The Devil May Be In The Details

Prince Of Darkness Refuses To Mortgage Presidential Hopeful’s Soul

Las Vegas (AP) Reporters were summoned to Sin City this weekend for a press conference by an unknown speaker, but one promised to be about the American presidential election. Reporters gathered in the Bellagio Hotel and Casino, speculating among themselves as to what this might be all about. Some suggested that there might be a new candidate throwing their hat in the ring, but Las Vegas rates as an odd location to kick off an attempt at the nomination- for either party.

A Bellagio spokeswoman came up on stage in an auditorium, calling for the attention of the gathered press. “Ladies and gentlemen, please be seated. The Bellagio is pleased to welcome you all for this press conference. The individual in question asked to introduce himself. And without further ado, here he is.”

The spokeswoman stepped off stage, while someone emerged from the other side of the stage. Reporters recognized him, though he appeared to be younger than his current age. The man looked like the actor Al Pacino.

He strode up to the podium, smiling in a way that seemed to make everyone uncomfortable. The man was dressed in a black suit with red tie, eyes hidden behind sunglasses. The smile persisted as he gazed out at the crowd.

Finally, a reporter spoke up. “Are you... are you Al Pacino?”

The man shook his head. “No, but he’s played me before in a movie, so taking this form seemed... appropriate.” His voice, low and gritty, solidified the impression he gave of making people uneasy. “I’ve gone by many names down through the millennia. Azazel. Sammael. The Lord Of Pride. Beelzebub. Satan. Voland. Baphomet. Old Scratch. The Dark Lord. Lucifer. The Prince Of Darkness. Old Hob. Mephistopheles. Old Nick. Diabolos. Oh, most people think of me as the Devil.”

Reporters shifted in their seats, clearly uneasy. The Devil laughed, the sound making this reporter feel the distinct impression that someone was walking over his grave. “Relax, ladies and gentlemen, I’m not here for any of you. This is, after all, a conventional press conference. I simply have some remarks in regards to a single candidate in this country’s presidential elections.”

He removed his sunglasses, and instead of conventional eyes, his eyes had red pupils surrounded by black. “I could have invited all of you down to Hell for this press conference, but it does tend to be a one way trip. So Las Vegas seemed a suitable compromise. After all, there’s a doorway to Hell beneath the city already. Oh, come on, don’t look so surprised.”

The Devil sighed and smiled again. The reporters continued to feel uneasy. “Ladies and gentlemen, it was suggested recently by a columnist that one of your Republican candidates would be willing to sell his soul for the White House. I have come here to refute that claim. Not because the writer was wrong- in fact, the candidate did make that offer to me several months ago. Simply put, the candidate has already previously sold off parts of his soul to me. There’s no soul left.”

He paused for a moment. The reporters waited, wondering who it might be. Then he spoke. “He sold his soul to me several times to avoid corporate bankruptcy. Yes, ladies and gentlemen, I’m referring to Donald Trump.”

The blowhard real estate developer turned wannabe presidential Republican candidate has been all over the news in recent months, from his kick off to a Republican candidacy by insulting Mexico, to dragging the Democrats, fellow Republicans, Muslims, African-Americans, and anyone who doesn’t agree with him through the mud. All while promoting himself endlessly as the only person who’s up to the job of being President of the United States. All while having absolutely no political experience whatsoever. Trump has been managing his campaign, firing off vitriol in tweets and interviews, all from a sickbed as he recovers from the literal beatdown he got from rival candidate and former wrestler Hulk Hogan, along with Hogan’s campaign manager Ric Flair. While he might still be in a body cast, Trump refuses to let go of his ambitions to get in the White House and obliterate America’s reputation just by being himself.

“You’re telling us Donald Trump sold his soul to you?” one reporter asked, trying not to sound timid.

The Devil nodded. “Yes, well, the man’s got a serious ego problem. Thinks the world of himself, doesn’t seem to realize how many people are laughing at that hideous hairpiece, and believes he’s destined for greatness. I mean, look at the way he talks about himself. He uses phrases like tremendous, outstanding, spectacular, the best... I don’t have to be a psychologist to know a guy who talks like that is desperately trying to overcompensate for some serious shortcomings, both in terms of character and physically if you know what I mean. I’m sure any of his ex-wives could verify that. If you ask me, and you are asking me, the man’s an asshole.” This reporter found himself wondering if the editors would run with this headline for the story: THE DEVIL CALLS DONALD TRUMP AN ASSHOLE. Nonetheless, the Dark Lord carried on.

“As it turns out, the first time he found his little empire in financial difficulties, that precious little ego of his wouldn’t let himself actually fall into bankruptcy. So he reached out, made some calls, and, well, long story short, signed away a portion of his soul to me to bail him out. So I did. And then it happened again, and again, and again, and well... this latest time, as it turns out, there’s no soul left. He was all tapped out.”

The Devil smiled again. “He came to me, back before those wrestlers put him in the body cast, asking for a guarantee that he’d be President. Offered up every last trace of his soul for eight years in the White House. I double-checked my records, but sure enough... I have full possession of his soul. He begged to remortgage the whole deal. I said no. You know, I really don’t like it when people beg things of me. I mean honestly, where’s their dignity?”

This reporter doubted Donald Trump ever had any bit of dignity, and then asked, “So what happens now?”

The Devil shrugged. “Well, perhaps it’s possible that your Republican party will be dumb enough to let him have the nomination. I wouldn’t put anything past them these days. I don’t see him winning the White House though. Not enough stupid people to make that happen. So, someday he’ll kick the bucket, probably in some way that attracts lots of attention, because for a man who craves attention as much as he does, even his death will demand it. Or maybe he’ll just blow a proverbial gasket while screaming at someone. Either way, then he’ll belong to me, for eternity.”

“I mean no disrespect by saying this,” this reporter spoke up. “But aren’t you concerned that he could try something in, well, the afterlife... like staging a hostile takeover of Hell while your back is turned?”

The Devil stared at this reporter, smiled, and shook his head. “Look, you’re looking at the guy who’s got the souls of Hitler, Attila, Pol Pot, Genghis Khan, Stalin, Saddam Hussein, Mao, Nixon, Bin Laden, and that kid Spanky from The Little Rascals in his keeping. Rest assured, I have plenty of experience keeping megalomaniacs crushed beneath my feet and weeping bitter tears. Besides, I’ve already got my eternal punishment for The Donald ready and waiting.”

“And what’s that?” another reporter asked.

The Devil smirked. “Two things. First, since he’s such a glutton for attention, we’ll be stranding him in a dark room where he’s all alone, with no mirrors and no company. Second, we’ll be keeping that roadkill he calls his hair just out of reach for all eternity. Take away the two things he loves more than life itself, and he breaks. Egomaniacs always break within three days of their arrival when we make use of the Tantalus Initiative.”

The Prince of Darkness took his leave. The mood in the room gradually improved with his absence. The story has something of a post script, with the response of the candidate himself. Trump issued an angry statement by phone to his favourite personal propaganda venue, FOX News, in typical Trumpese. “This is absolute rubbish! Disgusting! This is something that Obama and Christie and Clinton and Carson and Sanders and Cruz and O’Malley and Rubio and Pacino all got together on to drag me through the mud! Disgusting! Everyone knows I’m the greatest candidate ever! I don’t need help to take over the White House! Everyone knows I’m outstanding and stupendous and the best and the most qualified. My presidency is going to be amazing! So this whole slander on my spectacular reputation is disgusting and terrible. I have not sold my soul to anyone, and if I’m lying, may lightning strike... ummm... let me get back to you on that. Vote Trump in 2016!"

In a related story, Trump Tower was, starting five minutes after the mogul’s statement, struck by lightning five hundred ninety three times over six hours.

Vengeance Of The Destroyer Of Worlds

Some links before getting started today. Eve had a passage from her book Penniless Hearts. Parsnip had a mix of images at her blog. Shelly carried on with her Silly Santa story. Maria took a look at a Christmas cult classic. And Krisztina had this look at sugared cranberries.

Now then, today's post might not make a lot of sense if you haven't read this post first. And even then, it's a good idea to freshen the memory.

Producers Announce Second Version Of Peculiar Reality Show After Failure Of First Version

Los Angeles (AP) Jeff Probst and Mark Burnett, the producers of Survivor and other reality show drivel, made an announcement this week for a new program, picking up from the ashes of another reality show. Celebrity Hunt was an initiative from former producer Ryan Seacrest, currently serving a life sentence for his role in a plot for world domination undertaken by several entertainment journalism titans. The concept behind the show was to drop several washed up former celebrities on a deserted island, introduce a deadly hunter into the mix, and let nature take its course. The series never really got off the ground, however. It was reported that twenty minutes after the celebrities were dropped off on the island, all remote cameras in the vicinity were taken off line. Only one survivor, Joan Rivers, was found, floating in the Pacific Ocean and babbling about the demonic hound from hell. She never really recovered from the ordeal, passing away earlier in the year.

The remaining contestants have never been found, and the island itself was quarantined. Four members of the Kardashian family- Kim, Khloe, Kourtney, and Kris- were among their number. As were Hulk Hogan, Johnny Knoxville, Tom Arnold, Billy Ray Cyrus, Snooki, JWoww, The Situation, Jaleel White, and Michael Bolton. In the months since, not a word has been heard from any of them. Many would say that’s a good thing- a world without the Kardashians in it is much better.

Probst and Burnett appeared before the press, some of whom were real reporters, while others were entertainment reporters, and by extension, really, really stupid. Probst was spending time looking at himself in a mirror, reminding this reporter of the insufferable twit director Michael Bay. Burnett was looking smug and sanctimonious. His T-shirt read: I’m Married To Roma Downey, So I’m Right And You’re Wrong.

“It’s taken a lot of negotiation, but we’re going to be launching a new version of Celebrity Hunt,” Probst told the reporters. “It means going back to the island and finding out what really happened. Now we could send out soldiers or something like that to sort that out, but why not send out celebrities instead, have them carry cameras with them, and broadcast it to the world? What’s the worst that could happen?”

Burnett shrugged. “It’s not our fault that Seacrest dispatched Fluffy, Destroyer of Worlds, onto that island to hunt the first batch of celebrities. How was he to know what would happen? I mean, the dog looks so harmless and cute, right?”

Probst nodded. “And besides, we’re not sure Fluffy really was behind whatever happened. We don’t really know what happened. All we know is that the cameras went offline and no one’s heard from anyone there since. I mean, for all we know they could be having an orgy.”

“Hey, watch what you say about that, Jeff,” Burnett told his creative partner. “I mean, I’ve got a whole lot of audience members for my religious miniseries work that would take exception to any mention of that sort of thing, you know.”

“Mark, lighten up,” Probst remarked.  “I mean come on, we’ve both produced Survivor, and that’s included naked butts of cranky players.”

“Good point,” Burnett admitted. “Anyway, so our idea, what with Seacrest being in prison... I mean, seriously, Ryan, what were you thinking, trying to take over the world? Our idea was to figure out the truth and film it with a cast of all star celebrities being dropped on that island.”

“And without further ado, let’s start bringing out our cast,” Probst told everyone. “Our first participants have a personal stake in all of this. They’re the other Kardashians, even if they’re not members of the Kardashian family. Ladies and gentlemen, say hello to Kylie and Kendall Jenner!”

The two youngest daughters of the Kardashian-Jenner family came out and waved to the crowd. It’s been a rough year for the two, what with the mysterious disappearance of their mother and sisters, the grisly death of their sort of brother-in-law Kanye West, who died by fallen meteor, and their father becoming more and more mentally unstable. Regardless, they have continued to make their presence known in reality show circles, continuing to film the series Keeping Up With The Kardashians. Even if the rest of the family is gone. “Hi there,” Kylie called.

“We’re glad to be in on this,” Kendall exclaimed. “We have to find out what happened to Mom and Kim and the other two. Lots of photo ops left for all of us, you know. Plus Daddy seems to have broken into the liquor cabinet and gone on a bender.”

Burnett nodded. “Our next participant also has a personal stake in the matter at hand. Her father was one of the missing contestants in the first version. She’s had a lot of controversy coming her way in the last year, but she’s ready for a new challenge. I give you Miley Cyrus!”

Miley came out on stage, wearing what looked like a rubber bikini, sticking her tongue out, and waved to people. Then she twerked against both the Jenner sisters and grinned. “Eat your heart out, Liam!” she yelled, seemingly to her former boyfriend. “I’m gonna save my daddy and come back and they’re gonna give me a Medal of Honor for my performance!”

Probst and Burnett stared at her for a long moment, as if both were wondering if they’d made a mistake. Then Probst spoke again. “Our next participant has had some legal troubles across the world as of late, and needs something to occupy his time. We’re told he’s expecting to record a song for the soundtrack album of the series. Hopefully it’ll be less grating on the nerves than the rest of his music. Ladies and gentlemen, here’s Justin Bieber!”

The mop headed cretin stepped out on stage, waving to the crowd. “Baby baby baby!” he called in that high pitched nasal drone of his. “I’m so glad to be in on this, and it’s something that’s going to make a big impact, and I’m going to get back to big album sales and everyone falling at my feet, and being the biggest star of all time. Hey! Stop snickering!"

“Justin, just stay calm,” Burnett told him. “Now then, we’ve got other players who are going to be part of it. You’ll remember our next player from such sterling television series as Baywatch. She’s really anxious to get some attention for herself, so give a big round of applause for Pamela Anderson!”

Sure enough, she stumbled out on stage, looking half dazed. This reporter wondered if Pamela had been drinking before she came out. “Hi there! What day of the week is it?”

Probst went on. “Our next participant has been trying to get his music career back off the ground again, but thought he might do well in this kind of environment. Ladies and gentlemen, give it up for Axl Rose!”

The former front man of Guns N’ Roses stepped out on stage, looking rumpled and hung over. “Hello, Miami!” he bellowed.

“We’re in Los Angeles, Axl,” Burnett told him.

“We are?” Rose asked.

Burnett sighed. “Rounding out our group of celebrities, he’s our main man, our touchstone actor. He’s famous all over the world for his music and his acting, taken seriously where ever he goes. You’ve seen him in such series as Knight Rider and Baywatch. You’ve seen him in drunken binge videos eating cheeseburgers. Ladies and gentlemen, David Hasselhoff!”

A groan of dismay rose up from the reporters. Hasselhoff came out on stage, waving, oblivious to their disdain. “Hello!” he called. “Of course you had to come out and see me! Nobody hassles the Hoff, after all! Not even Fluffy, Destroyer of Worlds!” He smiled in that vacant, not much going on between the ears way of his. No one has ever accused David Hasselhoff of being all that smart.

Probst smiled. “Ladies and gentlemen, the cast of Celebrity Hunt. These brave men and women are going to be going all out on our mysterious island figuring out what happened to the first batch of celebrities, and running for their lives from Fluffy, Destroyer of Worlds.”

Hasselhoff laughed as he and the rest of the cast left the stage with Probst and Burnett. “Oh, I’m going to be eating Fluffy for breakfast!”

Post Script: Three Weeks Later

The island now being called Isla Fluffia Destroya has been quarantined once again. Authorities have denied Mark Burnett and Jeff Probst any further opportunity to send more celebrities in. Nothing has been heard of the second set of celebrities. Flashes of video were uplinked to satellite receivers before going off line. David Hasselhoff being torn to shreds by a seven pound ball of canine fury. Screams of the Jenner sisters. And a flash of canine teeth lunging at Axl Rose’s camera. Beyond that, nothing is known. Bruce Jenner has released a statement declaring that he’s drowning his sorrow in hundred year old Scotch. Justin Bieber’s manager made a cryptic remark about being glad he had full access to the singer’s accounts.

At least we’ll never have to hear another new Justin Bieber or Miley Cyrus single again.

Fears Of An Entertainment Reporter

It has been awhile since I last featured my resident cranky Mountie. I decided to play around with the point of view of the sort of person who tends to get on his last nerve. Enjoy!

These may be the last words I ever write.

He’s coming, and there’s no way for me to stop him.

How was I supposed to know?

It all started two days ago. I was with Access Hollywood up in Calgary doing a spot on the filming of the Fargo television series. Why a show about a Minnesota town is getting filmed in Canada is beyond me, but then again, Access Hollywood didn’t hire Skip Briggs for his brains. Come to think of it.... how on earth did I manage to make it through school?

Anyway, I’m getting sidetracked. My mind gets easily distracted and I wander off into other subjects a lot. Like when I’m supposed to be interviewing a star about their latest movie and suddenly ice cream enters my mind. That tastes good, I’ll tell you. I could really go for a rocky road ice cream bar right about now, or a sundae with lots of fudge and a cherry on the...

I’m doing it again, aren’t I?

It was supposed to be easy. A nice sit down interview with Billy Bob Thornton to shoot the breeze, some cast in action shots, and we’re golden, right? Hmmm. Billy Bob. I knew a Billy Bob back in the day. Wonder what he’s doing. Maybe having a beer down at the corner bar. Maybe off fishing somewhere. I doubt with the name Billy Bob that he’d be something like a doctor. Particularly since Billy Bob Moffatt just wasn’t all that smart.

And there I go again, right off topic.

That’s not the point. The point is, and I’m coming to it, is that I was just doing an honest day’s work as a member of the highly respected entertainment journalism field. To whoever finds this letter- we are respected! Stop laughing! Like I said, I was just doing an honest day’s work. And then I saw him.

It was Lars Ulrich. He was walking through Olympic Plaza. I thought it strange for two reasons. First, he was wearing the utilities uniform of a Mountie. Second, I wondered why the drummer from Metallica would be spending any time in Calgary while the band was in rehearsals for their next tour.

So I did what any respectable entertainment journalist would do. Hey! Stop laughing! We are respectable! We’re as respectable as the winner of a Miss Universe contest. Which reminds me, I hope the show finds someone else to cover that thing in a few weeks. I was supposed to go, but I don’t think I’m going to survive the night. It’s a shame too, because I was really looking forward to Miss Brazil proclaim her outrage at the loss of her soccer team at the World Cup. I hear they’re all still crying in their tequilas down there...

Oh no. I’m doing it yet again, getting off track.

Where was I?

Oh, right. Lars Ulrich. Olympic Plaza. So I walked right up to him, introduced myself, held out a hand to shake his, and said I was with Access Hollywood. I asked him why he was up in Calgary and not with the band, and by the way, were the rumours true that Metallica would record a song for the Fifty Shades Of Grey soundtrack album. That’s the way I put it.

He didn’t seem amused. His eyes were angry.

He told me in a really low voice that he wasn’t that Lars Ulrich.

I asked if he was certain.

That’s when he hit me.

And man, was it a hit. It was worse than that time I got hit by Miley Cyrus while she was driving away from a bar. Well, that could have all been a lot worse. At least I went over the hood, as opposed to under the wheels like poor Sam Carruthers. You know, his funeral was a travesty. The closed casket had to be used, mind you. There wasn’t much left of his face, after all, and it’s not like you want to be throwing up in someone’s coffin while that someone is inside it, right? Come to think of it... was Miley ever charged for that? Was she driving under the influence?

I’ve let myself get off track again. That happens a lot.

So there I am, sprawled on the ground, and this cranky Lars Ulrich advancing on me. He said something about being a Mountie- I wasn’t paying that much attention... I kept trying to ask if he was just joking around with me. And then, for some reason that I don’t understand, I started running. And running. And running some more.

I don’t really know where I am right now. West of the city, I guess. The mountains are closer, anyway. I found this cabin out in the woods. It’s strange to describe, but I’ve felt him tracking me. He’s still out there, still angry, still ready to tear me a new one. I’m completely out of my depth out here in the wild. The last time I was in the outdoors was a location piece I did during the filming of The Lone Ranger. The Navajo told me they had a name for me. In English it meant Not So Swift. I  still wonder what they were getting at. Anyway, designer clothes and shoes were not meant to be worn in the thickets and the great outdoors. My producer’s going to blast me for all the tears in my pants. Besides, I got chased by an angry moose last night, and the damned thing nearly knocked me out of the tree I was hiding in.

I may have to leave here soon. I can’t take the chance of him closing in on me and throttling me.

Oh no.... it’s too late. I can hear him. He’s out there. It’s an angry voice, more like a growl, and he said my name.

Now there’s a loud bang at the door.

I’m going to die, aren’t I?

Tell my family that I want my inevitable Pulitzer prize put on permanent display at the most prestigious museum in the world. I was too young and beautiful to die!

Post Script; One Week Later

I write this from the hospital bed. Well, it’s actually a nurse doing the writing. I’m in a body cast for the next five months, they tell me, and I’ll be eating my meals through a straw. I’m just dictating.

Well, he didn’t kill me. But there are times I wish he had.

Five months. Imprisoned like this in a body cast. Letting my body mend itself. It’s going to drag on forever. My producer tells me that there’s nothing they can really do. On the one hand, the entire world is still pretty annoyed with that Dark Cabal of entertainment journalists who were plotting to take over the world. On the other, Lars Ulrich- the Mountie, not the drummer- has saved the world on more than one occasion, and the world tends to let him do whatever he wants.

I can’t stay like this for five months. I’m an entertainment reporter. It’s a respected and honourable profession, and I’ve got a fan club that needs me back in action covering all the big celebrity news.

How else will they find out about Jennifer Aniston’s fifty seventh unconfirmed pregnancy?

How To Destroy Your Career And Reputation 101

Some items to see to before we get started today. First, go on over to Norma's  Wordpress blog or over to her Blogger page if you prefer, for her follow up on the DespicaBlimp, and give her a comment. And second, check out our joint blog, where we had fun with wedding humour.  Yes, it's Mawwiage, as Peter Cook would call it. Have a look, and leave us a comment!

Now then, you knew this was coming, didn't you?

Don’t Tell My Achy Breaky Career Meltdown

Calgary (CP). Miley Cyrus turned up in Calgary this week for a concert, mere days after her eyebrow raising appearance at the VMAs. Cyrus, the one-time Hannah Montana star, stunned audiences with her behaviour, particularly during a duet with singer Robin Thicke, in which she did lewd things with her tongue, bumped and grinded against the singer (who happens to be twice her age), stripped down to a flesh coloured bikini outfit, and pleasured herself on stage with a novelty oversized glove.

Cyrus is the daughter of infamous singer Billy Ray Cyrus, who gave the world a reason to think fingernails on a blackboard sounded better when he recorded Achy Breaky Heart. She spent her formative years being thrown into the spotlight by Disney and her parents in the Hannah Montana television show and related spinoffs and merchandising efforts. Since then, she has been spending her time living that show down, acting out in a variety of outlandish ways, trying to cast herself more as an adult figure and move her singing career in other directions. She’s also been seen at many a party, getting drunk and getting photographed in all the wrong ways.

Her on again off again fiancé, actor Liam Hemsworth has seemingly had enough. He has returned to his home in Australia, and has requested the Australian government to deny Miley any entry to the land Down Under.  “He’s really just had enough of the endless circus,” Hemsworth’s agent told reporters. “Liam’s a down to earth kind of guy, and the endless cries for attention by Miley, pointless look at me behaviour, and self destructive streak was getting to him. Actually, I’m surprised he put up with it after she had a penis cake made for his birthday.”

“I don’t know what the problem is,” Cyrus told reporters gathered in a convention center here.  This reporter was among them, being punished by being made to speak with a halfwit entertainer all because he happened to break out laughing during the funeral of his editor’s mother-in-law.  “I mean, so I like to have a little fun. What’s the problem with that? And so what if I like to be a little exhibitionist? That doesn’t give Will Smith the right to judge me, after all. I mean, seriously, he’s the one who brought those two talentless kids of his into the world, and if I know anything, it’s about talentless kids.” She looked around at the reporters. “Wait a minute, that might not have been what I meant to say.”

“Miley! Miley!” a reporter called out. “Any truth to the rumour that your father is a member of the Mulletus Demonicus class of demons from the seventh circle of Hell?”

Cyrus appeared stunned. “Who told you that...? I mean, that’s ridiculous!”

“What are your plans while you’re in Calgary?” a reporter with the Calgary Herald asked.

“Well, you know, I want to take in the Stampede...”

“That was a month ago,” the Herald reporter pointed out.

“It was?” Miley seemed confused. This reporter wondered if she had already been drinking. "You don't imagine they'd put it on just for me, do you? Oh, never mind. Well, I've got a concert going on. Before then, I'll probably go on a pub crawl with fifty of my closest friends. Liam would be there, but for some reason that I don't really understand, he's not returning my calls." 

“Miss Cyrus, what would you say to those who feel you’re on a road to complete self destruction?” this reporter asked. “How do you address the concerns that you need help, that these endless acting out and stunts of misbehaviour are not a good sign?”

She appeared annoyed. “I would say anyone who thinks that is sadly mistaken.” This reporter rolled his eyes. “Look, all I’m doing is having a little fun. Just like that Sheryl Crow song. You know the one that I...” Her voice trailed off, and she seemed to be looking beyond the crowd of reporters. “Hey, wait! You! Wait!”

She burst through the crowd, walking towards a Mountie who was passing through the center. This reporter recognized him. So did many others. It was Inspector Lars Ulrich, back in Alberta after being overseas assisting in the investigation of the Yorkshire Terrier Of The Baskervilles case in Britain. He saw the oncoming Miley Cyrus and the horde of reporters following her. The look in his eyes suggested he had been trying to get past the crowd unseen, and was annoyed to have been spotted.

Cyrus threw an arm around the shoulder of the Inspector, who looked around, as if seeking a way out, when the press corps surrounded them. “Hi there! What’s a girl got to do to get a Mountie up on stage during her performances?” Cyrus asked, oblivious to the expression of annoyance from the Inspector. “Listen, I’ve got an idea for a stage performance. You’re up on stage while I’m singing whatever song I feel like at that moment. I’ll be busy taking off more and more of my clothes as the song goes on... I like doing that these days, and I’m up there with two of my backup singers, and we’re all thrusting and grinding and twerking with you. It’ll be great, just great. What do you think?”

“Who the hell are you?” Ulrich asked in a low, menacing voice. Those few among the press corps who consider ourselves actual journalists stepped back.

“I’m Miley Cyrus!” she exclaimed. “Everyone knows who I am! Oh, don’t kid. You know exactly who I am. By the way, do those uniforms you Mounties wear tear off easily? Because that would sort of be the point...”

“Lars! Lars!” This reporter glanced over at his colleague from the Herald, who was speaking. Ulrich glared at him, as if wondering if he was going to ask an inane question. “Professor Tobias Merkley has made a suggestion in a column today that I’d like your opinion on. Merkley is publishing a book he calls The Fourth Wall Conundrum. He theorizes that none of this is actually real, that we are all merely fictional characters, the creation of a man typing at a computer. Furthermore, he suggests that you, Inspector, are the pivotal focus point of that man beyond the Fourth Wall, and that man enjoys torturing you by writing you into situations where you’re around entertainment reporters. What do you say to that?”

Ulrich sighed in dismay. “Are you drunk?”

“No!” the reporter assured the Inspector.

“Well, you come along on my pub crawl with my personal closest friends, the Mountie, and I, and I can do something about that,” Cyrus suggested.

Another reporter spoke up. “Lars! Alex Andrews, Hollywood Now. Will Miley be doing a duet with Metallica?”

Ulrich pushed forward and grabbed him by the throat. “I am not that Lars Ulrich, you insufferable moron!”

Andrews appeared confused. “Ah, travelling incognito, not wanting to let people know Metallica is in town? I get it, Lars. Bravo, very well thought out. But it still doesn’t answer my que..." 

Andrews never got a chance to finish his question. The Inspector hit him squarely across the jaw, sending him falling into a crowd of other reporters. He dragged Andrews away by the heel, heading off in the direction of the Bow River. Miley Cyrus called after him, "So is that a no to doing a strip tease with me for the concert?"