Don't Mess With Canada

[simonmabee]

First section. It's a little long. Any and all feedback is greatly appreciated. This is the story of Canada's attempt to kill the president and the U.S. officials incompetent attempts to stop them.

Don’t Mess With Canada

July 8, 2017. Calcutta, India.

“Black Sheep this is Uncle Tom standby while we await operational confirmation from Papa Smurf, over.”

This is not a happy story.

“Roger that Uncle Tom, the herd is in position and awaiting the signal, over.”

This is the story of two friends.

“Uncle Tom this is the Stable. We have received a ‘go’ from Papa Smurf. I repeat, Operation Abbey Road is a go.”

One friend was big, powerful, and arrogant.

“Black Sheep this is Uncle Tom. Papa Smurf has responded in the affirmative. I repeat, we are clear to proceed as planned. This will be the last contact we will have until you make it back home eh, God speed.”

The other friend was quiet, supportive, and polite except when wearing skates.

“Alright Uncle Tom. We are moving out. I promise to be home before curfew, eh.”

The polite friend constantly took abuse from their neighbor. Until one day they had had enough. Though smaller and weaker the friend decided it was high time someone showed them some respect.

George gunned the engine throwing the other three back in their seats. The black van shot down the narrow streets of Calcutta. A macaque that was peacefully eating a child’s peanut butter and jelly sandwich was hurled from the top of the van and smashed its skull on the hard street below. A young boy emerged from his house and played with the dead monkey for five minutes before his mother found him and scolded him. This boy would go on to be India’s most renowned veterinarian.

It took ten minutes to arrive at their destination. Right on schedule. The only casualties; a monkey and a stray cat whose death, though excruciatingly painful, was so bland it wasn’t worth describing. The Indian secret police inside should have been roofied. John was the first to the back door with Paul, George, and Richard following. John held up three fingers to signal that in three seconds they would bust down the door. Three, two, one, and John lifted his leg to kick the door in as the others held up their guns. The door flew open to reveal that the police were in fact not roofied. There were even more of them than the four agents had originally thought.

“Shit,” was the last word Paul uttered before receiving a fatal bullet between the eyes drove through his skull and splattered his brains on the ground
below as his body crumbled limply to the earth below.

Unfortunately the Royal Canadian Mounted Police had yet to learn the first rule of international assassinations. If you want something done right you have to either pay a reliable person ridiculous amounts of money, or do it yourself. This lesson’s importance was further evidenced by the fact that the man they had given Stanley Cup tickets to as payment for roofieing the police was in uniform with a shotgun not three inches from Richard’s face. That is until he pulled the trigger and Richard was no more.

George grabbed John and pushed him towards their van, a brand new Ford Dakota, “Run!” he shouted as he sacrificed his own life for his fellow Mountie.

George was shot three times in the chest. Blood sprang from his mouth as he crumpled to the ground. John was running as fast as he could. He could hear the bullets whizzing past his head as he reached for the van’s door. Just as he grabbed the handle he felt a shearing pain in his back as four bullets
nestled themselves deep in his lungs. The force of the shots threw him against the car window. Tears in his eyes John stared at his reflection ashamed. Happy thoughts of home floated through his head as he died at the feet of the Dakota. Coughing up blood he slumped down the car leaving a red streak where his body had been. Lying on the ground he knew what he had to do. The Indian secret police gathered around him to presumably to take a coup de gra shot. To preserve the secrecy of the mission he reached into his pocket and pressed the ignition. Twenty pounds of napalm and C-4 in the van exploded. John and his comrades were incinerated along with their killers. It was the greatest disaster in the history of The Force.

An hour later, President Jon Haynes boarded Air Force One alive. At his side, as always, was the ever flappable Ike Tyler the White House Press Secretary.

“Ok sir once we’ve reached cruising altitude you’re scheduled to address the press onboard” Ike said furiously flipping through the pages of prepared
remarks he hoped the president would actually read over for once.

President Haynes went straight for the bar he had had installed as soon as he was elected, “Can you believe it Ike? We travel to the source and in the whole damn place not one convenience store.”

Ike began to sweat and panic, “Sir please don’t say that to press the ramifications could be…”

“Calm down Ike,” the President said reassuringly patting him on the shoulder, “As long as this doesn’t take too long. I might shit my pants and then you’d have a mess to clean-up,” then muttering to himself after taking a sip of scotch, “I knew I shouldn’t have had those Curry-Os.”

Ike was so flustered by this suggestion he didn’t know what to do other than use the notes he had typed up to wipe sweat from his forehead. Ike had been a huge part of the President’s campaign and had hoped that he would be rewarded with something easy that nobody cared about like the Bureau of Indian Affairs where he could afford to be a screw up just like his predecessors. However, Haynes had decided Ike was going to be Press Secretary. Ike found this out when he was introduced to the Press Corps as the Press Secretary. Ike pissed himself and refused to leave the podium until everyone else had left the Press Conference.

“Did those intelligence reports come in yet from the CIA and the other Ivy Leaguers playing spy yet?”

Finally something Ike could accomplish, “Yes they did. They didn’t say much, just something about CMT making an effort to take over the Oman government.”

CMT stands for Cranky Muslim Terrorists. They were famous for being more cantankerous than they were deadly. One member was once allowed to speak at a terrorist convention at an unknown location in the Gaza Strip and complained for fifteen hours straight and only stopped when asked what his plan of action was. They were the most feared complainers in the Middle East rivaling the abilities of political minorities in the West.

“Didn’t CNN do a special on that last week or something?” The President asked as he started his third glass of scotch and pulled out a beer.

Two easy questions in a row, this was better than Christmas, which wasn’t that great for Ike. The previous Christmas the president thought it would be a great joke to order the air force to shoot down Santa Claus for violating U.S. airspace. Two years earlier on the campaign trail the then Governor Haynes had promised to be honest throughout the election process. The next day he told a group of kindergartners that Santa wasn’t real. Rivers were cried that year.

“Actually,” Ike said cracking open a Diet Sierra Mist, “CNN did that piece two months ago.”

President Haynes nodded approvingly, “Looks like Intelligence is finally getting the hang of this gathering information thing,” then clutching his stomach, “Uh-oh, looks like the poo poo train is coming into town a little bit ahead of schedule. This food is killing me. I hope I die before we have to come back here again.”

The president’s next visit to India was scheduled for slightly over a year later. He would be dead by then.
Bieber

One month earlier.

Commissioner Nicolas Morgan furiously read the most recent report from Arnold Ford the Canadian Ambassador to the United States. It was the fourth time he had read it and he could still hardly believe what was before his eyes. He knew that the Royal Canadian Mounted Police would be called on as they have always been called on in Canada’s darkest times of need. The Force had answered the call under all of his predecessors and would certainly not fail to do so under his leadership.

Commissioner Morgan had taken over the RCMP during a time of great turmoil. The popular depictions of Dudley Do-right had severely damaged international respect for the Mounties. Standing a 6’3” Morgan brought a new intimidating presence to the job. He was also the first black man to hold the office of commissioner. His family originally hailed from Atlanta, Georgia and at times he sounded like it. However, he was filled with Canadian pride and insisted on wearing his red serge or complete “review order” at all times.

The door opened as three men shuffled in, Ambassador Ford, General Wesley, and Prime Minister Jenkins. The commissioner lifted his gaze from the damning report for the first time since he had arrived.

The Prime Minister stood at the head of the conference table to address the group, “I think we all know what today’s meeting is aboot as well as the severe nature of what we are aboot to discuss eh.”

Never before had top government officials gathered in the labyrinth of top secret tunnels built under Ottawa. The tunnels had been constructed during the 1970s when the Canadian government mistakenly thought that the U.S.S.R. considered them a threat. It is now common knowledge that if there ever was to be a nuclear war Canada would survive because nobody would bother to remember and bomb them.

“Ambassador,” the Prime Minister addressed Ford, “I appreciate it if you took the time to go over your report so we can all hear this together as a group. I also understand that there are a couple of recent developments you did not have time to include.”

“Yes sir there most certainly are,” Ambassador Ford said as he took a position at the front of the room with the Canadian flag draped on the wall behind him. This was not nearly as excessive as the Canadian flag pattern that had been painted onto the conference table. Though patriotic everyone who has ever seen the table considers it to be quite the eye sore.

“I was first made aware of the changes in our relationship with the United States last year when the embassy was moved. This will happen from time to time and I’m sure the delegation from Lesotho was more deserving of that building than we were. So we gladly accepting relocation,” the Ambassador paused to get a drink of water, “Our new location was hardly acceptable. Not all of you know the D.C. metro area very well but trust when I tell you southeast D.C. is not a very nice place. Our employees had to take the Green Line on the metro to work. The hub caps from the embassy car were stolen repeatedly.

“However, this is only the tip of the iceberg. As I am sure most of you are aware Wayne Gretzky is applying for U.S. citizenship and Sidney Crosby has already been quoted recently as saying he considers himself to as much an American as he is a Canadian. Grocery stores across America and shockingly in parts of our own glorious nation now label Canadian Bacon as “Breakfast Ham”.”

“HOW DARE THEY!” the Secretary of Canadian Pride exclaimed leaping from his seat.

“Indeed,” the Ambassador said nodding, “As you all know the Canadian Football League recently made a successful expansion into Milwaukee. However, the Milwaukee Lumberjacks have gone undefeated for the past three seasons and in a recent poll in Wisconsin showed that 76% of the population considered Canadians to be pussies. As you all are aware the yearly Canadian Pride Parade takes place in New York every April. This past year the parade was canceled due to fears of too much traffic from the Mets game. Fewer than ten thousand people attended that game. As it turns out the Mets play in Queens. The parade was to take place in Manhattan,” sniffles could be heard throughout the room as the tragic news continued to pile up, “Last August President Haynes made his first and so far only trip to Canada. Most of us were in attendance when he addressed parliament with a five minute speech. What most of us didn’t notice was that in a blatant mockery of Canada he said ‘eh’ after every single word.”

This statement was met was grumblings of disagreement throughout the room.

“Play the clip Harry.”

A projector screen rolled down from the ceiling. After a few seconds a recording of the President’s speech was rolling.

“This is my first trip to Canada,” the President said discretely stifling giggles, “and I must say it has more than lived up to my expectations.”

The Ambassador paused the clip and looked around the room, “Nobody noticed?” everyone in attendance shook their heads, “I’ll play it again but pay close attention this time.”

The clip rolled again from the beginning.

“This eh is eh my eh first eh trip eh to eh Canadeh and eh I eh must eh say eh it eh has eh more eh than eh lived eh up eh to eh my eh expectations.”

Everyone except for the Commissioner stared at the screen with wide eyed shock that they had never realized that the entire speech was about mocking Canada.

“It is aboot time…wait eh minute did I say aboot. I am so sorry I meant to say about because only an idiot would pronounce about like aboot eh.”

The ambassador paused the clip once again, “Now you can all see what is happening. Even Tim Horton’s is considering relocating their Headquarters to America. However, the worst news has only developed recently. Harry roll the clip from last night’s news.”

The screen now showed Fairfax Thomas the world’s most renowned news anchor. He had the news chin of Shepherd Smith and the aura of the late great Canadian Peter Williams.

“Good Evening America I’m Fairfax Thomas and you are watching the news hour on the Generic News Network. “

“Damn he has perfect hair,” one of the Canadian officials admired.

“Breaking news tonight,” Fairfax reported whirling around to camera 3, “A recent world wide poll was taken last month and the results have finally been compiled. According to this poll 56% of people with at least a college education consider Canada to be a part of the United States and that’s not all. Remember washed up teen sensation Justin Bieber? Well this poll reveals that he is still the world’s most famous Canadian.”

Commissioner Morgan was shocked and outraged, “This can’t be how the world perceives Canada!”

It is.

“I thought we took care of the Bieber stigma years ago,” an outraged Admiral exclaimed slamming his fists on the table.

A scar like that never truly goes away.

The Prime Minister coughed and stood to address the room once more, “We are gathered here today to implement a plan of action to be taken against America to salvage Canadian pride and once and for all earn the respect of our neighbors to the south.”

The Prime Minister stopped to light a cigarette and gather his thoughts. He gazed at the back of the room where a large mural depicting American soldiers burning down the Canadian parliament in Montreal during the War of 1812. Above the flames in the smoke filled sky in bold blood red cursive was a simple statement “Never Forget.”

“We are seen as weak by the world,” he said after taking a long puff, “The leader of the free world mocks us openly in our own country, so how do we respond.”

Commissioner Morgan nodded in agreement, “Drastic times call for drastic measures eh.”

“What exactly are you two implying?” a general questioned a worried tone in his voice.

The Prime Minister grinned with anticipation, “We are going to kill the President of the United States of America.”

The meeting adjourned without further discussion. They were all in silent, some hesitant, agreement that this was the only action Canada could take that had a chance of remedying their problem. Commissioner Morgan briskly walked down the hall to his temporary office he had had set up in anticipation of the need for immediate preparation.

He threw open the door and called out to his assistant, “Mr. Arnold I need the file of our best man.”

“For what type of mission sir.”

“Dangerous,” Morgan replied pouring himself a cup of coffee.

“Here we are sir,” Arnold said placing a file in front of Morgan moments later, “Corporal Dudley Wright.”

Commissioner Morgan sprayed coffee across his desk when he heard the name. There was no way that was their best agent’s name.

“Come again?” Morgan whimpered wiping coffee from his mouth.

“Dudley Wright sir. He isn’t the brightest Mountie but he has a pure heart. He often gets himself into trouble but through luck and a few comical happenings things just always seem to work out for him.”

Morgan shook his head flipping through the file. His résumé was very impressive. Easily one of the best The Force had to offer. But the name was certainly a problem. Morgan thought it over for a moment gingerly sipping a new cup of coffee. Corporal Wright’s name wasn’t a perfect match for the disgrace of a Mountie depicted in American television.

“I guess he will have to do,” Morgan said closing the file before noticing another detail, “Dudley D. Wright…what does the D. stand for?”

Arnold thought for a moment, “I believe it is Dhue sir. Yes that’s it, his full name is Dudley Dhue Wright.”

Commissioner Morgan furiously ripped the file in half and threw it across the room. In his frenzied rage he accidentally spilled coffee on his red serge. This only served to make Morgan even angrier.

“Get the file on anyone, anyone else we have!! I will not have anyone with such a ridiculous name represent this agency! We are the Royal Canadian Mounted Police goddamnit and we are not some cartoon agency to be mocked!”

Arnold frantically flipped through files looking for anyone else with experience in incredibly dangerous and sensitive situations.

“Here sir, how about these four,” Arnold said producing the files, but Morgan just stared back flames of rage still burning deep in his eyes, “Um…John, Paul, George, and Richard. They have experience dealing with Eco-terrorists out west. They have also assisted in operations overseas.”

Morgan flipped through the files slowly calming down, “Hm, John, Paul, George, and Richard. Interesting names.”

“Yes sir just like the Beatles sir,” Morgan glared back at Arnold like he was an idiot, “Well sir Ringo was just a stage name, his real name was Richard.”

“Do I look like an idiot?” Morgan asked tilting his head and clenching his fist his Atlanta accent beginning to show itself as it often did when he got angry, “Tell me Mr. Arnold do I look like an idiot?” Arnold tried to stammer out a response but Morgan cut him off, “I ask because you insist on treating me like an idiot. I don’t like it when my handpicked assistant treats me like an idiot! Now go get me some Tim-bits and bring these four in. Preparations for this mission need to begin immediately.”

Arnold turned and dashed out of the office relieved to have a chance to escape the Commissioner’s atomic temper. Morgan picked his hat up off the floor where he had discarded it moments before. He dusted it off and placed it carefully on his head. This was his hour. Canada was in need, in need of a hero, a leader, a warrior of unheard of mettle. Fate had finally called his name. His whole life Morgan had waited for this moment. He knew he would receive no public recognition for his part. No medals, no honor, he would never be able to tell another soul of this great adventure and the sacrifices he knew he would have to make for his country. But that was alright by Morgan. He lived for one thing, the same thing that every Mountie lives for.

Commissioner Morgan stood and walked over to a small mirror hanging on the wall behind his desk. He stood at attention and stared deep into his own eyes. He was ready, the Mounties were ready. He turned around to face the small Canadian flag hanging from the already low hanging ceiling and saluted saying;

“Maintiens le droit.”

[NickB]

This is just great. Funny, engaging, great title. Love the way you set it up: dialogue/narrator/dialogue/narrator, etc. Wish I had some words of wisdom for you, but I can't find fault. I'd like to see more. Good luck with it. NickB

[simonmabee]

The second ch. is done and has been added above. School just started so I don't have as much time to be active on here, but I'll do what I can to contribute to others.