Tippy-Toe Joe

The brilliance of Tippy-Toe Joe was that he could execute a secret mission quite effortlessly, even though he was inept at utilizing his own talent. This appears to be a contradictory description, and without any basis in logic. But Tippy-Toe Joe possessed a skill that very few people were ever blessed with:

He was a stealthy motherfucker.

The talent was discovered when he was a nine-year-old boy—he broke into the home of his best friend...when no one was suspicious of his presence...at a time that would prove to be unfavorable for one person in particular. Joe entered the home: he crept into a tiny compartment: he hatched a plan (a mischievous plan): he patiently waited for the right opportunity to put his plan into effect: he heard something stir: he exited the tiny compartment: he tippy-toed his way down a corridor and towards the master bedroom: he had mistakenly entered the bathroom: he saw his best friend’s mother without any clothes on: she screamed at him: “AHHHHHHHH!”

Joe’s plan was to surprise his best friend, but instead, he saw a naked woman.

Joe had to explain the situation to his father, Captain Beaver. Snickering, Joe said, “I didn’t mean to sneak up on her—honestly. I thought it was my friend’s bedroom.”

Captain Beaver, who lacked any disciplinary intuition, only remarked how Joe had “tippy-toed his way into an exhibition on the female anatomy.” He smirked and patted his son on the head. “From now on, you’re Tippy-Toe Joe.”

Ten years later, his talent would continue to cause him problems.

Tippy-Toe Joe was now a young adult, more mature in appearance but unevolved in ambition. He had yet to comprehend the implications of his own idleness, which was very worrisome for Captain Beaver. This had prompted him to invite his son on a tour of the Center for Espionage, where Captain Beaver served as a research specialist for the National Alliance, a federal agency that gathers intelligence on foreign entities. Captain Beaver, although recently troubled by an acute sense of occupational fatigue, saw this as an opportunity to re-energize his love for geopolitical intrigue and to introduce Joe to the world of enterprise and industry.

Joe accompanied Captain Beaver to the facilities, and before long, they were inside the Information Chamber.

“You see that monitor over there?” said Captain Beaver, pointing in the direction of a giant screen that was forecasting statistical theorems. “That’s the Data Engine. We process every piece of intelligence we receive through algorithmic simulations. Information is a composite of numerical and lexicographical representations.”

Joe, however, was unimpressed. Indifference manifested in his attitude and demeanor. He merely peered at the monitor but for a brief moment. There was nothing about his father’s profession that excited him.

Joe said, “I thought you spied on the Russians, Dad.”

“We do, son.”

“You can never take your eyes off them,” said a throaty voice from behind them.

Captain Beaver turned around and, with an affectation that is typical of the people who are several ranks beneath their superiors, said, “Admiral Orlando, what a pleasure it is that you should meet my dear son Joe.”

Joe took a good look at the Admiral. He was an old, husky man who radiated crankiness. His eyes were menacing, and his teeth were rotten. His face was florid, and his posture was inflexible. He had a pugnacious approach to the way in which he interacted with other people. His very presence had a pernicious effect on Joe.

Admiral Orlando disregarded Joe and addressed the Captain: “I need that report on the Russian ambassador.” He rubbed his hands, antsy and anxious. In the intelligence community, secret information is a form of currency—it inspires a sense of greed in those who operate within a surreptitious context. “He’s been on our radar ever since he was sworn into office,” continued the Admiral. “It’s crucial that we uncover any subversive measures he may be plotting against us.”

“Sir,” said Captain Beaver with some hesitancy, “I’ve never been aware of any report regarding the Russian ambassador.”

Admiral Orlando glared at Captain Beaver, evidently chagrined. “What is meant by your behavior, Captain?” said Admiral Beaver, who was seething. “What should prevent me from reprimanding you at this very moment?”

“Please forgive me for my ignorance, Admiral. It wasn’t my intention to agitate you.”

“What is your job?”

“I’m a research specialist.”

“What are we paying you to research?”

“Enemy secrets.”

Admiral Orlando said nothing, but the astonishment in his face expressed that he was nonplussed and offended. Never before had the incompetence of a deputy official incited such a rage in him. He summoned enough restraint to say to Captain Beaver, “I order that you leave the facility, Captain. You’ve caused me to be skeptical of your qualifications and professionalism, and I’m appalled at the disgrace you’ve brought upon the National Alliance.”

Captain Beaver was utterly mortified. His face colored, and his eyes widened. He trembled inconsolably. Never had he expected to suffer such an injury, and with his own son as a witness to the entire thing! But wait…

Where did Joe tippy-toe to this time?

“It appears that you’ve lost your son, Captain,” observed Admiral Orlando, surveying the Information Chamber. “That’s another impermissible blunder you’ve managed to perpetrate in a single day.”

Captain Beaver, with some effort, was able to collect himself and ignore the sufferings inflicted upon him by the Admiral. When he was self-composed enough to observe for himself that Joe was indeed missing, he said to Admiral Orlando, “He snuck away without either of us noticing.” Captain Beaver scratched his head. “The boy is so stealthy that you couldn't detect him were he standing right in front of you—it is akin to the operations of a phantom. That’s why we call him Tippy-Toe Joe.”

Admiral Orlando leered at Captain Beaver in such a severe way that it appeared as if his head were to explode. But the exasperation exhibited in him quickly subsided into a profound confusion, succeeded by a profound apprehension. His body convulsed with terror, and he exclaimed, “The little ingrate!” He glowered at Captain Beaver. “And you—the father of the ingrate!”

Without explaining himself for such an obnoxious outburst, Admiral Beaver exited the Information Chamber with unbridled urgency. The Captain, without a moment to reflect upon the sudden change in circumstance, followed the Admiral with equal haste. They were racing through corridors that required special clearances, bypassing anyone who should impede them in their pursuit of discovering Joe’s whereabouts.

They arrived at a door with a sign that indicated the unseemly aspects of the National Alliance:

THIS ROOM IS RESERVED FOR TOP SECRET EXPERIMENTATIONS

Both Captain Beaver and Admiral Orlando looked at each other; their facial expressions suggested that, if Joe were to be on the other side of the door, there would be dire consequences.

Simultaneously, despite the ominous implications of the sign, the Captain and the Admiral, via their clearances, entered the room. They were deeply perturbed with themselves at having accessed the secretive area, as if they had stumbled upon a forbidden portal into a world of mayhem.

Inside there were men and women in lab coats, monitoring diagnostic procedures, modifying chromosomal structures in human beings, and transplanting body parts from one specimen to another.

Among the secret faction of scientists was Joe, who blended in rather effortlessly, in spite of the fact that he wore civilian clothing and he was much younger than those who were laboring at their experiments. It was as if he was an intangible presence, an invisible observer.

Admiral Orlando and Captain Beaver were bewildered in such a way that they were delivered into a daze. They could not comprehend something that was inconceivable. The very sight of Joe within a seemingly inaccessible—and ultra-secretive—environment was a paradox beyond description.

Out of the corner of his eye, Joe saw them watching him. He met their gaze, his eyes gleaming, and said, “Dad, you’re always complaining about my idleness. Perhaps I should be a scientist.”

——

Tippy-Toe Joe had tippy-toed his way into a dilemma that required him to exploit his own talent in order to extricate himself from the penalties imposed upon him by the National Alliance.

Although Admiral Orlando was rather infuriated by Joe and the delinquency he demonstrated in flouting the protocols of a federal agency, he saw it as an opportunity for the National Alliance to infiltrate their mortal enemy: Russia. Captain Beaver and Admiral Orlando negotiated an agreement. Joe would pose as an officer of higher rank—a lieutenant for the Capital Task Force. He was assigned a target:

The Russian Ambassador to the United States: Liam the Oligarch.

He was instructed to attend the Conference on Enemy Interference in International Diplomacy. While there, he was to sneak away and ferret out anything that would incriminate or compromise the Ambassador.

“First impressions are of capital importance in our profession,” said Captain Beaver to Joe. “Espionage isn’t a game—it’s a gambit.”

“A gambit,” Joe said to himself as he made his up through the gate that leads to the Russian Consulate in Washington D.C. “To hell with that. I can get past anyone without having to participate in some sort of stratagem.”

Joe was wearing authentic regalia: a double-breasted coat made of Persian nylons inlaid with flax linens, featuring insignias that indicated his rank; black trousers that were rather large for Joe’s narrow frame; a beret that enhanced the dignity of his appearance; and combat boots that conflicted with the entire ensemble. Joe looked distinguished, although his youth somewhat contradicted his prestigiousness.

He was greeted by a functionary of the consulate, who requested his credentials. Joe readily supplied them, as it was not a matter of inconvenience for the National Alliance in establishing faux identities. In espionage, there is never a shortage of unethical tactics.

“The Capital Task Force,” said the functionary, who peered at Joe in an inquisitive way, handing back the credentials. “What would your republic be without you?” He chuckled impishly. “Come this way, Lieutenant. I presume that you are here for the conference—no?”

Joe merely assented by nodding his head, as he and the functionary made their way through the consulate. Upon entering the area where the conference was to take place, Joe immediately recognized Liam the Oligarch. He was a short and corpulent man who had the appearance of someone who perspires uncontrollably. Joe was rather disgusted by him.

“Just look at him,” Joe said to himself. “He is nothing more than a political flunky, a charismatic pessimist, another ‘someone’ who will cheat and manipulate without scruple.”

How do they get into a position of power anyway?

Liam was conversing with several attendees of the conference, men and women who were of a variety of ranks within a variety of governments. He was in one of those cheery moods that are characteristic of diplomatic conviviality.

“If it were up to me,” said Liam to his colleagues, “I would invade that dirt-pile of a country. What’s stopping us? Are we not the ones who are keeping the peace?”

Everyone laughed.

The functionary, who took leave of Joe, had been wary of the faux lieutenant the moment he arrived at the consulate. Crossing the room to the Belgian Ambassador, the functionary signaled him to excuse himself from the conversation. Obliging him, Liam departed from the society of his colleagues.

Addressing the functionary, Liam said, “What is it that concerns me? And be quick, I do not wish to disappoint my diplomatic cohorts with any prolonged absence of mine.”

“Sir,” said the functionary gravely, “There is a young man who is with us on this very occasion whom I suspect is an enemy spy.”

All the merriment and joviality disappeared in Liam. He was disquieted. Without inquiring the functionary of the validity of his accusations, Liam turned his attention to the young faux lieutenant. Joe, despite his stealthiness, was a rather intrusive presence. It was his youth—it conflicted with the authority of his rank.

“He immediately struck me as an imposter,” said the functionary to Liam, who was still absorbed in disbelief.

Turning to the functionary, Liam said, “Was he credentialed?”

“He was, sir. Apparently he’s an officer for the Capital Task Force.”

Liam’s perplexity only increased. “How can it be? Who could be responsible for such a stunt?” He said nothing for a moment, unable to articulate his astonishment. However, after some time, Liam became skeptical. He peered at the functionary in a steadfast manner, and said, “Is it possible that you are deceiving me?”

The functionary giggled at what he perceived was a foolish assertion. “I would be willing to wager,” said the functionary, “that the young gentlemen will succumb to our coercions should we choose to antagonize him. A man whose youth suggests that he is inexperienced in worldly endeavors is a man that we should be wary of.”

Grousing, Liam said, “Speculation is unproductive. Let’s inquire him of this alleged duplicity.”

There was only one problem: Joe had once again tippy-toed out of sight.

“That’s very strange,” remarked the functionary, looking in the directing of where Joe was but a moment ago. “I’m certain that the imposter was over there.”

Liam, to his extreme surprise, discovered that the functionary was telling the truth: he surveilled the entire room; he surveilled it again; and again, and again. The faux lieutenant was indeed missing. Liam could not begin to understand such an unaccountable occurrence. It disoriented him. He began to panic.

“What a distressing event this is!” cried Liam. “What are we to do? What course of action is available to us?”

“Sir,” said functionary, “we mustn’t waste any time waffling over the procedures of such an uncertain scenario. We need to be decisive.”

“You’re right,” affirmed Liam. “He’s undoubtedly within our immediate vicinity. But where could he be?”

And it became all too apparent where he would be.

Liam and the functionary stared at each other in horror. The two of them flew from the room and through corridors with armed guards and sentries. They were through several areas of restricted access before finally arriving at a door with a sign that revealed the scandalous nature of diplomacy:

THE PARTY ROOM—RESERVED FOR SPECIAL GUESTS.

Liam and the functionary opened the door, fearful of what they would find on the other side. And indeed, it was something that would shock even the most stoic observer:

An orgy was taking place.

Naked bodies fraternized in a ceremony of sexual activity. Bare flesh, genitalia, threesomes, foursomes, orgasms. Hetero- and homo-eroticism. It was an uncanny spectacle.

It was a top-secret sexcapade.

Seated in a leather armchair off in the far corner of the room, fully clothed in his faux officer’s uniform, was Joe, smiling at the Liam and the functionary. No one noticed him, yet his presence was unmistakable.

Joe got up, made his way through the orgy, exited the room, and closed the door behind him.

“Who do you work for, young man?” said Liam, who could not hide the fact that he was rather demoralized.

“The National Alliance,” said Joe.

Liam looked at the functionary, then back at Joe. He said, “They’re a second-rate organization.”

Joe shrugged while laughing nonchalantly. “They know that you’re a Kremlin surrogate who’ll do anything to undermine our republic.” He facetiously pointed at the party room. “And now they’re going to learn of another one of your dirty little secrets.”

“We could penalize you,” said Liam, severely. “It wouldn’t be difficult to have you prosecuted and imprisoned.”

Joe ignored him. “I bet that there’s a lot of important people in that room.”

Liam and the functionary said nothing.

“You know,” said Joe, “my dad’s always making a big fuss about me being idle in life.” Joe took a good look at the entrance to the party room, savoring the moment. “Perhaps I should be a sex-machine.”

——

Tippy-Toe Joe was caught up in yet another conundrum: he had uncovered the secrets of his allies and the secrets of his enemies. The implications of his actions were scary and grim. He was a witness to everything that should never be announced to the public, everything that would upend the world and send it spinning on its axis.

The intelligence community is an unholy place.

Everyone in this business is corrupt, thought Joe. The people who are awarded immense power are uncommonly clumsy at wielding it. I’m not sure who to trust—I’m not sure who the enemy is anymore. Who else is complicit in this charade? What other ignoble secrets are there to discover?

Joe, despite the audacious behavior he had exhibited while infiltrating the consulate, was (temporarily) exempt from the wrath of the Russian ambassador, on the condition that Joe would provide him with intelligence on the chief officers for the National Alliance. Liam admitted that he admired Joe’s unique talent, and thought it profitable to exploit.

Joe was back at the Center for Espionage. He was seated before Captain Beaver and Admiral Orlando. The latter was anxious to obtain any iota of information that was relevant to Russian treachery, whereas the former was afraid of what would happen should his superior be at all displeased with Joe.

Captain Beaver was the first one to address his son: “A miracle it is that you return to me under safe conditions. It affords me inestimable happiness.” He feigned a smile. “Were you able to successfully penetrate the consulate?”

Joe nodded.

After a short pause, and with artificial optimism, Captain Beaver said, “How did it go? Did you uncover anything of importance?”

Joe said nothing...

Admiral Orlando interjected with his own inquiries, which he delivered in a way that represented him as a zealot: “What are the Russians up to this time? Did they upgrade their nuclear program? Have they colluded with any antagonistic regimes? Are they transmitting radioactive signals into our hospitals?”

Joe said nothing again. It was a dignified silence.

Admiral Orlando and Captain Beaver were afflicted by the inexplicable lack of cooperation. Admiral Orlando frowned at Joe with no small amount of disdain. Captain Beaver was trembling uncontrollably.

Exasperated, Admiral Orlando said, “Why do you insult us with your silence? Why do you refuse to comply with my instructions, after I’ve treated you so hospitably?

Silence again. This time it inspired an eeriness. The room they were in ceased to be an attachment of reality. The three of them were merely energies in a metaphysical environment. It was enough to provoke a delirium in even the most psychologically vacant individual. Nothing was a phenomenon; everything was a sensation.

In any other circumstance, the silence would have been enough to deter the proceedings.

But nothing would deter the Admiral.

“Let’s hope that this wasn’t an unproductive endeavor,” said Admiral Orlando, who never appeared more sinister than at that moment. “Otherwise, I’ll do everything in my power to tyrannize you for the nefarious offenses that you’ve transgressed against the National Alliance.”

The anxiety exhibited in Captain Beaver amplified with every threat that was leveraged against his son, compelling him to interject. “Admiral,” he said, imploringly, “I beg you to mitigate your anger. My son is a young man without any prospects. Blame it on his idleness, not his insolence.”

Admiral Orlando gritted his teeth, unaffected by Captain Beaver’s concern for the welfare of his son. “You stay out of this,” he snarled. He redirected his attention to Joe. “You’re in the habit of abusing me, but I’m in the habit of retaliating against anyone who gives me cause to do so.”

Joe did not flinch: he remained silent.

The admiral leaned forward and, with unwavering self-possession, said, “You’re not going to tippy-toe your way out of this one, you ingrate.”

There was another round of silence: they were in a deadlock. They looked at each other with a mixture of fear and distrust, each of them equally uncertain as to the outcome of such a dreadful dilemma. The tension in the room was rather unwelcome. Emotions were percolating madly. The hair on their heads stood on end. What could possibly procure a sense of stability to such a precarious situation? Was there not a resolution to be made?

How would Joe tippy-toe his way out of trouble this time?

Calmly, Joe provided a response to Admiral Orlando and Captain Beaver: “I have an extraordinary talent—a talent that has oppressed me with one awkward scenario after another. Although for me it has been a source of adversity and danger, there are many benefits and privileges that have yet to be derived from it.” Joe looked at both of them intently before adding, “Wouldn’t it be a shame to waste my remarkable talent?”

“What are you suggesting?” said Admiral Orlando, who was naturally skeptical of anything that Joe would be proposing.

In a sensible manner, Joe said, “Neither of you are aware of the full potential of my talent. It is really something to behold—let me show you what I mean.”

Without saying another word, Joe got up from his chair and indicated to Captain Beaver and Admiral Orlando that they should follow him. They were heedful of his request and obeyed him, but not without expressions of disapproval. All three of them exited the room, shuffling in whichever direction Joe was going to lead them. Captain Beaver and Admiral Orlando never took their eyes off Joe.

As they made their way through the Center for Espionage, Joe began to converse rather freely: “There’s no reason to envy my talent, and I don’t expect anyone to understand what an immense burden it has become for me—”

He took a sharp turn through a narrow passageway, and then through another passageway.

“Recently,” Joe continued, “I’ve learned a great deal about the things that are happening covertly. I’ve learned that some of the most protected institutions in the world give sanctuary to the most unspeakable barbarity. The secrets that I’ve uncovered are the performances of an abject imagination—”

He walked up a set of stairs, and then another set of stairs.

“I’ve been instructed,” said Joe, “to gather intelligence on the enemies of the National Alliance, and I’ve done so with the utmost loyalty. I shouldn’t be punished for complying with what has been commanded of me—”

He passed through a portal, and then through another portal.

“However,” resumed Joe, “there’s nothing that can persuade me into believing that the people who are involved in the gathering of intelligence are somehow performing a humanitarian service.”

Joe arrived at a door with a sign that was intended to intimidate anyone who should breach its entrance without permission:

THIS IS A RESTRICTED AREA. ANYONE WITHOUT AUTHORIZATION WILL ENTER AT THEIR OWN PERIL.

Joe took a good look around him and observed that he was alone. Captain Beaver and Admiral Orlando were nowhere to be found. Was it his intention to elude them? to tippy-toe his way into yet another situation of secrecy and shenanigans?

“Is it a game, or is it a gambit?” Joe said to himself. “Have I complied with my instructions, or have I been unreliable?” It would appear, however, that he could not summon any adequate answers to his own philosophical meditations.

But a change had taken place. Joe was different. Joe had experienced something that was epiphanic and cerebral. Joe said to himself, “Now I can fathom the power of my talent.”

As he was facing the secretive door, he marveled at what he could accomplish. Joe said, “My father will no longer complain about my idleness.” His eyes were gleaming. “I’m going to be an international criminal.”