It is time for the point of view of a certain legendary Mountie, the fiercely cranky Inspector Lars Ulrich, who should never be mistaken for the drummer from Metallica.
7:32 AM. Walking into my detachment. Didn’t sleep well last night. Dreamed of being surrounded by entertainment journalists demanding to know why I wasn’t on tour with Metallica. And for some odd reason, I couldn’t hit any of them. Needless to say, this leaves me feeling cranky.
7:46 AM. Morning briefing with the constables and sergeants about our duties. I’m due in court today in Calgary. Another one of those pre-trial hearings involving that deranged serial killer I arrested. For some reason she doesn’t like me. Well, that’s fine. I’m not that fond of psychotic grandmas who serve tea to their next victim.
8:03 AM. On the phone with the lawyer of that bank robber we arrested yesterday. He’s complaining about his client being kept in solitary pending a bail hearing. Oh, come on. Your client asked for solitary. Can’t say I blame him. Other detainees finding out what the guy’s name is? They’d want to throttle a guy who actually goes through life with the name Justin Bieber.
8:10 AM. Out the door and on my way. I instruct Constable Mackenzie to keep an eye out for lingering entertainment journalists. For whatever reason, they seem to be drawn to me and this place like moths to a flame.
9:21 AM. Have arrived in Calgary and the provincial courthouse. Routine hearing today, even if the accused is anything but routine. Imagine spending decades of your life writing murder mysteries and interfering in police investigations, all the while acting out on your darkest impulses and murdering left and right. Such is the life of Jessica Fletcher. Or was, until I arrested her.
9:27 AM. Conferring with the Crown Attorney on today’s proceedings. Fletcher is en route from the detainment facility where she’s been held without bail. The usual security measures are in place. Which means she’s in tight restraints with a mouth guard to prevent her from biting. Kind of like Hannibal Lecter. Only she’s more dangerous.
9:51 AM. Heading into court. Passing by a group of reporters. One of them blurts out that he’s with Entertainment Tonight, asking why I’m not on tour with the band. I snarl at him, tell him I’m not that Lars Ulrich, and deck him.
10:04 AM. Waiting in court. Fletcher’s attorney is objecting to the fact that her client is so tightly restrained. Fletcher’s muttering something or another, no doubt wishing she could turn around and yell at me face to face.
10:05 AM. The judge orders Fletcher’s restraints removed, despite the objections of the Crown Attorney. I’m on my guard. She seems fixated on me. Not that I’m worried about myself, I mean, she’s past ninety, and I’m in the prime of my life. Even so, she could take a hostage, and we cannot allow ourselves to underestimate her rage.
10:49 AM. Watching the hearing. Mostly routine legal matters. The defense demands that all charges be dropped against her client. The Crown strenuously objects and points out the severity of the charges and suspicions about thousands of murders being committed by her client. The defense rolls her eyes and asks why the Crown likes to exaggerate. It’s not exaggeration when you’ve read the diaries of the suspect, Miss Mitchell. I should ask the defense sometimes if people ask her what it’s like going through life with the name Joni Mitchell.
11:36 AM. Arguments complete. Judge denying the demands of the defense, as expected. Fletcher continues to be remanded to custody. The judge ends the hearing, and as if on cue, Fletcher lunges out of her chair and charges at me. “Your head on a pike, Ulrich!” she screams as three court officers restrain her. “Your head on a pike!” the old woman hollers, glaring at me. I smirk, wave, and watch her being dragged out of the room.
11:37 AM. I ask the defense attorney when she’s going to give up on her deranged serial killer client. Joni Mitchell just glares at me with that dagger eye expression. Oh, please. I patented that look when dealing with dimwitted reporters, you know…
12:20 PM. Lunch at a restaurant with a couple of my RCMP colleagues working here in the city. Steak with maple syrup for me. All washed down with a proper cup of Canadian coffee. None of that Yankee swill they serve at a Starbucks.
12:43 PM. Lunch just wrapping up when one of my colleagues gets a call. Distant screams and a roar that sounds like a primate. Turns out that King Kong just turned up in Calgary and is rampaging his way through the Stampede grounds.
1:01 PM. Along with my colleagues, I have arrived at the Stampede grounds. Fortunately, the Stampede isn’t running this time of year. Instead we’ve got a human stampede of people running away from a really oversized ape. And there’s Kong himself, throwing cars around and yelling. Let’s see… me versus a giant cranky monster. This isn’t even fair. For the monster.
1:02 PM. Yelling to get Kong’s attention. The beast looks my way… and recognizes me.
1:06 PM. Have single-handedly prevented Kong from fleeing- it seems he remembers the last time I kicked his ass- and have knocked him into a state of unconsciousness. My colleagues come up to where I’m standing beside the fallen monster. Okay, first things first. Who keeps letting him off Skull Island? And second, who’s going to bring him back there?
1:43 PM. Watching a courier company at work trying to figure out how to move an unconscious giant ape halfway around the world. Hey, don’t look at me. You guys said you could move anything, any place.
2:11 PM. On my way out of the scene. The press approach. I sigh in dismay. They start asking questions. One of them is louder than the other. “Lars! Lars! Skip Riley, Access Hollywood! I just have two questions! First, why aren’t you on tour with the rest of Metallica? And second, will fighting giant monsters be a drawback for your career as a heavy metal drummer?”
The rest of the reporters back up, knowing what’s coming. I inform Skip Riley that I am not that Lars Ulrich. All the while clenching my fists.
He looks at me in the usual confused way of those of his profession, and asks, “are you sure?”
2:12 PM. Have broken Skip Riley’s nose and sent him falling into a nearby chuck wagon. He struggles up to his feet just in time to see me coming, and, despite being a dimwitted entertainment reporter, decides to be smart enough to run for his life. Not that it’ll help.
7:48 PM. Back home. Skip Riley is presently residing in a hospital in a body cast, whimpering. King Kong is en route somewhere over the mountains, on the first leg of a journey back to his South Pacific home, heavily sedated. Jessica Fletcher is grinding her teeth in maximum security custody, still apparently vowing revenge, my brutally drawn out death by drawing and quartering and flaying alive, and the shedding of every bit of blood my body contains. Is there some reason that should frighten me?