Annoy A Mountie, He'll Hunt You To The Grave

Alberta; an RCMP detachment in the foothills of the Rocky Mountains. Each member of the detachment are gathered together in a large conference room. A camera is set up, and a large map of Canada is mounted on a wall. The room is being broadcast via the internet across the country to RCMP detachments, provincial police forces, and city forces. A door opens, and every Mountie in the room stands to attention as in walks Inspector Lars Ulrich, legendary Mountie and scourge of entertainment reporters. The inspector has been busy as of late, what with the recent kidnapping of Grover the Muppet by an old adversary, but he’s been lined up to give a crucial briefing to police across the country. He walks up to the podium, glares out at the assembled troop. “At ease,” he tells them. Everyone sits down. “We’re live?” he asks.

A nearby Mountie nods. “Coast to coast, Inspector.”

Ulrich pauses, looks at the camera. “I had thought of doing this briefing with a giant Canadian flag and giving a Patton-like speech, but I suspect the ghost of George C. Scott would have something to say about that. And unfortunately we haven’t been issued the tanks that I asked for. I suppose someone in the government doesn’t like me all that much, but I still firmly believe that the Mounties need armoured cavalry. Just as much as we need our own naval force, but that’s another issue for another time. Ladies and gentlemen, as you all know, we have a matter south of the border that may require our attention and vigilance in the days to come. The Americans are about to finally get around to their election. I know what you’re thinking, it’s been going on for months and months on end, seemingly without end. Hell, it sometimes feels like it’s been going on since the last election. Well, we have orders, and I’m here to brief you all in.”

The Inspector is silent for a long moment before continuing. “The election atmosphere south of the border has become hyper-partisan, to borrow a phrase, and the concern from Ottawa is that no matter who wins, we’ll see a flood of refugees coming north, trying to escape an election result they don’t like.” The Inspector points behind him to the map. “We’ve identified crucial spots across the border where illegal immigration may take place in the event of one person winning over another. I’ll take you through them now.” He steps away from the podium.

“The polls between Democrats and Republicans are chaotic, to say the least. There are two possible scenarios to play out, and first, the possibility that the President will not get re-elected. If that’s the case, we can expect hordes of Democrat voters to pour across the border and set up shop here for the next four years. Expect concentrations of such voters particularly in British Columbia. Our analysis suggests they’ll flock to Vancouver, where it’s easiest to find marijuana, and where the winter weather is most easily tolerated by Americans. Our border crossings in BC will have to be on the lookout in that eventuality, and we’ll have to make sure that Americans who say they’re just visiting are not bringing in their every worldly possession, trying to flee the idea of four years of being ruled with an iron fist by a guy named Mittens. Rumor has it that Michael Moore and all of his friends will be leading the charge north.”

The Inspector pauses again, looking out at the assembled Mounties. “Scenario Two. The Americans re-elect the President. This will of course infuriate the right wing, who have spent the last four years trying to undermine the President. We can expect many of them at the border crossings into Alberta, where they might feel at home among all the gun carrying local Albertans. At least that’s what they think. I wonder how they’ll feel getting to Calgary and finding out it has the most progressive mayor in the entire country. We’ll have to be on the lookout for them in that scenario. And we’ll have to confiscate their guns. Can’t have a bunch of Yanks running around carrying concealed weapons without a permit, after all.  That just wouldn’t do in the Great White North.”

The Inspector points behind him to the map, to the eastern reaches of the country. “We do have another area of concern. As you all know, there are many people on the Gulf Coast, calling themselves Cajuns. They are descended, of course, from the Acadians who were deported out of Canada at the time a couple of centuries back. They still have a culture influenced by French, and either way the election goes, we could have an influx of Cajuns coming north into Canada. If it’s a Romney victory, we can count on Louisiana Democrats infiltrating the borders into Quebec and New Brunswick primarily. Same goes for if it’s an Obama victory. Lots of Louisiana Republicans will come through the New England and Vermont borders looking to settle down in French speaking districts. I wonder if they realize how left of centre Quebec politics tends to be...”

The Inspector shakes his head. “Finally. One outstanding item, and all of you had best be on the lookout for it. Either way this goes, we’ll be in for a lot of work in the weeks and months to come, rousting out illegal immigrants, sorting out who’s a legitimate refugee. There may be infiltrators among them, and they’re the sort of person we have to kick out of the country first. I’m talking, of course, about entertainment reporters. I don’t want to see one of those idiots coming up unchallenged to my detachment asking me about whether or not I’ll be recording in the studio soon. Are they really that stupid, when I keep telling them I’m not a member of Metallica? You find these guys, you throw them on the first plane back to Los Angeles or New York. Better yet, you tape them with duct tape to the underside of the plane. Round about three or four kilometres up, the duct tape ought to give out, and they’ll have a very short and very fatal trip down to the ground. They deserve nothing less than to buy the farm that way, and really, no one’s going to miss an entertainment reporter.” He looks out at the Mounties in the room, stares at the camera. “You’ve got your orders. You all are the best police officers in the world, bar none. I’m proud to be one of you. Now, get to work. We’ve all got ourselves a hell of a lot to do, and we’ve got a reputation to uphold. And a bunch of entertainment reporters to smack around....”

A door opens, interrupting the Inspector in mid speech. In comes a rather dull-eyed man, followed by a cameraman. He’s carrying a mike with the markings of Access Hollywood on it. He looks around at everyone, confused, and walks up towards the podium. “Lars! Lars! Rick Roberts, Lars. I’m the exclusive Access Hollywood music reporter. A comment please! What everyone at home wants to know... will Metallica be allowing the producers of Glee to use their music?”

Ulrich sighs. “First question. What’s a Glee?”

“Oh, come on, Lars! Everyone knows Glee! Stop joking around, and just answer the...”

“Second question. Are you a good runner?”

“Well, no, I spend most of my time hyping things. Who has time for exercise when you're talking about Jennifer Aniston's wedding?”

The Inspector sneers. “In that case, I’ll be sporting and give you a ten second head start.”

“Head start for what?”

“For me to hunt you down like a rabid dog. Ten, nine, eight...”

“Is this serious? Lars, come on, just answer the question. What does Metallica think of...”

“I am not that Lars Ulrich, you bloody dimwit!!!”

“Are you sure?”

The Inspector clobbers him.