A Day In The Life Of A Mountie

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?

From Billy Goats To Dread Dark Monsters

Breaking Of Decades Old Curse Inadvertently Unleashes Elder Being Monster Upon World

Chicago (Reuters) The Chicago Cubs won the World Series this year, successfully breaking a streak of no wins in Major League Baseball’s championship that dated back over a century. They also broke the traditional curse dating back to the end of the Second World War, in which a fan and his billy goat apparently hexed the team to never again win a World Series after being ejected out of a game at Wrigley Field. And they broke a more recent bad streak that dated back to 2003, and the infamous Steve Bartman incident that had fans for years toting voodoo dolls of the unlucky fan who inadvertently screwed up their chances in the National League Championship Series. Following the win, many of those same fans finally gave up those Bartman voodoo dolls and forgave him.

The fans were ecstatic by the victory, in a dramatic Game Seven against Cleveland that’s been touted by some as one of the best World Series games ever played. Chicago has been overjoyed ever since, with celebrations of their team, signs everywhere toasting the success of the Cubs. It’s even given hope to other fans of hard luck teams under proverbial curses. Fans of the Toronto Maple Leafs are gleefully expecting that after fifty years of failure in hockey playoffs, this might well be their year as well.

And yet breaking the curse might have had a horrible consequence.

No, not the election- though that’s bad enough.

It was first reported emerging off the South American coast on Wednesday, a monstrous presence rising up out of the Atlantic Ocean and laying waste to the Argentine coast, working its way north. Witnesses described the monster as a bizarre combination of dragon, octopus, and humanoid, with two legs, two arms, massive wings, and tentacles around its mouth. Its body was dark and scaly, and massive- hundreds of meters tall, seemingly beyond the capability of a body to sustain life, and yet it was alive, gigantic, and incredibly dangerous. The clawed creature continued to carve a path of destruction as it moved north, horrifying onlookers, shrugging off missile attacks by national military air forces.

“It’s called Cthulhu,” Professor Frederick Van Helsing told reporters at an emergency services dispatch center in Halifax, Nova Scotia. The professor, who describes himself as an expert in occult studies and metaphysical philosophy, lectures at Oxford, has a reputation for being eccentric but brilliant, and comes from a long line of academics with a particular interest in the supernatural. Curious, since he shares a surname with a character from Bram Stoker’s novel about that blood sucking vampire terrorizing London. “Yes, well, it turns out Stoker knew my great-great-great grandfather Abraham and decided to weave a vampire story around him as a vampire hunter. What Stoker didn’t know was that the whole family has a centuries long tradition of vampire hunting and putting down monsters. We still do it today, though these days we seem to be encountering way too many sparkly vampires. Lot less dangerous than the classic version, let me assure you.”

Cthulhu, as it turns out, is far more than the soul consuming beast in fictional H.P. Lovecraft stories. The creature, Van Helsing explained, has been imprisoned deep beneath the ocean for millennia, and is one of the Great Old Ones of ancient pantheons. He’s the subject of worship by cultists, and is said to drive onlookers insane. “The last time he came close to escaping was 1909,” Van Helsing added. “My great grandfather Curtis Van Helsing arranged with a coven of witches to reinforce the magical bindings with a hex. As it turns out Curtis was a baseball fan, and hated the Cubs, so he figured putting a curse on the Cubs that would simultaneously keep Cthulhu imprisoned was a win-win both ways. Except of course for Cubs fans, who had to put up with more than a century of failure, but you know, sometimes those are the breaks.”

At least until the Cubs broke the curse by actually defying the odds and winning the World Series. Doing that also shattered the bindings of Cthulhu. The creature stirred from its imprisonment, breaking free of the mystic spells binding it in the deep, and returned to the surface. Multiple reports of missing ships in the South Atlantic seem to have been the first indication that something was wrong. The beast worked his- or its- way up the coast, wrecking havoc across South American seaboards, seemingly unstoppable.

Millions fled from the coastlines as the creature passed through, all the while heading in a general northerly direction across the Caribbean. He reached shore in Florida, crossing the state from west to east and making a particular point of destroying the Disney World Resort. “We can confirm that the park is shut down due to an unforeseen difficulty,” Disney World spokesperson Chelsea Rae Stephens told reporters while the ruins of the theme park smouldered behind her. “But we’ll be right back up and running as soon as possible, just as fast as we can get Tinkerbell to rebuild the place. And by Tinkerbell, I mean the Tinkerbell Construction Company who do all our infrastructure repairs. The guys in the team hate the name, but hey, that’s what you get living in Orlando.”

Cthulhu continued up the coast, coming ashore periodically to devour souls and kick sand in the faces of onlookers. He paused near New York as if wondering if he should come on in and obliterate it- it’s practically expected in disaster films, after all- but for reasons of his own kept moving forward up the seaboard, unstoppable despite everything the Navy and Air Force threw at him.

Unstoppable, that is, until he met his match.

The creature crossed into Canadian waters off the southwest Nova Scotia coast, and headed straight for shore. The Canadian government, having had seen the futility of previous military attacks by other national forces on the creature, instead were able to bring a single man into the area in advance. As it turns out, the only person on earth capable of teaching Cthulhu some manners.

It was the legendary Mountie, Inspector Lars Ulrich.

Ulrich was dropped on a beach near Yarmouth when it became apparent the monster was headed in that direction. Witnesses saw him staring resolutely out over the waters. This was, after all, the same man who’d saved the world on multiple occasions from dark cabals, mad scientists, and megalomaniacs. This was the gruff Mountie who had made Godzilla cry and run away. This was the fierce bane of existence for many an entertainment reporter.

Cthulhu emerged from the sea to the sight of the lone Mountie on the beach. The Mountie stared back. There was a long moment of silence as the two simply stared each other down. And then Cthulhu broke the silence by speaking, in a loud, booming voice, in a garbled language native to the Great Old Ones. Linguists were later able to translate the creature’s words into a sentence, though one word stood out as, well, relative English. The translation came out to “hey, aren’t you the guy who plays the drums for Metallica?”

The last word of the sentence seemed to irritate the Inspector, who called out, “I am not that Lars Ulrich.”

Cthulhu appeared to be puzzled, and linguists later translated his reply from video feeds from the area as he asked, “Are you sure?”

Ulrich charged in and struck the beast, launching a vicious attack that went on and on and on. Cthulhu, despite being hundreds of times bigger, couldn’t even get in one blow as the Mountie unleashed a storm of punches and kicks, bringing the Dread Cthulhu crashing down into the sea. The creature lost consciousness promptly thereafter, bloodied, battered, and broken by a seriously annoyed Mountie.

In the aftermath, Van Helsing and his associates were brought in. A coven of witches first cast a teleportation spell sending Cthulhu back to his prison quarters deep beneath the sea, and the mystic spells were reinforced to keep him locked away. For good measure, a curse was placed on another sports team to ensure that the creature would not be able to escape. “We put a hex on the Maple Leafs,” Van Helsing admitted. “It’s not as if they’ll ever be able to win a Stanley Cup again, right?”

The last word belongs to Roy Stieb, the self described “Greatest Leafs Fan Ever”, a Toronto resident who’s been waiting all his forty eight years for a Leafs Cup win. “I was born too late for the last one, but that doesn’t matter,” Stieb said. “Cubs win the World Series, that’s a great sign for us. We’re gonna win the Stanley Cup this year, no doubt at all. And the year after that, and the year after that, and the year after that. Who cares about some curse? Who cares if that big nasty guy breaks out when our boys win the Cup? I don’t care. My buddy Joe doesn’t care. Do you care? Come on, we’ll invite Cthulhu to come up and join the big Stanley Cup victory parade when our boys win big time. Leafs forever, baby! Wooooooo!!!!!!!!!”

In the professional opinion of this reporter... Leafs fans are nuts.

A Day In The Life Of A Cranky Mountie

Another Day In The Life blog today, this from the point of view of my signature character, Inspector Lars Ulrich, who tends to be pretty cranky when it comes to being mistaken for the deafened drummer of Metallica, and who really hates entertainment reporters...

7:05 AM. Waking up. Out of bed, stretching limbs. Big day ahead. Taking a look out my window at the mountains. No sign of entertainment reporters coming up my driveway. Good.

7:20 AM. Showered and downstairs. Making breakfast first before I put on the uniform. Maple syrup will figure in the first meal of the day prominently.

7:35 AM. Feasting on bacon (Canadian, of course), pancakes, strawberry jam, and maple syrup. Now this is a proper Canadian breakfast.

7:50 AM. Back up in my room to get into the uniform for the day. Just a working day today, so let's get the utilities out. The red serge only comes out for special occasions.

8:05 AM. Out the door, into the Jeep. On duty at nine. I have a couple of errands to run first.

8:30 AM. Stopping in town. Picking up newspaper at regular shop. New guy at the counter. He's listening to heavy metal. I ask him to turn it down.

8:31 AM. The dimwit apparently doesn't recognize a Mountie uniform when he sees it. I identify myself, and he looks stunned. Maybe that's a common reaction for him. He blurts out something about Metallica, and asks me why I'm not with the band.

Oh, come on! I am not that Lars Ulrich!

8:33 AM. Walking out the door. The dimwit follows, asking if he can take a picture with me, says that the  Metallica fan club will go crazy to see it.

I turn, snarl, and insist again that I am not that Lars Ulrich.

He asks if I'm sure.

I hit him.

8:55 AM. Into the detachment. Meeting my subordinates. Getting reports from the constables on the evening's events. Apparently we had some American fishermen using dynamite to fish up on the Lake Of No Return, and there's a small plane that crashed near Mount Doom. Apparently it was carrying a crew and reporter from Access Hollywood. You'd think that after my taking down their inner circle of leaders, there'd be no more entertainment news shows.

Well, we'll keep those fishermen in custody over the weekend just to teach them some manners. I suppose we have to go rescue those nitwits.

9:50 AM. Up at Mount Doom. Everyone on board survived- unfortunately. They haven't recognized me, and I've told my constables not to mention me by name. The way these entertainment reporters prattle on, it just confirms everything I've ever thought of them. They really are stupid.

10:15 AM. Constable Brown inadvertantly calls me by name before she realizes what she's done. One of the entertainment reporters walks over, blurting out the inevitable question about why I'm not in rehearsals with Metallica.

I sigh in dismay, asking him if he's really that stupid, and tell him I am not that Lars Ulrich.

He suggests I'm joking around, that I look just like him.

Despite the fact that he broke his arm in the crash, I hit him anyway.

1:40 PM. Back to the detachment. The news crew is off at the hospital. I suggested the doctors sedate them heavily. Stopping in at the holding cells. The Yanks are not happy. Asking what the problem is in using dynamite while fishing. I tell them that's against the law, as were their sidearms. They start blathering on about their Second Amendment rights. I remind them they're not in America.

Maybe we can forget these nitwits are back here for a few days.

2:05 PM. A call comes in. It seems a doctor at the hospital's been taken hostage. And what makes it even stranger is that the suspect is a dead ringer for the Prime Minister.

2:07 PM. Putting in a call to Ottawa. Speaking with my superiors about the situation. They assure me the Prime Minister is in Question Period at the moment getting grilled by the opposition. I tell them I will keep them up to date. Getting to the scene is my priority.

2:10 PM. Leaving with three constables. Getting a call on my cell. It's the Prime Minister's Chief of Staff. Useless moron, if you ask me. I'm so glad I don't have to deal with politicians every day.

He knows me, apparently. Well, the Prime Minister and I don't like each other much. I suspect the Prime Minister doesn't like anyone.

The Chief tells me that I am to keep this absolutely secret. I roll my eyes and say that I'm not an underling. He then informs me that the suspect is the Prime Minister's secret twin brother Hugo Harper. Apparently he's evil, which is why the family never lets him out of their sight. I hate to tell you this, but the Prime Minister's not exactly a nice guy either...

2:25 PM. Back at the hospital. Learning where the suspect is holed up. The hostage is a new doctor by the name of Evangeline Bennett- wow, that's a name- and he's got her out by the railroad tracks. Apparently he's asking for me.

2:27 PM. Coming face to face with Hugo. Yes, he looks just like that idiot we call the Prime Minister. And he has Doctor Bennett tied to the tracks, ranting about making his brother notice him. Oh, come on, man, isn't this just a little too stereotypical? The Mountie, the sexy damsel in distress, and the lunatic villain? All we're missing here is you having a Snidely Whiplash mustache. 

2:28 PM. Train whistle coming. Hugo cackles like a deranged lunatic and runs off down the track towards the overpass bridge. I'm about to assist Doctor Bennett, but she's already untying herself, telling me to get the bad guy.

Yes ma'am!

2:32 PM. Reaching the bridge crossing over the valley. Hugo apparently doesn't get much exercise. He's already wheezing like a goat. I tackle him to the tracks. Inform him he's under arrest. He's going on and on about a Senate appointment. Then he's suddenly quiet. He looks at me. And he asks when Metallica is going to record another album.

I knock him out.

2:45 PM. Hauling the handcuffed and unconcious Hugo in a fireman's carry back down the tracks. My constables are waiting. So is the train, stopped on the tracks. And so is Doctor Bennett. 

I smile at her. She smiles back. All in a day's duty, Doctor. 

2:50 PM. Hugo's bundled into the back of a cruiser. Doctor Bennett and I are chatting. She asks if I'm doing anything for supper. 

I say I'm free, but ask two pertinent questions. First, if she listens to heavy metal, and second, if she watches entertainment news shows. She says she doesn't like metal, and finds those shows tedious. She also asks me to call her Evangeline.

A woman after my own heart.

7:10 PM. Evangeline and I are chatting after dinner about many, many things. She's getting used to living out in the mountains, and asks about how long I've been here. I talk about my place and the views. She's quite forward when she says she'd like to see the views for herself.

Check please!

10:45 PM. Back at my place. Getting lucky. Evangeline and I are on the floor in my living room, stark naked with one exception- she asked me to wear the Mountie hat- having our way with each other for the fifth time this evening.

O Canada!

2:25 AM. Lying in bed with Evangeline. Wow. What a woman. What a day. Took down a lunatic who just happens to be the Prime Minister's twin brother. Knocked out a couple of morons who think I'm the other Lars Ulrich. And ending the day with some marathon sex in multiple positions with an amazing woman. Even out in the canoe. Where have you been all my life?

I might be tired in the morning... but boy, was it worth it.