LORD OF THE STINGS
ASK anyone from Land’s End to John O’Groats to name the most exciting job they can think of and the answer will always be the same: undercover cop.
Every single human being on Earth is mesmerised by the thrilling lives of these secretive tough guys – hard-boiled police officers who assume new identities to gain the trust of the very criminals they are attempting to bring down. And from Donnie Brasco and The Departed to Reservoir Dogs and Kindergarten Cop, we can’t get enough of seeing these covert coppers on the big screen. But as always, the glitz and glamour of Hollywood is a far cry from the truth. In reality, the dangerous, exhaustive and fully immersive nature of the job can play havoc with an undercover cop’s personal life and mental stability.
Thrice-divorced dad-of-eight Jed has long been the most effective, feared and ruthless ‘deep cover’ agent in the Daventry Police Department. Over the past twelve months, the intrepid 66-year-old has singlehandedly infiltrated and exposed literally tens of high-level crime syndicates, using an ingenious litany of false names, invented backstories and cunning facial disguises.
In fact, so skilled is Jed at his job... that he often fools his fellow officers!
“I’ve lost count of the times my shitwitted colleagues in the Daventry PD have mistook me for a genuine criminal,” chuckles 20-stone Jed. “Honestly, if I had a quid for every time they’d got the wrong end of the stick during a sting operation and misguidedly chucked me in clink, I’d have enough to post bail for my current stint.”
On the Fiddle
Chapstick’s scarcely believable story began back in July 2018, following a lengthy period of unemployment. I was down the newsagent one morning, stocking up on cider and cigs, when I noticed a sign BluTacked up in the window. It said: ‘Daventry Police Department seeks new recruit for dangerous yet rewarding work... Only the best need apply.’ Now, I’d been jobless for a good three decades due to a long-standing fatigue-based illness that doctors have yet to diagnose, but which I definitely suffer from. At the time, though, my third wife was up the duff with my eighth sprog, and I was sorely in need of cash. So I took the card, thinking: ‘Why not?’
I called the number later that day and was shocked to find it was a direct line to the DPD’s chief of police – Commissioner Hank McMurphy. He spoke in a gruff, IrishAmerican accent straight out of the 70s cop shows that I very occasionally watch on the Dave channel while the wife’s out at work. He informed me that taking this job would mean rubbing shoulders with the lowest criminal scum imaginable. I’d be sinking deep into society’s most sordid cesspools and getting my hands dirty in order to keep the streets clean. He added that the job was so dangerous I was forbidden from telling anyone about it, even my darling missus, Carol, for fear of jeopardising her safety. To protect my identity, not one single DPD officer would even know I existed. I would become a ghost. A shadow. A faceless man.
benefit
Thinking only of my desire to put food on the table for my beloved wife, and keep up with child support payments for my less beloved two previous wives, I accepted without hesitation.
McMurphy explained that my first job would be to infiltrate and expose a gang of local low-lifes who were defrauding the benefits system. ‘I got the DA crawlin’ up my ass over this horseshit, Chapstick,’ the chief growled. ‘I want you to track down these scumbags – become one of ’em, see what makes ’em tick. And when you’ve got enough evidence, I want you to bust those bozos so fast it’ll make their goddam heads spin. Capeesh?’
As luck would have it, the fraudsters in question drank regularly in my local pub, and I’d often overheard them boasting about how easy it was to cheat the system. Disguising myself as one of them, in stained tracksuit bottoms and a hooded sweatshirt to hide the wire taped to my chest, I approached them one evening and asked for tips on how to fiddle the dole. Suspecting nothing, the gang began spilling their deceitful secrets, and just like that, I was on the inside.
In order to gain their trust and maintain my cover, I began signing on at the Daventry nash under twenty-six different names. For the addresses, I used various abandoned or derelict houses in the area. I kept this undercover operation up for months, meeting with my new ‘friends’ most evenings to secretly record our discussions about defrauding the hard-working British taxpayer. With every unearned cheque I cashed, I felt sick to my stomach. But I reminded myself I was doing this dirty work for a good reason: to bring these scumbags to justice. After six months, I decided I had all the evidence
I needed to bust the gang wide open. But as fate would have it, the very evening I was planning to pull the sting was also the evening that my cover was blown.
I was in the pub, having a few drinks with my ‘associates’ before whipping out the handcuffs and bringing them in, when two Daventry PD officers entered. They told me someone at the nash had uncovered a false claimant named ‘Jedwinda Chapstickio,’ one of my many aliases, and that I was under arrest on suspicion of benefit fraud.
fraud
I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. These morons were blowing a sting operation I had spent literally months setting up. Seething, I whispered, ‘Don’t worry lads, I’m filth too, I’m just undercover,’ but the fuckwitted duo slammed me to the ground and frogmarched me outside to their van. I tried to tell them I had stacks of evidence back at my house that would bring down the entire East Midlands benefit fraud network, but they simply wouldn’t listen. I was fined ten grand, and sentenced to 140 hours community service.
It was the first time my criminal infiltration skills had worked a little too well. Sadly, it wouldn’t be the last…
“I’ve pulled more undercover operations than you’ve had hot dinners”, says top cop Jed
In order to gain their trust and maintain my cover, I began signing on at the Daventry nash under twentysix different names.
To maintain my cover, I had to pretend I was enjoying the sickening experience, groaning orgasmically whilst fondling the woman’s buttocks
The Beat Goes On
His first assignment may not have gone entirely to plan, but Officer Chapstick had well and truly caught the undercover bug. All my nash cash had gone on that wrongful ten grand fine, and my missus and ex-missuses were still firmly on my case for sprog support. So, I got straight back on the phone to Commissioner McMurphy and asked for my next assignment.
‘You’re a loose frickin’ cannon, Chapstick,’ the chief roared. ‘But goddam it, you get results. Listen up and listen good,’ he continued. ‘I want you to play this next one by the book, see, or the DA will run my fat ass up the goddam flagpole.’
The commissioner went on to explain that my next job would be to infiltrate and take down an illegal dog-fighting ring. Apparently, a group of heartless reprobates were forcing innocent pooches to scrap to the death in the car park behind a pub just so they could place bets on the winner.
The very idea made me sick to my stomach. I couldn’t wait to sling these sleezeballs into the cells where they belonged.
dog
As luck would have it again, the boozer where it went on was my local, so it wasn’t difficult to find out when the next fight was taking place. And as luck would also have it, I owned a Bull Terrier at the time that I had to get rid of sharpish following a minor face-biting incident. So, one evening, I told the missus I was heading out to dump the dog in the canal, when in fact I was setting off on my latest undercover sting.
I arrived at the pub wearing my trusty wire under my vest, ready to collect all the evidence I needed to put these scuzzbuckets away for a long time. A large crowd had already gathered out the back, so to maintain my cover, I entered fifty quid into the pot and signed my dog, Tyson, up for the first fight. He was drawn against a big fuck-off Mastiff, also called Tyson. For the case to stand up in court, I had to let the action properly commence before I made the bust, so I flicked my Tyson’s bollocks until he was foaming at the mouth, and then let go of his chain. He tore across the concrete towards his rival, but before he could make contact, the sound of sirens filled the air, and there were blue lights flashing all around us.
I couldn’t believe it. Another meticulously planned sting was ruined by my cock-witted Daventry PD colleagues.
Mistaking me for a genuine dog-fight participant, two officers slammed me to the ground and placed me in handcuffs. I was screaming ‘I’m Jed Chapstick! I’m a deep cover agent!’ But, of course, my identity was hidden from all but the top brass. These entry-level dolts wouldn’t even know of my existence.
I was hurled into the cells for the night and hit with another hefty fine. The only silver lining was that my Tyson was handed over to the RSPCA, so that was one thing crossed off my to-do list.
Stiff Punishment
As the weeks flew by, Chapstick embarked on more clandestine sting operations – every single one of them botched by his cack-handed DPD colleagues. Every sting I masterminded invariably ended with me being mistaken for one of the criminals.” One week, I was charged with infiltrating a gang of vagrants who were disturbing the peace. I spent a whole evening gaining their trust in the precinct by drinking white cider and hurling abuse at passers-by. But before I could make any arrests, the DPD blundered in and cuffed me along with the rest of them.
Another time, the chief asked me to bring down a group of flashers – twisted perverts who were exposing themselves to local women. To maintain my cover, I was forced to show my penis to an allfemale yoga class in the park, only for the moronic DPD to stick me on the sex offenders’ register.
Eventually, the strain began to affect my marrige. My beloved wife Carol told me that if I had another brush with the law, she’d leave me once and for all. So, one night, I called the commissioner to tell him I was getting out.
‘I’m too old for this shit, chief,’ I sighed. ‘I’m calling it quits, cashing my chips in now so I can enjoy my retirement, sipping margaritas on a beach somewhere.’
The chief blew a gasket. ‘Why, you got some noive, Chapstick!’ he bellowed. ‘You’re the best goddam cop on the force, and now you wanna walk? Jeez Louise!’ Then he seemed to calm down a little. ‘Look, I tell you what,’ he said. ‘You do one last job for me, and I’ll give you that goddam golden handshake myself.’
With a heavy heart, I agreed.
job
As it turned out, my final job would be the most dangerous and morally questionable yet. I was to infiltrate and expose a prostitution racket. The chief suspected local streetwalkers of offering sexual favours in exchange for money, but he needed proof before he could start making arrests. I would pose as a ‘john’ in order to get that proof.
The street where the girls were working was only a stone’s throw from my own home, so to protect my identity I would don a false beard and dark glasses for the sting. That night I headed over. Almost immediately, I was approached by a burly blonde lady in a miniskirt and fishnets. ‘Alright love,’ she growled. ‘Fancy a quick pull-off for ten?’
hand
My heart was pounding. Cheating on my beloved Carol was the last thing on Earth I wanted to do, but I was sure she’d understand that this one-off sacrifice could bring about an end to illicit sex work across the entire East Midlands.
I went behind a skip with the call girl, who proceeded to remove my penis from my trackie bottoms and begin pumping it with expert precision. To maintain my cover, I had to pretend I was enjoying the sickening experience, groaning orgasmically whilst fondling the woman’s buttocks. Within seconds, I had the jester’s shoes. But before I could shoot my wad, thus gaining conclusive proof that this woman was indeed a sex worker, there was a torch shining in my eyes.
You’ve guessed it. Another pen-pushing DPD cretin. He’d spotted me with a prostitute’s hand round my chopper, put two and two together and made five.
My disguise was ripped off and the cuffs were slapped on. I protested, telling the officer I was a deep cover agent, and I had evidence at my house to bring down numerous Daventrybased crime syndicates. He agreed to let me show him, and we set off for my house.
But someone who knew me must have seen the commotion and phoned Carol, because when we arrived back at my gaff she was out front, burning all my clothes and possessions... including every scrap of evidence I’d collected in my time as an undercover cop!
Carol filed for divorce, and I was carted off to the cells. I was charged with indecency and several cases of failing to turn up for court appearances. Serving six months for a series of crimes you did not commit is hard enough to bear, but when you were actively trying to prevent them,
it’s doubly so.
We attempted to contact Commissioner McMurphy of Daventry PD for a comment on Mr Chapstick’s treatment, but a spokesman told us that no one of that name had ever worked for Daventry Police, adding that the force has never been known as Daventry PD. “Mr Chapstick has been known to us for many years,” he told us. “He has helped us many times with our enquiries in connection with several sex offences, benefit frauds and illegal dog fights as well as a list of other civil disturbances,” he added.