A Day In The Life Of A Cranky Mountie

7:09 AM. Awake at home. Dreamed of chasing an entertainment reporter into The Canyon Of No Return after he asked me why I wasn’t in the studio with the rest of Metallica.

7:37 AM. Having breakfast. Scrambled eggs and ham with a side of maple syrup and Canadian blueberries. Big day today. Due in court to testify against that sociopathic old crank. She really doesn’t like me. And all I did was arrest her.

7:52 AM. Out the door and in my Jeep. Fresh mountain air feels good. Winter’s been a long one, and spring should show up one of these days. It’ll make tracking entertainment reporters who annoy me a little more difficult if they’re not leaving loafer tracks in the snow, but what’s the point if there’s not a challenge?

8:20 AM. Stepping into the detachment and nodding hello to some of my fellow officers. Constable Hudson walks over and gives me a run down on what’s been going on overnight. Apparently a couple of skiers got lost in the back country and search and rescue is having a look around for them.

8:23 AM. Constable Mackenzie informs me that Ellie Evans called in to let us know that there’s a reporter with Access Hollywood staying at her bed and breakfast and asking questions about why I’m not in a recording studio. I grimace and feel grateful that I’m going to be gone all day.

8:46 AM. Out the door and on my way into Calgary. The high profile nature of the case means that there’s a lot of media attention. Including from those of the dimwitted entertainment reporter variety. I wonder what the average IQ of one of those is. It can’t be higher than single digits.

9:52 AM. I have arrived at the provincial courthouse. Meeting the Crown prosecutor as I step into the courtroom. The defendant is nowhere to be seen as of yet, but she’ll be transported in via the usual high security measures. Her lawyer is present and accounted for. Like me, she has the name of a famous musician and occasionally puts up with people asking if she’s the same person, when she’s clearly not.

I nod hello to Joni Mitchell.

10:11 AM. The defendant is brought into court by police officers. She sees me and gives me a look that could strike fear into the hearts of most men, as if she’s planning which way she wants to kill me. Actually, she probably is doing that, given her murderous track record.

Okay, since she’s not yet convicted, alleged murderous track record.

Jessica Fletcher does not look happy today.

10:25 AM. The court has been called into session, the jury seated, and I’ve been called to the stand to testify. I take a seat, looking at the old battleaxe. Fletcher has that if looks could kill thing going on. I wonder how she hid it for so many years as she went about on a serial killer murder spree. Alleged serial killer murder spree.

10:58 AM. Continuing to testify on the investigation into the murders at hand. Doing so in a forthright, reasonable manner. Wondering what Miss Mitchell will do when she starts asking me some questions.

2:21 PM. I have been sparring with Joni Mitchell for some time now. Not the physical kind, the courtroom testimony kind as she tries to find some sort of flaw in my casework in the matter. Thus far it hasn’t been working. She hasn’t tried to throw me off my game by asking me things about Metallica, but then again, I could reply by asking her why she isn’t at Woodstock with the rest of the folk singers. I’m sure she’d find that as irritating as I do when people ask me why I’m not with the rest of the band in the studio or on tour. We have ourselves an impasse.

3:07 PM. Joni Mitchell has wrapped up questioning me. Despite making great efforts, she hasn’t undermined my investigation in the eyes of the jury. I step down from the stand and walk back towards the seats at the back of the courtroom. I allow myself a look at Fletcher as I go. Her eyes are shooting daggers, as if she’s calculating the amount of force needed to remove my head from my neck. I give her the slightest of smirks as I pass by.

4:10 PM. Court is dismissed for the day. The jurors file out, and the judge leaves. I’m about to go myself when I hear a racket nearby. I turn, look and see Fletcher rising to her feet under the supervision of police officers. She’s irritated with them. She turns to me, locks eyes, and sneers. “Your head on a pike, Ulrich! Your head on a pike!” she tells me in a quiet whisper dripping with malice and the tears of Girl Guides.

4:25 PM. Walking out of court with the Crown attorney and Miss Mitchell. She asks if I enjoy goading her client. I’m about to answer when a rush of reporters all come our way. One of them, a vacant eyed nitwit backed up by a cameraman, speaks up the loudest. “Lars! Joni! Tommy Locksley, Access Hollywood! What everyone wants to know is, will Metallica be going out on tour with Joni as a double act, and how will you reconcile your very different music styles before a live audience?”

Mitchell and I look at each other, and punch Locksley at the same time.

5:35 PM. My drive back home has been interrupted when I come to a bottleneck of traffic out in the foothills. I find one of my officers on site. Constable Borden tells me that the monster Ebirah has shown up in the Alberta foothills in the last hour and is attacking whatever approaches him. You know, in the movies these things attack cities like Tokyo and New York. You’d think they’d know better to show up near my place.

5:45 PM. I have gotten within visual range of Ebirah, who’s in the process of stomping on a line of train cars. It’s a giant lobster. Thirty meters tall, 100 meters long. I whistle to get its attention. It turns, sees me, and starts charging.

I smile to myself. This should be fun.

5:51 PM. Standing on a field of battle, reveling in victory. Ebirah is on its back, defeated utterly and, as far as I can tell, dead. Calls have been made to remove this thing from the scene. You should have known better than to pick a fight with me.

6:28 PM. Watching contractors working for Red Lobster carving up Ebirah. Note to self: I’m so glad I don’t eat at Red Lobster.

7:03 PM. Supervising things at the scene when someone comes up to me. “Lars! Lars! Harry Hedges, Access Hollywood! I’ve been looking for you all day. What the world wants to know is this. Is monster hunting a hobby for you when you’re not in studio or with the band on tour?”

I glare at him. Then I speak in a low, growling voice. “I am not that Lars Ulrich.”

Hedges seems confused. “Are you sure?”

9:08 PM. Finally back home. A long, long day. Sure, it might be legal for me to beat up an entertainment reporter and put them into hospital, but I still have to file paperwork about it afterwards. I hate doing paperwork. Not as much as I hate entertainment reporters, but still…

10:03 PM. A call from one of my colleagues at the holding facility in Calgary. He tells me that Fletcher has been screaming my name from her cell for the last four hours straight. Vowing to carve my heart out of my chest with a rusty spoon, while I’m still alive.

How nice of her to be honest. It’s always good to be appreciated.