onto the Mass Pike, the attention in the car turns to the next objective, the next mission.
Nick F.: What are we going to do with Kit?
Barry O.: Who?
Nick F. (overflowing with confusion): The…the woman we…the illegal we just caught?
Barry O. (with a suggestive wink): Like I said - who?
Nick F.: Ahh, I see. Who are we getting next?
Barry O.: Noem is sending us to Virginia. The name or alias we’re looking for is Patel, Kash. He’s characterized by his wide, lying eyes; he’s also been known to disguise himself as a hockey player.
Nick F.: Sounds easy enough. Patel…what is that? Pakistani? He’s an illegal?
Barry O.: I think Indian. Maybe Ugandan? But he looks like he might be illegal.
Nick F.: Ugandan? I don’t know about that. That doesn’t sound right.
Barry O.: When I was growing up in Kenya, there was a family in the neighborhood named ‘Patel’ and they had moved to Kenya from Uganda.
Nick F.: You’re from Kenya?
Barry O.: I’m from “Chicago.” You know, wink, wink.
Nick F.: How should we celebrate a successful capture in Kit?
Barry O.: We could get another drone.
Nick F.: You and drones, dude. How many could you possibly need?
Barry O.: I have 540, but I’d like more.
Barry O. mimics an explosion without taking his eyes off the highway. The rumblings in the trunk drift into silence. The wind feels good in Nick F.’s hair.
Thank you all for coming on my absurdist journey with me. These are not real ICE agents together working to catch my grandmother. I don’t know if any combination of those three have ever even met before.
And, let me be clear, Kit may be based on my grandmother, but my grandmother is here legally - I promise. I pinky promise. If you asked her, she probably would say she “isn’t an immigrant anymore” because she was married to an American. You’re right - that doesn’t make sense.
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