All Megalomaniacal Robots Must Come To A Bad End

Some links before getting started. Norma had reflections on her old neighbourhood. Parsnip had Square Dog news. Eve has been finishing up the A-Z challenge. Krisztina had a smoothie idea. Maria wrote about breaking the rules in writing. And the Whisk had this image.

Today I have something different, what with the Avengers sequel nearly upon us...

Alternate Reality Robot Brought To Tears After Meeting Its Match

Calgary (CP) Robotics engineers and scientists have debated the notion of whether or not robots will ever be able to attain emotional capacities. Now the world knows that at least one can cry like a baby. In what experts are calling a trans-dimensional crossing, a robotic being calling itself Ultron pierced dimensional barriers from another reality. It began tearing a swath of destruction from the American Mid-West northwest into Canadian territory. Uncertain of what they were dealing with, leaders in the United States and Canada were scrambling for information while the robot dispatched any threat put in its way and wrecked havoc everywhere. The American President found himself bickering with House and Senate leaders, who demanded a rider be attached to any bill meant to deal with the threat allowing them to arm every child in a kindergarten. The Canadian Prime Minister issued a statement saying whatever this was, it would not be permitted to interfere with his tar sands. Then he went to hide in an alcove.

The robot continued its rampage. Witnesses reported hearing it speaking non-stop in what was best described as a running tirade of exposition and megalomaniacal threats. West of Calgary, Ultron met its match in the foothills of the Rocky Mountains. Its path stopped at a very specific RCMP detachment. Waiting there was the legendary RCMP Inspector, Lars Ulrich. The cranky lawman, often mistaken by dimwitted entertainment reporters for the Metallica drummer by the same name, recently brought down the threat posed by a mad scientist. He stood outside, watching the robot come straight for him.

What was said between them is not entirely known. Ulrich said not so much as a word. Ultron prattled on for several minutes. Witnesses overheard phrases such as annihilation of humanity, homicidal urges, malevolent vileness, and fluffy kittens coming from the robot. Ulrich simply stared at the robot. And stared. And stared. And stared some more. Finally Ultron stopped talking. Its body seemed to be shaking- witnesses weren’t sure why. And then the sounds of agonized sobs started to come from the robot. It collapsed to its knees, weeping profusely.

Someone else arrived on site. An armoured man in gold and red, came out of the sky and settled down at the detachment, staring at the weeping Ultron and the stoic Mountie. Words were exchanged between the Mountie and the newcomer, whose faceplate slid back to reveal the face of a man. Ultron was swiftly dispatched to a wrecking yard, put into a compactor, and reduced to a cube of half a square metre. The cube was then tossed into an active volcano.

An explanation was forthcoming. Ulrich and the newcomer appeared before gathered members of the press. No entertainment reporters were allowed access to the site. “I’m Iron Man of the Avengers,” the newcomer said. “I came through the same dimensional threshold as Ultron. Well, an Ultron duplicate. It’s a very long story, but my team and I were fighting that homicidal robot and an army of duplicate Ultrons on our Earth, and that duplicate got away. So I came to chase it, and here I am. I just never expected to see Ultron reduced to tears.”

Ulrich shrugged. “The Ulrich family glare comes in handy when dealing with megalomaniacs,” he noted with a shrug. “It leaves them bawling and broken, every single time.”

“I asked him to come over and join our Avengers,” Iron Man explained. “But when I told him we have hundreds of thousands of entertainment reporters in my dimension, he declined. The inspector seems to find thousands of them already annoying enough.”

“You would too if they were always confusing you with the drummer from Metallica,” Ulrich replied. “I mean, honestly, just because we share the same name...” 

Iron Man paused for a moment. “Wait a minute.... the Metallica drummer in this reality is also named Lars Ulrich?” he asked.

Ulrich nodded. “Yes, and don’t go asking me if we’re related...”

Iron Man shook his head. “Not at all, I wouldn’t think of doing that. It’s just that in my reality, the Metallica drummer’s name is Jebediah “Skeeter” Winterbottom.”

Iron Man was soon off again, back to his own dimension. Inspector Ulrich returned to his detachment. And overnight, the name Jebediah “Skeeter” Winterbottom became the most searched term online, effectively breaking the internet. The Jebediah Winterbottom of this dimension, a lawyer in North Carolina, slammed the door on reporters after insisting that he never learned how to play the drums. "Music requires soul!" he bellowed. "And I'm a lawyer! Everyone knows lawyers don't have souls!"

How Do We Bid Goodbye To Such A Despicable Rat?

Today I turn my attention to my occasional series of inappropriate funeral eulogies. Incidentally, this is the sort of eulogy I'd give for my worthless idiot ex-brother-in-law. In fact, the stupidity, the workplace buffoonery, and the drunkenness? All classic Mike. If he ever meets a bad end, I may need an alibi. 

“Thank you for that kind introduction, Reverend. When I’m done, you might want to think twice about that kind introduction, because in all honesty, and let’s be honest, because this is, after all a church... I really don’t have anything good to say about the deceased. I must say, I’m not quite sure why I was asked to give a eulogy for George. It’s not as if I would have wanted to be here otherwise. When I was asked to do this, I asked if there was someone closer to him to give the eulogy. Such as a friend. Well, as it turns out, George didn’t have friends. George’s attitude annoyed everyone around him. I’m not saying I hated the man, but, well... okay, I hated him. Just being honest here. If he’d been having a heart attack and asked me to use the phone to call an ambulance, I would have picked up the phone and ordered a pizza.

George’s ex-wife Janice asked me to do this. There she is, sitting in the front row, and I have to ask, Janice, why did we have to go through the bother of a funeral? The only people gathered here today are people who want to make sure George was dead. We could have skipped the service and just had him cremated, tossed the urn into the trunk of a car in a wrecking yard, and had it compacted. It would have been a win-win all ways around. Well, not so much for George’s ashes.

Well. We’re here anyway. So we might as well get it all done and over with.

What kind of man was George, anyway? How can we sum up his presence on this earth? Well, some words do come to mind. George was an insufferable, obnoxious, sanctimonious ass. He was an idiot. A knuckledragging vindictive bastard. An argumentative twit who thought he was right about everything and had no idea how stupid he really was.

George was the sort of fellow who insisted to anyone within ear shot that dinosaurs walked in the Old West with Davy Crockett. When you pointed out that dinosaurs and Davy Crockett and dinosaurs were separated by millions of years, he would shrug and say he didn’t believe that. When I asked why what he believed had more merit than the fossil record and extensive scientific knowledge, not to mention the entire actual history of Davy Crockett, he sneered and said I had no idea what I was talking about.

That’s the kind of man he was. Monumentally stupid but totally unaware of how stupid he was. I mean, honestly, you have some people in life who aren’t that bright, but they know that they’re not, they take it in stride, and in all honesty, they’re affable people. Easy to get along with. On the other hand, you get a guy like George, convinced he knows everything, convinced that dropping out after failing grade six four times was a good thing to do, and believing he’s right about everything. He’d say moose antlers could be used to generate electricity. That fish were influencing our very thoughts. That the world would be better off if we went back to measuring things by the onk. He never actually explained what an onk was.

Like I said... George was an idiot. Actually, calling him an idiot would be like calling Lake Superior a pond. Janice, I’ve got to say, I never understood how you managed to stay married to him for three months. He was a social misfit with appalling manners. This is the same guy who was beaten up by seventeen veterans for wiping his nose with a flag, and then asked what he did wrong. This was a guy who thought the salad fork could be used to take a cork out of a wine bottle. George would tell you that the proper way to set off fireworks involved a blowtorch and kerosene. Fortunately the fire department put that debacle out before the park gazebo could be burned to the ground.

He was also the sort who had no regard for people around him. We’re talking about the same guy who did six months in jail for stealing the poppy money from a coffee shop poppy box three days before Remembrance Day. His excuse? He couldn’t change a twenty, and he wanted a drink at the bar down the street. I mean honestly, you really can’t get much lower than that.

George was always in and out of work. And it was always someone else’s fault. He seemed to think that he should be the boss. It never once seemed to occur to him that in a workplace, you don’t start arguments with other employees, with the boss, with customers. No, he’d argue, never really grasping the notion that doing so was the reason he’d get fired. As for being the boss, two things never seemed to occur to him. The first was that he never had the competence to be in charge of anything. We are, after all, talking about a very stupid person with no skills or judgment. The second is that even when you’re a boss, you can’t yell at employees or customers just because you’re an argumentative prick and feel like taking out your issues on everyone around you. Word gets around, after all, and that puts you out of business. Incidentally, calling him an argumentative prick is another good way to describe the kind of man George was.

So George went through life without the personal insight to understand that he was the cause of his own problems. He was the reason his life was at a dead end. No, he’d be much more interested in downing a beer at the corner bar, griping about how everyone else was getting ahead in life and he wasn’t. It made him a bitter man. More so than he already was.

This brings us to the way he died. To be honest, I would have expected him to have drunk his way into the grave. Maybe it would have been alcohol poisoning. God knows the blithering idiot drank enough in his life to have his veins saturated with the stuff... and since he’s being cremated, I might suggest to the funeral directors that you might want to take into account all that excess booze in his body. Is that a risk to the crematorium? Anyway, I digress. I would have thought booze would have been the end of him. Driving drunk, perhaps. George always thought he could handle his liquor. How it is he was only arrested five times for driving under the influence is a marvel, and seriously, why no one revoked his license is a mystery.

As it turns out, booze did play a factor in the way he died.

We only have that one witness to tell us what happened. A hiker out in the woods. It seems George was out looking for a good place to fish around Blackfly Lake. He’d had a few too many beers that morning, according to the coroner, who managed to autopsy what was left of him. The hiker saw him at a distance, standing near a clifftop. He had something in one hand, and he seemed to be teasing it. The hiker realized it was a bear cub.

Now any smart person will tell you, when you see a bear cub, you leave it alone. You back away, you make sure the mother isn’t behind you, you get out of there. You do not approach it. You do not pick it up by the scruff of the neck. It’s just common sense. There are certain things in this life you just don’t do. Like eating at a place called Mom’s, or playing cards with a guy named Doc. Like I said.. common sense.

Well, George was never the sort of person to listen to common sense.

The hiker saw it all happen. Too far off to do anything about it, really. He saw the mother bear come out of the woods. The cub managed to wriggle free, ran off into the woods... and George turned to chase it... and that’s when he saw Mama Bear. The hiker actually heard him at a distance. George yelled in that sneering, condescending, totally dimwitted way that only George Dutton could say... so what’s your problem?

Hey, we can’t blame the mother. Everyone knows you don’t annoy mother bears. Everybody but George, it seems. The park rangers certainly didn’t blame that mother bear for what happened next. Particularly considering she didn’t bite George. She must have been tempted to,though.

No, instead George started blathering on. Whatever he was saying, the hiker didn’t hear, but we can all remember at one time or another George’s rants about politics, race, sports, or whatever was passing through what passed for his brain. Honestly, who among us hasn’t wanted to kill George? Reverend, I’m looking at you, and don’t tell me you don’t remember how he threw up on the Nativity scene outside last Christmas. See? Even Reverend Hannigan thought about killing him.

So there’s George ranting. There’s this hiker trying to approach and warn him off. And there’s Mama Bear, and she finally swats him. Well, George already being drunk, he stumbles back, and, well... there wasn’t any more rock to stumble back over. Just empty space. So there he went, two hundred feet down. The bear walked back into the woods, the hiker just stared in shock, and that was that.

The park rangers decided pretty quickly that the bear wasn’t a problem, so nothing was going to be done on that side of things. I mean, most everyone knows you don’t provoke bears. They didn’t say it in so many words, but let’s face it, they were thinking it: George had it coming.

So George- or what was left of George after he hit the bottom, was removed from the site. I’m sure there are bits and pieces of him still down in those rocks. And what was left of him is in that closed casket right here before us. And every last one of us here, are we going to miss him?

Of course not. We’re going to say good riddance.

I guess to conclude all of this... I can just ask the question. Can anything good be said about George Dutton now that he’s dead and gone? Probably not. The best I can muster is this. George, the world is a better place now that you’re dead. Primarily because you’re dead.

By the way, dumbass: despite what you persistently said time and again, the paranoid and crazy Korea isn’t South Korea, schnauzers are not guinea pigs, and three times seven does not equal vodka chasers."

Revenge Is A Dish Best Served Cold

Some links before getting underway today. Norma wrote about captchas. Parsnip had a Square Dog Friday post. Eve has been carrying on with the A-Z Challenge. Krisztina had spring decorating ideas. Mark had thoughts on spring and a book announcement. And Lynn featured ducklings.

Today I feature something entirely different.

It was a dark and stormy night. Mostly because the writer knew he could never get away with using that as a first line in a proper book, given the fact that it has long since been considered a cheesy, bad opening line. At any rate, it was indeed a dark and stormy night in the skies over the capital of Canada. In his study at 24 Sussex Drive, the Prime Minister of the nation, Stephen Harper (Emperor Stephen the First, as he secretly planned to be called once he launched his plan to seize power for life) sat brooding. He often brooded, for his was a blackened soul devoid of humour and empathy, thinking only of vendettas, driven mad by power, yearning to destroy any who stood before him. It was said by many that the Prime Minister lacked the capacity to smile or laugh. Oh, yes, he would try from time to time, but an attempted smile always came out more like a glare of malevolence and disgust.

He was lost in thought, ignoring the lightning outside, thinking only of ways to manipulate the polls, to launch more attack ads at his opponents, to find ways to undermine them. It was, after all, his way. He had learned at the feet of the master, his old mentor, the Reform party founder Preston Manning. “Stephen,” Preston once said back in the day. “Above all else, democracy only works if we’re in power and doing everything we can to absolutely obliterate any dissent. You might say one thing. I mean, go on and on about transparency and accountability, but once you’re in power, dissent must be destroyed, and anyone asking questions must be silenced. Oh, and you have to do everything you can to pander to your base. They’d support you no matter what you do. Now, how about we have a corn roast? That plays well with the base.”

Time had passed- he came out of his musings, wondering about the hour, the quiet of the house. He looked up in the darkened room, and saw that he was not alone. Someone stood there in the shadows, barely perceptible in the gloom. How had he gotten in? Harper was certain, after all, that if anyone had come in, he would have noticed. The figure advanced, the lone light from the desk lamp starting to illuminate some of his features. The dark circles under the eyes, the severe looking face, the widow’s peak hairline, all of it familiar, all of it resonating with the Prime Minister. This was, after all, one of his influences- even if he could never actually admit it publicly.

It was Richard Nixon.

How was that possible? Had Richard Nixon not passed away in 1994? Twenty years after his fall from grace. Those pesky reporters, Harper had often thought, even from his youth, one of the many reasons he had ended up developing a profound loathing for the media. How dare they make trouble for a politician. Particularly one that I admire. If it had been up to Harper, Woodward and Bernstein would have been arrested for treason instead of admired for their role in exposing Watergate and ending up being played by Robert Redford and Dustin Hoffmann.  Of course, that was a different time, a different country, and one of the many reasons the Prime Minister would never acknowledge the existence of Robert Redford or the Sundance Festival. How is it possible? Richard Nixon is dead.

“Um... hello? Are you....?” Harper began.

“Hello, Mr. Prime Minister,” Nixon said in that familiar growl of his, a mixture of bemusement and contempt underlying his tone. “I am.”

“Hello, Mr. President,” Harper replied, rising. ‘This is... this is quite an honour. Of course. Though... I guess you’re not really here, are you?”

“No, I’m a ghost,” Nixon admitted.

“I see. Well. I must ask, why are you here?”

“I come as a warning, Stephen,” Nixon explained with a sigh. “It is too late for me. My fate was my own making, not that I could really admit that in life. My need to have enemy lists, to poke at old wounds, to cheat at any cost... it turned me into a shell of a man. It destroyed my own place in history. I often thought in the years after I left office that if only I had won the election in 1960, I might not have become this paranoid win at all costs ultra partisan figure of history. I might have been the better man for it. But no, America fell in love with that Marilyn Monroe screwing twit who couldn’t pronounce an R to save his life, I looked bad on television, and there went the whole election. Does that sound bitter? I’m never quite sure.”

“Not bitter at all!” Harper insisted.

“Yes, well, however it happened, it happened,” Nixon told the Prime Minister. “I lost in 1960, came back years later, won, but was so cynical, distrusting, and vindictive that I was willing to do anything and screw anyone over just to get elected.”

“You say that like it’s a bad thing,” Harper noted with a shrug.

“It’s a terrible thing!” Nixon countered.

“But why?”

Nixon shook his head. “Stephen, you must listen to me. When I met my end, and went to that awful infernal place, it was explained to me that I had been the most vindictive politician yet to have walked the earth. But that was not to last. One day, north of the border, there would come a politician whose vindictiveness and need to destroy his political enemies would exceed even my own. Stephen, it is you.”

“Me?”

“Yes, you.”

“Oh, now come on, is this a joke?” Harper asked with a sigh of dismay.

“It’s no joke, Stephen,” Nixon warned. “You have come too far down this road of vindictiveness. You have silenced anyone in the public service who can speak out against you. You have taken steps to cripple your political rivals. You have spent millions upon millions of dollars toasting yourself. You have secret plans already set to remove basic rights from your citizens. I’m just surprised you haven’t bugged your rival’s campaign offices.”

“Yes, well, I have time before the election to get to that,” Harper replied in a self-satisfied way.

“Stephen!!!” Nixon shouted in an outraged way. “That’s what did me in!”

Harper nodded. “Yes, well, your guys were third rate burglars. I’ve got much better and more discreet guys at my disposal.”

Nixon sighed and rolled his eyes. “I see it is entirely too late to reason with you. You are on the path you have chosen, and nothing will remove you from it. Where you will go from here is a disaster of your own making. I would have thought my bad example would have been enough to drive you from that path. I was wrong. About a great many things.”

“Never say that!” Harper insisted. “True conservatives like us are never wrong. I mean, come on, this can’t be you. Richard Nixon would never admit he was wrong. Why would you say such things to me?”

“Death changes a man, Stephen,” Nixon admitted.

“This has got to be a dream,” Harper told himself. “I’m dreaming. Why aren’t I dreaming of my political foes in the stocks in the shadow of the Peace Tower? That’s a good dream. Not to mention that’s where I’ll have them sooner or later for daring to defy me and demand accountability and good order in my government. How dare they question me!”

Nixon shook his head in a sad way. “Oh, sure, Stephen, go ahead, tell yourself it’s a dream. Tell yourself that this isn’t happening. Perhaps these are all the musings of a writer who really dislikes you and looks forward to the day when you’re voted out of office. Perhaps he is using this as a way to amuse his readers.”

“That doesn’t make any sense,” Harper objected.

“Such things rarely do,” Nixon informed him.

Harper shook his head. “A dream. That’s all it is. My hero, Richard Nixon, would never say such things to me. This is nothing more than a bit of undigested steak acting up. Yes, that’s it. A very Dickensian trick, I would say, like that Christmas Carol thing. That’s about all I remember of that story. Aside from thinking that the moral to the story was really badly thought out. Why that book is considered a classic is beyond me.”

“You are aware that the writer once put you in the Scrooge role in a Christmas Carol parody?” Nixon asked.

“Rubbish!” Harper declared. “My minions would have told me if anyone was disrespecting me in such a fashion.”

Nixon looked up at the ceiling and sighed again. “Don’t say I didn’t at least give it a try.”

The spectral presence faded. Harper sat down at his desk once more. He shook his head. No, he decided. It couldn’t have been. If Richard Nixon had really been here, he would have also brought my other personal heroes. Ronald Reagan, Margaret Thatcher, and Ayn Rand. He smiled to himself- as much as his limited facial expressions and bitter soul would allow a smile, and went back to work, plotting the next intricate phase of how to annihilate his enemies in the coming election.

And somewhere else, in an infernal and hot place, Richard Nixon rested content, knowing that sooner or later he would be remembered merely as the second most vindictive politician in history.

Downfall Of A Mad Scientist

Some links before getting started. Norma is doing an interview with me which can be found at Blogger and Wordpress. Parsnip had some photos. And Eve continues to do the A-Z challenge.

Now then, earlier this month I posted a blog about a certain mad scientist. This, therefore, is the follow up.

Mad Scientist Super Villain Foiled By Cranky Lawman; Vows That He Will Have His Revenge

Calgary (CP). After days of posturing and making multiple threats, mad scientist Magnus Von Malice was taken into custody and charged with multiple criminal charges. The super villain, who claimed responsibility for the recent re-emergence of numerous dead Z-list celebrities, and threatened to unleash a plague of them upon the earth if his demands were not met, was in a foul mood while appearing in court and being told he had no prospects of making bail.

“You can’t do this to me!” he bellowed at a judge in a court in Calgary, Canada, while being restrained by court guards and security personnel. “I’ll get you for this! Nobody does this to Magnus Von Malice and lives to see next year!”

Von Malice, graduate of the Zeppelin Von Blood Academy For Ethically Challenged Scholars, had created technology allowing him to pierce the time stream and remove several dead celebrities from the moment before their deaths, creating a temporal paradox in which one version of them died and the other was left to live. He also enlisted a horde of living Z-list celebrities willing to do his bidding. “He told us he could make sure we’d stay famous,” former Beverly Hills 90210 star Luke Perry explained to reporters. “How could we not sign up with him? I mean, seriously, I’ve got guys who want to break my knees if I don’t pay them six figures by the end of the month... which reminds me, does anyone have a couple hundred grand they can lend me?”

David Hasselhoff, the Kardashian-Jenner sisters, Ian Ziering, Tara Reid, Justin Bieber, Miley Cyrus, and others have been among the previously believed dead celebrities to have returned from the dead in recent days. Aside from Ziering and Reid, the others met a bad end at the teeth of the most dangerous being in the entire galaxy.

Von Malice’s evil plan terrified the world. Leaders around the planet speculated on the potential plague a horde of Z-list celebrities could cause across the world. Entertainment journalists gushed about the prospect of 24 hours a day coverage of Real Housewives Of Beverly Hills taking over the International Criminal Court. The people of Denmark worried that they would be reduced to serving as life sized chess pieces for Von Malice and his right hand man Igor. And Russian President Vladimir Putin, who has been busy making trouble in the Ukraine ever since losing face and bawling like a baby when his attempt to take over the world failed miserably at the closing ceremonies of the Sochi Olympics, offered to arm wrestle Von Malice if the rest of the world handed over all security and banking codes to his safekeeping.

The rest of the world, meanwhile, gave Putin the finger and, and requested real help: the man who reduced Putin to tears at that aforementioned Olympics. RCMP Inspector Lars Ulrich, the legendary Mountie, world’s most dangerous man, and thoroughly cranky lawman, was enlisted in the effort to hunt down Von Malice. The Canadian government grudgingly allowed his participation. “Admittedly, the Prime Minister hates the Inspector,” a spokesperson for the Canadian Department of Justice told reporters on the condition of keeping their name off the record. “On the one hand, the Inspector once kicked his ass when he became a hundred foot giant on a rampage. On the other hand, deep down, the Prime Minister really is a gutless coward who doesn’t like being reminded that he’s a gutless coward, and courage by others reminds him of that. Inspector Ulrich having had saved the world on multiple occasions certainly reminds him of how much of a snivelling cretin he really is. Did I mention we really want to see this government turfed out in the next election?”

It was confirmed afterwards that the entire operation was kept secret until it was all over. Reports that the Inspector was busy hunting down a former Entertainment Tonight correspondent through Alberta and Saskatchewan were circulated to explain his absence during the operation. “I was happy to help by lying low and keeping out of sight, pretending to be hunted by a relentless Mountie,” Chip Braun told reporters at his Seattle radio station, where he co-hosts Chip And Zonker In The Morning with Zach “Zonker” Kazlowski. “I mean, I learned my lesson the first time when I mistook him for that Metallica drummer. The Inspector beating the living daylights out of me seemed to have knocked some sense into me. I quit the Hollywood star circuit, got into the radio business, and I’m up every day at the crack of dawn making jokes about vomit and teasing the traffic guy every five minutes. If you ask me, it’s a step up.”

Ulrich moved swiftly with the assistance of law enforcement agencies worldwide. Within two days, Ulrich tracked the mad scientist, who had set up his operations in a former Reform Party campaign compound in British Columbia. Preston Manning, the mentor of Prime Minister Harper and leader of the Reform Party that later ended up hijacking the Conservatives in Canada, denied any connection to the super villain. “Look, you can’t go around making unfounded accusations about the party we rednecks founded back in the day,” Manning insisted to reporters.  “Just because Magnus was one of our biggest contributors and helped draft policy doesn’t mean... wait, did I say that out loud?”

The RCMP issued a statement about what transpired next. The Inspector went in with backup, but not in the form of other Mounties. His backup was a small dog, later confirmed to be Fluffy, Destroyer of Worlds, the same dog who mauled, annihilated, and destroyed two sets of Z-list celebrities in the Celebrity Hunt reality shows. “Fluffy didn’t like that Von Malice cheated him out of a few well earned maulings by messing around with the time stream,” spokesperson Constable Alison Churchill told reporters. “So he had a score to settle. And frankly, Fluffy and Lars understand each other. Kindred spirits, as Lucy Maud Montgomery would say. They’re both cranky.”

Ulrich and Fluffy infiltrated Von Malice’s secret headquarters by kicking the doors in. While Fluffy contented himself with destroying Von Malice’s time machine, Ulrich spent his time beating the mad scientist into a bloody pulp. Churchill confirmed that Von Malice was dragged out by the foot by Ulrich, while Fluffy barked at him in a vicious fury. Von Malice was protesting repeatedly about the Inspector having the audacity to hit a man with glasses, and swearing revenge. “Inspector Ulrich told him in some colourful language, well... to shut up. That’s as much as I can say without setting off swear word bleeping,” Churchill explained.

In the aftermath, the machinery that allowed Von Malice to access time is beyond repair. Von Malice faces numerous charges, which he refuses to acknowledge, telling the judge in open court, “this isn’t the last you’ve heard of Magnus Heinrich Von Malice! I’ll be revenged!” And the Inspector has returned to life as usual in his detachment in the Alberta foothills. Fluffy, Destroyer of Worlds, has moved on to Skull Island, where he is busy making King Kong cry.

One problem lingers. The destruction of the device did not send the previously dead Z-list celebrities back into the timestream.  They walk around again, alive and well, demanding attention, seeking to ink deals with reality shows. They speak of making sequels to cheesy films for cheesy networks. Ian Ziering and Tara Reid are busy making another Sharknado film. Ziering managed to get a role for his former castmate Luke Perry. “I’ve gotta tell you, I’m glad I got this part,” Perry told reporters after learning the news. “The bookies aren’t going to break my legs now.”

Kim, Kourtney, Khloe, Kendall, and Kylie- the horde of talentless twits making up the Kardashian-Jenner sisters, are already planning a new season of reality shows and turning up on thousands of tabloid covers for the next three years. They say they are pleased that Von Malice didn’t resurrect their mother or Kim’s late husband Kanye, who died last year when he was hit by a meteorite. “To be honest,” Kim told reporters while shopping at Saks. “Our mother was an insufferable self absorbed buffoon. And to be even more brutally honest, I was bored out of my mind being married to that egotistical ass. I mean, there’s only room in this world for one inflated ego, and that’s me. By the way, don’t quote me on that, I’m still trying to secure every single cent I can get out of his estate.”

Von Malice stews in a jail cell tonight, still nursing his wounds after being beaten up by the world’s most dangerous man. No doubt he dreams of revenge. No doubt he already has a plan of escape. And no doubt the world’s most dangerous man will be there to kick his ass yet again.

Just don’t ask the Inspector if he’s taking time off from Metallica.

A Day In The Life Of A Cat

Some links before getting underway today. Norma had an excerpt at her blog. Eve continued on with the A-Z challenge. Cheryl had photos from her area. The Whisk wondered if she had a bionic nose. And Lorelei wrote about various matters at her blog.

And so we come to the cat's point of view. Show her some respect. She is, after all, part of the ultimate species on the planet.

7:43 AM. Waking up in bed. This is quite peculiar. The staff is already up and out of bed. No sound coming from the bathroom. How did she get up without my knowing?

7:45 AM. Downstairs. The staff is in the kitchen making some breakfast. Staff, who gave you permission to get out of bed? Because it certainly wasn’t me. Now, since I see you’re making breakfast, I would like a bowl of milk, preferably with the bowl pre-chilled. And a plate of tuna slightly sautéed and presented with a cloth napkin. A rose in a vase would be a nice touch too...

7:48 AM. The staff disappoints me once again with field rations.

7:53 AM. Ardently meowing my demands to be let outside. Come on, staff, spring has finally asserted itself, and I intend to take full advantage of sunshine.

8:12 AM. Out on my rounds. I can hear the barking of that annoying mutt from down the road somewhere in the distance. 

8:24 AM. Passing by the McKillen farm. I look through the fence and see some sheep. New lambs among them. Sheep are strange animals.

8:27 AM. One of those lambs wanders over. Yes, hello, I’m a cat. Mind your manners. That means not licking me. 

8:29 AM. The Mama Sheep comes over and does that baaa thing that sheep tend to do. Well, sheepie, you might look like a cotton ball, but at the very least your offspring hasn’t resorted to licking me, so that’s a point in your favour.

9:21 AM. Continuing to walk along the McKillen farm. I can hear some splashing about coming from over the hill in one of the fallow fields. I wonder what that’s about.

9:28 AM. It’s that annoying mutt splashing around in a very big mud puddle. Oh, wonderful. That stupid dog has never heard of a little thing called dignity.

9:42 AM. Keeping the dog under observation. For some reason that foul canine seems to like getting filthy. That’s enough of this. I’m going to get to some high ground in case that stupid dog thinks of getting me dirty.

9:51 AM. Have taken to the top of a fence post. I can see the dog ambling along, looking like the idiot that he is.

9:53 AM. The annoying mutt has finally noticed me. What a crazy hound. He expresses the buffoonish notion that running around in mud is a good idea. 

9:54 AM. I express my disdain. This time the dog shows a glimmer of good sense and walks away. Boy, is he a mess.

10:13 AM. Have stopped by the home of that annoying hound whilst on my way home. I can see his human washing him down with a garden hose while he whines and complains.

Quit your griping, you beast. You asked for this.

10:35 AM. Back home. The staff is out on the deck. Hello there, staff. That foul hound got what he had coming to him. Life is good. Now then, I’m going to have a nap out here. Tell the sun not to go hiding behind any clouds while I’m asleep.

12:27 PM. Waking up. Why did the staff think she could get away with going inside without my permission?

12:31 PM. Back inside after some ardent meowing at the door. With great reluctance, I eat some of the field rations.

1:06 PM. Settling on top of the couch. Time for another nap. Lots of shut eye to do.

4:35 PM. Awake again. Feeling peckish. Fortunately the staff is in the kitchen.

4:47 PM. The staff finally gives in to my demands and pours me a bowl of milk.

5:53 PM. Doing my pre-dinner sprint around every single room in the house for no reason. The staff no doubt thinks I’m certifiably insane.

6:03 PM. Staff starting to make dinner. Pasta and meat are involved. I approve of the meat.

6:28 PM. The staff and I are having dinner. She’s having spaghetti and meatballs. I content myself with meatballs. Milk on the side. A good meal to have this time of day. Far better than field rations.

8:57 PM. Attacking the scratching post using strategies perfected in Sun Tzu’s The Art Of War.

11:32 PM. The staff is off to bed. Good night, staff. Keep the door open. I might feel like pouncing on top of you at four thirty in the morning.