Christopher Lowcock had two problems (three if you count his name). One, he had a couple of drug offenses under his belt. Two, he had only one leg. The first problem meant he had to adhere to a curfew and wearing a court-mandated GPS tracker, and the second meant he wore a prosthetic leg. But what if one of his problems could solve the other?
Lowprick hatched a brilliant plan. When it came time for a contracted security firm to attach his monitor, tricky Chris pulled a switcharoo. Instead of letting the guard put the monitor on his one real leg, he jutted out the fake one. And the guard slapped the tracker on it because apparently he couldn't tell the difference. At this point, we're going to assume Lowcock wasn't sporting one of those high-tech new bionic-man prosthetics:
"My legs are fine. I just prefer impossibly tight multihued jeans."
Needless to say, whenever Bottomjunk wanted to break his curfew, he just removed the leg and hopped out the door. Or he replaced it with a spare. Probably that second one. In either case, he was free to go out and drug it up or drink and drive or whatever it was that got him into trouble in the first place, because according to his tracker, he was sitting at home knitting. Even though a second guard came by to check up on him and to make sure his equipment was working well. Either Lowcock was sporting a Real Doll-esque leg or neither guard had working eyes.
"Now who let all these moose in here? Shoo! Shoo! Get out of here!"
Especially since the private security firm hired to attach monitors had a whole set of protocols for this exact situation, which tells us it had happened at some point before. We're no geniuses, but we're guessing one of those steps was to pinch or prick the leg or something -- anything to make sure the limb was real. It wasn't until a third guard visited Downdick for a follow-up appointment that anyone suspected something was amiss. Their big clue? He wasn't home. He had been arrested for driving without insurance. The two guards who couldn't tell flesh from a hole in the wall were promptly fired, then mocked on a national level.
"There we go. Is that too tight?"
Secret agent rule number one: Don't fall in love with the enemy. Bond knew it, Nikita knew it, even Spy Hard knew it. But British agent Mark Kennedy didn't know it. Maybe that's because his "enemies" weren't deadly femme fatales or exotic henchmen -- they were bohemian hippie girls.
The kind who always look like they either just showered or haven't in days.
In 2003, Police Constable Mark Kennedy started working with the National Public Order Intelligence Unit as an undercover mole tasked with the job of deeply penetrating protest groups and bringing them off into the firm, supple hands of justice as hard and fast as possible. What kind of protest groups? All of them, apparently. Anarchists, environmentalists, animal ones, people who insisted on the BBC getting Ab Fab up and running again.
And before you picture a bunch of artsy fartsy goofballs lounging around, playing bongos and passing the doobie, we're talking about hardcore activists, the kind of people who infiltrate power stations to shut them down. So it certainly made sense for the British government to want to keep tabs on them. Enter Mark Kennedy, aka Mark Stone, aka "Flash." But there was a problem: He got emotionally invested in his protest mates. With his dick.
If a guy like that is nailing multiple hippie chicks, you know he plays a mean acoustic guitar.
During his seven-year-long career as an undercover cop, Kennedy reportedly slept with several different women, under the all-too-convenient rule that to not sex it up would mark him out as a narc. Eventually, however, his government-sponsored rendition of Deuce Bigalow: Male Gigolo came to an abrupt end when his activist friends began to suspect that there was something up with Mr. Cool. Maybe it was the flights he took to the United States every few weeks that gave him away. As if a hippie could afford to fly. At one point his so-called friends rifled through his stuff and discovered documents revealing his real identity.
Worse still, during the trial of the group he infiltrated, Kennedy suddenly had a change of heart and refused to give evidence against the group's members, resulting in the complete and utter collapse of the case. Sadly, however, the aforementioned members did still remember how badly their shit got fucked up, leaving Kennedy without any "We owe you our freedom, how can we ever repay you" sex.
"But you said I was your moon baby star dove-wolf! You said we'd raise alpacas together!"
In 2006, the FBI instructed Farouk al-Aziz, real name Craig Monteilh, convicted forger, to infiltrate the Islamic Center of Irvine in California and spy on the worshipers there to see if they were planning any terrorist activity. In post-9/11 America, this is considered both "legal" and "totally not racist." Also, the feds had already visited two months beforehand to reassure the patrons that they weren't going to be specially targeted for surveillance. The oldest trick in the book, baby!
"Go about your business. I am just an ordinary citizen, worshiping in my local mosque."
At first, things proceeded well. Monteilh integrated himself well into the congregation and was known for staying at the mosque all day, which is something that not even hardcore Muslims have the patience for. However, when designing his state-of-the-art recording devices to masterfully blend into his surroundings, Monteilh's handlers settled on the brilliant idea of hiding them inside a keyring, which was mounted on a set of Monteilh's actual house keys. Monteilh was thus forced to start leaving his keys around the mosque, which eventually people started to notice.
Monteilh then seemingly lost patience with the slow methodology of the investigation (see "staying at the mosque all day" above) and turned to insane levels of entrapment, which included sidling up to one man and saying "It's good that you guys are getting ready for the jihad" and flat-out telling a car full of poor souls that he had access to weapons they could all use to go and blow up a mall.
"What do you mean? I am wearing the traditional clothing of my people AND NOW I STAB AND SCREAM!"
Again, this was not a terrorist training camp the guy infiltrated. It was a random mosque in California that happened to be near Monteilh's home. Eventually, finding that they had an Islamic terrorist in their mosque, the worshipers did what anyone would do: They freaking called the FBI and said they had a terrorist in their mosque. When the guy still wouldn't stay away, they filed a restraining order against him on the grounds that he was clearly crazy and dangerous.
"Hey, man, I think it's great that we're all terrorists. You guys wanna go do some terror with me?"
The whole case fell apart shortly after that, and Monteilh himself sued the FBI. The FBI insists that he did get another worshiper at the mosque on tape agreeing to help him blow up a building, but they dropped the charges against him. That makes us wonder if the quote wasn't something akin to "If I agree to blow up a building, will you fucking leave me alone?"
You can find more from Adam at Alert Level Stork! He also helped to write Four Humors, an anthology of short stories published for charity by Wordplague. Check out Drew's Twitter feed, Outdated References, and his videos, Jake's Dating Vlog.
For more programs that just didn't work, check out 5 Government Programs That Backfired Horrifically and 5 Retarded Health Campaigns That Backfired (Hilariously).
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