The ICE is Right - 2029

2029 – The ICE is Right

I flick away from Monday Night Football sometime in the third quarter. Another drive stalls. Another sideline shot of a coach explaining accountability while his quarterback sails a throw ten yards wide. The language of effort. The absence of results.

I’ve seen this game already.

It’s all ads anyway. It always was. I know that. Still, I flinch when LibertyGuard cuts in — Neighbourhood Integrity Systems — all clean lines and flag colours, all reassurance.

“Keeping Real Americans Safe.”

A map pulses gently on the screen. Little dots move where people aren’t supposed to. The voice-over is calm, paternal.

“When borders blur, danger follows. At LibertyGuard, we protect what matters most — your home, your heritage, your America. Join millions of Real Americans who trust LibertyGuard. Because safety isn’t a right. It’s a policy.”

A white couple in plaid smile into each other’s shoulders. The image softens. The logo fades.

Proud Sponsors of The ICE Is Right.

I don’t change the channel. I’m just curious, a morbid interest, like rubbernecking. The truth is it’s easier to watch something worse than football.

That’s what I do now — pretend I’m studying it, not absorbing it. Pretend I’m safe because I’m watching from a sofa. Pretend distance still exists in this country.

The music hits hard enough to rattle the speakers. Strobes wash over a crowd already on its feet. Shiny faces. Teeth. Flags.

Someone starts chanting before I can stop myself from recognizing the beat.

ICE. ICE. Baby.

The crowd takes it up immediately, like it’s muscle memory.

ICE. ICE. Baby.

I half-laugh before I catch myself. Decades on from a white man trying to launder rap through novelty, and now it’s the theme tune for a primetime hit. Appropriation finally finding its perfect ending: a chorus for removal.

The camera sweeps the audience. People are clapping. People are filming. People are already winning something, even if they don’t know what yet.

I don’t turn it off.

I feel something tighten in my chest — not fear, not yet, just the sense that a line has been crossed, not just crossed, jumped and then erased. I didn’t even notice when. The crowd is already ahead of me, already surrendered. I’m still pretending I’m not part of it.

Stop, collaborate and listen

ICE is back with a new edition

The cameras zoom in to the studio audience, dancing, hands in the air, red baseball hats, t-shirts with ‘Always Right’ emblazoned across silhouettes of the President, a cleavage pushed out so far, so high, clad with the Stars and Stripes yelling pick me, pick me.

For those that came without permission

You’re going home on this transmission

The camera hovers over a denim shorted woman, that is one silicon valley she’s pushing there, ‘our first contestant, come on down Tiffany Cole’, Tiffany leaps and dances down the steps, flirting with the nation, toward the stage.

The shot pans to a bald man, eyes racing, he is thrusting a clenched fist into the air, the shot focuses to his ‘Third Term’ lapel badge’ ‘our second patriot tonight is Brad Henson, come on down’. Brad whoops and hollers his way to the front as the chorus approaches.

The final place up for grabs sees the frenzy approach hysteria. Dignity lost amidst mania. As the studio lights wash the audience with Stars and Stripes, moving from hopeful to desperate, they stop one last time. An older face turns from shock into joy, a cheer ripples through the studio ‘and finally, ‘Giovanni Chiesa, come on down’.

The crowd are delirious. My finger hovers over the change channel button. Not so much out of principle, more like habit. The truth is I know I’m going to watch, I just don’t know if I can admit it.

The tune kicks in again and I drop the remote control.

ICE ICE baby

ICE ICE baby…

And let’s give the bigliest American welcome to your host, Martyyyy ‘the Party’ Bearman.

Marty “the Party” Bearman bursts through the curtain like he’s been fired from a cannon. Teeth too white. Tan too deep. Suit too tight across the chest, like nationalism itself is straining to get out.

He hits the stage with a double‑finger‑gun salute, spinning once, twice, soaking in the roar. The crowd doesn’t just cheer — it vibrates, a single organism pulsing with anticipation. You can feel it through the screen, like static before a storm.

“Patriots,” he booms, “are you READY to make America even safer tonight?”

The audience detonates. Flags whip through the air. Someone in the front row is crying — actually crying — and Marty hasn’t even said anything yet.

Tiffany is bouncing on the balls of her feet, hair sprayed into architectural defiance. Brad is already sweating, chest heaving like he’s preparing for a heavyweight bout. Giovanni stands a little apart, blinking, as if he’s still not convinced this is happening to him.

Marty prowls the stage, microphone held like a sceptre.

“Tonight,” he says, “one of these patriots will earn the honour — the privilege — of sending illegals back where they belong.”

The crowd chants again, ‘USA, USA’ it morphs into a wordless pounding rhythm. Not lyrics. Just noise. Approval. Hunger.

“Lets meet tonight’s contestants – Tiffany Cole. Goddam Tiffany I got to say you’re looking fine tonight. Nothing beats a real American beauty. Tell me all about yourself Tiff, where’s home and can I have your number?”

The crowd belch a raucous laughter.

Tiffany leans toward Marty, one hand on her hip, the other fluttering like she’s trying to cool herself with her own excitement.

“Well Marty, I’m from Freedom Falls ‘y’know it? Maybe come visit” Marty pulls a face straight from the 1970s, comedic drooling. “I’m there Tiff, I’m there but before that pleasure, let’s make America proud, why are you here tonight?”

“I just think it’s time we cleaned things up a little, y’know? There’s too many people coming over here who don’t respect our way of life.”

The crowd whoops. Someone yells say it, girl.

I feel my stomach tighten. I should turn it off. I don’t.

Marty grins, smile like a hungry shark. “And who exactly are we talking about, sweetheart?”

She doesn’t hesitate. Not even a flicker of doubt.

“Oh, you know,” she says brightly, “the ones who don’t speak English, who live like ten to a house, who bring all those… habits.” She wrinkles her nose, a rehearsed gesture. “I heard some of them eat dogs. Like actual pets. Can you imagine?”

The audience gasps in the way audiences do when they’ve been told to — half shock, half delight.

Its vulgar. A heat envelops me. The kind that comes with realising that you are not just watching something wrong, but you’re letting it happen.

Tiffany keeps going, buoyed by the reaction.

“And I saw this thing online,” she says, lowering her voice conspiratorially, “about some of them getting involved with girls who are, like, fourteen. It’s disgusting. Fourteen! So honestly?” She beams. “Send them back.”

The crowd erupts. Flags wave. Someone stands on their chair. The fade announces more ads, Elvis Presley ripping out American Trilogy.

AmeriCore, TrueBorn DNA and FreedomOil, companies that didn’t exist in 2024 now worth billions announce their All-American credentials.

Marty reappears, “Welcome back to the Ice is Right. We are with the beautiful Tiffany Cole, a perfect US citizen, so let’s go to Freedom Falls and see who ICE may be visiting. Who is illegal here Tiff?”

“The Fernandez family Marty. They run a Taco restaurant in the main drag. I worked there until they fired me. Probably brought another family member in. Scum.”

I grip the remote so tightly my knuckles ache. I realise I’m leaning forward. Like watching a field goal attempt in overtime, I’m invested, no longer watching but wanting too.

Marty claps his hands, delighted. “Well, patriots, Tiffany’s fired up tonight!”

The camera cuts to her smiling, radiant, basking in applause that feels like a physical force.

I swallow hard. This isn’t entertainment. It’s something else. Something I don’t have a name for yet.

And still, I don’t change the channel.

The lights dim, not dramatically — efficiently. Applause drains away on cue, like air from a room.

A new graphic slides in.

ROUND THREE: COMMUNITY TIP.

Powered by LibertyGuard™

The jingle is gone. No music now. Just the low electronic hum of something staying awake.

“Alright,” Marty says, softer, almost reasonable. “This is where we stop guessing and start helping.”

A live map fills the screen. Streets sharpen. Names resolve. The dots pulse slower now, heavier, like something breathing.

“You each submitted a tip,” Marty continues. “Someone you know. Someone you’ve noticed. Tonight’s winner gets exclusive access to the live removal stream. Real-time. No filters.”

The audience doesn’t cheer. They lean forward.

Brad goes first.

A single-family rental lights up. A cracked driveway. Two cars, one on blocks.

“That’s the Morales place,” Brad says. “Lot of people in and out. Cash jobs. No English.”

“Confirmed,” Marty replies instantly. “No valid documentation.”

Brad’s score shoots up. He exhales, satisfied.

Tiffany’s turn.

Her map snaps to Main Street.

“Fernandez family,” she says, smiling. “Restaurant. I worked there. Too many relatives, not enough paperwork.”

“Pre-verified,” Marty says. “Outstanding violations.”

Her score jumps ahead.

She squeezes her fists, eyes bright. The camera lingers just long enough to make it feel like a reward.

Giovanni’s map loads last.

There’s a pause — longer than the others.

An older apartment building appears. Brick worn pale at the edges. A chipped stone saint by the front door. Someone’s laundry still hanging on a line, unmoving.

“That’s my place,” Giovanni says. Not defensive. Just factual. “I live there.”

Marty tilts his head. Curious, not concerned.

“And who are we flagging, Giovanni?”

“The Jacksons” his face turns a smile “came from Africa, play rap music all night and smoking Mary Jane on the stairwells. Mrs Jackson is a nurse, but she’s always got people turning up at all hours. Mainly Peurtos, Cubans, the Spics”

“Definitely not the illegals we want on our streets Gio, but The Jacksons are legal Gio. Mrs Jackson is the Great Granddaughter of Aloysius Jackson, and if you know your US history he was the First Minster of the Presbyterian Church of the USA”

“But, but she’s black and what about the Spics?” His face is turning red, no, scarlet, maybe something hotter. But Marty doesn’t pull up the comments, he just laughs,

“Sorry Gio”

The scoreboard updates automatically.

Gio’s score drops to zero.

WINNER: TIFFANY COLE.

Confetti fires. Music slams back in like nothing happened.

Tiffany screams, hands flying to her face. Marty wraps an arm around her shoulders, beaming.

“America loves a winner,” he says.

Behind them, the screen splits cleanly in two.

On the left: the Fernandez restaurant. Night footage. A van idling. Figures moving with practiced speed.

On the right: Giovanni’s building. Same stone steps. Same saint. A flashlight beam cutting across the entryway.

I don’t notice it at first. The split screen. Then it hit me.

The audience erupts now. Relief. Release.

“Tiffany,” Marty says into the mic, “how does it feel to protect your community?”

She wipes her cheeks, glowing. “Honestly? It feels amazing.”

The camera cuts to a restaurant, agents storm the building. Customers drop tacos, burritos and jaws as Mrs Fernandez and her staff are hauled screaming, shouts of ‘my papers, I am a US citizen” are heard. The studio audience cheer, Tiffany and Marty dance to the theme tune whilst Brad and Giovanni clap loudly and sing along.

ICE ICE BABY

The music drops early, Marty pulls Tiffany close, “Tiffany Cole, today we have a special episode for a special winner. Do you want to make America Great Again?”

“Yes Marty, yes Marty” her enthusiasm reminds me of a rabid dog, all sense gone, just ready to bite everything.

On the right-hand screen, a door opens. Giovanni’s apartment. Giovanni’s door.

He could recognise his own door. But not what it meant. Not yet.

In my head I’m screaming at him — the split screen, Gio, look at the split screen — but he can’t hear me. No one can.

On the left, a woman in an apron steps into the light, confused, drying her hands on a towel.

Giovanni shouts, “hey that’s my wife!”

“and yes viewers, sometimes we play too many games. Giovanni, is your wife American?”

“No – she is Syrian we came here 35 years ago” he pulls himself upright, straightening his back, hands searching for an absent tie to pull the knot up. “We pay our taxes Marty, we vote, we love America, I am American”

“But you came on a tourist visa Giovanni, you have overstayed by 35 years. Time for a…” there is a dramatic pause, the tension rises, then Marty rolls out what will become this week’s meme, “It’s time for a fake patriot to repatriate. You’re going home!”

A cry of ‘you’re going home, you’re going home’ is orchestrated in the audience – it reminds me to switch back to sport. But just two more minutes.

Giovanni’s mouth moves but the words don’t know what they’re saying. I can’t hear him anyway, he’s been muted. A tear trickles as he watches his wife cuffed by agents too scared to show their faces. A masked army.

They silenced Giovanni but I can see the words now. He puts his right hand over his heart.

O say can you see, by the dawn’s early light

Streamers burst from the ceiling, glitter floating down reflecting lights. ICE agents enter Giovanni’s apartment, and also the studio.

A chyron scrolls along the bottom:

THANK YOU FOR WATCHING. REMOVALS IN PROGRESS.

The chant returns, slower now, almost intimate.

ICE. ICE. Baby.

I should turn away. ‘I should have’, the words that will be whispered in the future by those regretting their apathy.

But the screen holds me, the way a cliff edge holds you — not with fear, but with the quiet knowledge that one step is all it takes. Maybe that’s the point. Maybe that’s why this show exists.

Not to punish them.

To prepare us.