Lusty Weevil Pub

First let me say that I did not make up this place. It is the brain child of Tei Lindstrom, aka Rogue. She is your heroine proprietress. Also, the LW people in these stories really exist. While I took liberties with their characters, almost all of the stuff they say and do is based on real posts and comments they’ve made. (Thus, there could be a gazillion more links in this first story.) More than you think is true. Which to me is what makes this all very funny. Seriously, though, you need to check out their blogs (I’ve given links throughout) because it is all really great material. At the same time, the characters in these stories do not necessarily reflect their owners’ views, or my views for that matter, so no one get offended or pissed off at me. This is all for fun, which is the only reason I’d go to a pub anyway. Lastly, this first story was originally written as five posts, the comments to which are at those individual posts. Also the links do repeat. Consider that a bonus…and a hint.

Welcome, one and all. The doors are open. Come on in.

[cue LW pub music]

Cast of Characters:

The Canadians:

The Americans

The Brit

No Canadians Allowed

“All right. ‘Humicubation.’”

“To lie on the ground, especially in humiliation or penitence, which you will be doing soon, no doubt.” Behind the bar, Rogue smiles viciously at me and wipes another glass clean. “Drink up.”

Sighing, I tip back my mug of Genius, the Lusty Weevil’s special brew and why everyone who’s anyone comes here, and empty the dregs. “Bathroom break,” I plead, and ease myself off my bar stool.

In the bathroom I stare at myself in the mirror. “Be cool, Steph.” I splash cold water on my face to try and sober up. It’s been six weeks since I last beat her. Rogue is not one to take failure on a regular basis.

“Hey, editor girl!” When I emerge, I’m greeted enthusiastically by one of the patrons. “Is that a dangling participle or are you just happy to see me? Hahaha! Good one, huh? Hey, I stopped by your place last night but you weren’t home. Some note on the door about missing commas or something like that? Whatsa matter? You got some rogue ink?” He grins.

“Very funny, B, but yeah,” I say. “So I came here. I was editing and got frustrated. Needed to blow off steam.”

“It was dark, stormy and I lost my serial comma?”

“Ha ha,” I say, but I’m smiling as I take my seat again. The bar filled up while I was gone, and I nod to two men with pens and paper at a table in the corner. “S’up, Chartrand? Harry?”

“Working on the role-playing game. You coming out May 28th?”

I’m just about to answer when the doors to the pub swing open and two state troopers saunter in. “What the hell’s this?” I say.

“Shut up,” Rogue warns me, not unkindly. “Have another drink. I’ll handle this.” Calmly, she directs her attention to the officers. “Yes?” she asks icily.

“We heard tell you got some Canadians in here,” one of them says.

“So what if I do?”

“We got to clean ‘em out. Send ‘em back. They ain’t allowed no more, on account of-”

“What?” I ask. Rogue puts a hand out to silence me. “Well, you can turn right around, Slick. I don’t know where you got it, but there are no Canadians here.”

In fact, there are at least four of us. Quietly, I slip off my stool and join Brett, who’s drinking wine and calculating the distance from here to the nearest safety zone against his fastest time. “Where’s Friar?” I whisper. “Swimming,” he answers quietly. “He’s doing the frigid water thing again.”

Rogue steps from behind the bar. “Yo,” she says loudly to the troopers. “I said, there are no Canadians here.”

“That’s not what we heard,” says one of them. “Plus, a couple of them are drive-by shooters. With a Glock.” I hazard a glance at Harry and James. Only one of them is Canadian, and he doesn’t like to be called one.

Rogue crosses her arms and raises an eyebrow. “Blather,” she says. “Or, for dumb shits like you: bullshit. You heard wrong, Tiny. Now. Are you going to get out of my pub, or am I going to have to lay the smackdown on your asses? You’re ruining business.”

“Yeah, fellas,” pipes up Kelly good-naturedly. “You’re preventing her from offering us the maximum customer experience. Hey, you got any champagne, Rogue?”

“Look, miss,” says one of the troopers to our bartender. “It’s regulations. We got to follow orders and check out all your customers.”

“As I said. No Canadians here. You’re not touching a hair on my patrons.”

“We don’t appreciate your ‘tone of voice,’ neither,” says the first cop’s companion, sneering at Rogue.

All of us in freeze in anticipation. Nobody talks to our fierce proprietress like that, both threateningly and grammatically incorrectly. At the inappropriate air quotes, Rogue’s neck turns red. Quick as lightening, her elbows are up by her temples. There’s a shing sound we all know well. A flash of steel. Instantly, the pub is charged with an air of kick-ass. The troopers tip back on their heels, each with the point of a short sword in one nostril. “What part of no Canadians here did you not comprehend?” spits Rogue, steadily applying pressure. Drops of blood stain the troopers’ uniforms. We Canadians stand on guard.

My stomach’s a little queasy from the drinking game earlier and I don’t particularly want to see anyone, even state troopers, eat steel today. “Hey, Rogue!” I call over. “Why don’t we just defenestrate them instead?”

Without lowering her swords, Rogue turns her head and grins at me.

“What the hell does that mean?” asks one of the troopers, trying to see his partner. The look on his face, that he might piss his pants, indicates this defenestration thing might be more painful than swords.

“It means,” says a voice evenly from the far corner in the dark, “that you are a fucking moron.” It’s Naomi, who’s been quietly observing while playing solitaire and nursing a tumbler of Crown Royal. A thin line of smoke rises from the IttyBiz hanging lazily between her lips. Her sharp eyes are slits. Naomi swaggers to stand beside Rogue. She exhales slowly and deliberately in the troopers’ faces. “The woman said get out. And seeing as you’re in a precarious situation, I’d do what she says. You don’t want Brett here to get Viking on your asses.”

“But what about that guy over there?” ventures one brave cop. “Wearing the Canadiens ball cap?”

“He’s not Canadian,” we all chorus, looking over at James.

“Right. And he just happens to prefer the Canadiens hockey team?”

James puts down his pen and stands up defiantly. “Mon crisse de char est brisé, tabarnac de câlisse!” he explodes. “Dey already told you: I ham not Canadien!”

At this, Harry unfolds himself from his chair and stands intimidatingly over the troopers. He grinds a studded boot on the toes of one of the men and snarls.

“Look, bubs,” says Rogue, impatiently upping the pressure on each sword. The cops’ nostrils rise higher, swinelike. “Either get your punk asses out of my establishment or I’ll kick them out for you. Which will it be?”

“Okay, okay,” says one. “Shit. We’ll go.”

“And not come back,” enunciates Rogue. “Repeat after me, pigs. And. Not. Come. Back.”

The troopers grudgingly repeat after Rogue, who finally lowers her swords and wipes the tips on her apron.

“Git,” snarls Harry. “And don’t make me come after you. I’ve got a Honda VTX 1800RX that can outrun your sorry-ass piece of shit any day.” Whether that’s true or not, they don’t care to find out. The state troopers take one look at Harry’s skull rings and hightail it out of the pub.

Rogue forks her fingers at them, then sighs and pulls a pint for herself and a round for everyone else. “Pestiferous punks,” she grumbles. She turns to me. “Defenestration: the action of throwing something, especially a person, out the window. Thanks for that, but I like my windows. Now drink up, poppet.”

* * *

“So what’ll it be this time, Biscuit?” Behind the bar, Rogue tips back a bottle of her own special brew of Genius. “Same old?”

“Nope. I’m in the mood for something stronger. Gimme one your Sidesplitters, no ice, slice of awesome on the side. And I’ll have some of those nut grafs, too, while you’re at it.”

“Gotcha.”

While Rogue mixes my drink, I take a look around the pub. Friar‘s back from his swimming trip, I see, working on a small paint-by-numbers picture and sitting with Brett, who’s drinking wine and eating butterscotch ripple ice cream. The Lusty Weevil’s good like that: Rogue’ll serve anything you want. Ice cream? Sure. Scrambled eggs? Coming right up. KD? You’re Canadian, right? You want hot dogs chopped through that Kraft Dinner? With ketchup? How about a side of Sunny D, sugardumpling?

Naomi’s chatting with James and Harry, the men with pens, a pitcher between the three of them. She offers up an Ittybiz, and when they decline – they have their own – she sticks an extra behind her ear and puts away the pack. Harry and James go back to scribbling notes on pieces of paper.

“Any more trouble with those state troopers while I was gone?” I ask Rogue, swivelling back around on my stool.

“Nope.”

“Buggers. Always blaming Canada for something.”

“Sure.”

“Anyway, whatever it is, it wasn’t us. We’re the peacekeepers.”

“So you say.”

“Well, you’ve got to admit, we’re not really equipped for anything else, are we?”

Rogue says nothing.

“So who’s the newbie?” I nod in the direction of the far corner of the bar.

“Name’s Nick. English dude. And he’s not new.”

“No shit. Like from England? Never seen him here before.”

“Not around much. Keeps telling me he means to come for a pint but he’s the type to put things off, if you know what I mean. Procrastinator. First time he’s been here in six weeks.”

“Meh. Whatever works for you, I guess. Me, the Lusty Weevil’s the first thing I don’t procrasinate about. Need my fix. Speaking of which, how about an Hourglass shot this time. Straight up.”

I clink my glass with Rogue’s bottle and head over to sit next to Naomi. Brett and Friar have already pulled up chairs. “What are you guys talking about? Looks serious.”

“This Hamerican problem we’re ‘aving,” says James, who’s not Canadian. “Hafter what ‘appened here last time, we’re tinking dey are probablement building some sort of resistance. ‘Arry says dey are still marching haround trying to send us back ‘ome.”

“Well, I’m not giving this place up,” I say. “Nor life on avenue z. They can kiss my Canuck ass. The North may be my home and native land, but right now my money’s good here. So what do you think we should do? You guys drawing up some kind of plan?”

“We’ve got some rogue ink,” says Harry, “but nothing concrete yet. What we need is someone from the outside.”

“What for? Why an outsider?” asks Friar, doodling on a napkin.

“Because then the Americans won’t suspect anything. Whatever our plan is, this person’s got to distract the Americans from it.”

“What about Frenchie over there?” I say.

“Oo, me?” asks James in disbelief. “Câlisse.”

“Shut up! You’re not French, are you?” exclaims Rebecca, who’s just joined the party. “I thought you were Canadian!”

“‘Barnac,” James mutters between his teeth.

“He’s Québébois,” says Brett. It sounds like an apology.

“Nice shoes,” I say to Kelly, who saunters up, champagne in hand.

Naomi cuts us off. “All right, people,” she says. “She means Nick over there. He’s not French, he’s English. And he’s perfect. I’ve had him over once and he has some great ideas.”

“What’s he doing in the corner?” asks Brett. “Looks like he’s on his mobile. Hey, Nick!”

Nick looks up from his dark table and pushes up his glasses. Brett beckons him over. Rogue pulls up another chair and offers Nick a pint.

“Help us, dude,” I say. “You’re our only hope.”

* * *

“All right. We cool?”

Everyone nods. “But what are we calling him, then?” Kelly asks. “We still haven’t got a title for him. He needs a business card. For maximum customer experience and all.”

“It has to be something they’ll believe.”

“Creative director?”

“Executive manager?

“Graphic artist?”

“Oh, oh! I know! What about chief coffee monkey?”

“Guys…”

“Okay, seriously. Senior designer.”

“Freelancer.”

“Freelance what, though?”

“Guys?”

“A creative.”

“What the hell’s a creative?”

“How about entrepreneur?”

“GUYS!”

Everyone stops. Nick has stood up. Again he pushes up his glasses. He flicks a piece of lint from his suit lapel. He sighs. “They’ll never believe that shit,” he says. “And I don’t want to look like a wanker. You might as well call me Master of the Universe. Princess of Power. Whatever. NO. It has to be something simple. Your job title is whatever you do.”

We are quiet. Our sharp, creative minds are thinking. We’re powered by Genius here, after all.

* * *

“Well, if it isn’t the rag-tag Rebel Alliance,” says our bartender-warrior as a bunch of us spill like rogue ink into the Lusty Weevil. “Where’re your light sabres?”

“Ha ha, funny girl,” says Naomi, grabbing an ashtray from the end of the bar. “How’re the swords, SheRa?”

Rogue grins. “Ready as always.”

It’s late, and tonight we’re the only ones here. James orders a “peetcher of biere” and he and Harry take their usual table, joined by Brett and Friar. Naomi and I sit at the bar and slam back a couple of Billy Markhams.

“Where’s Nick?” Rogue asks.

“Enjoying life on avenue z. He’s practising. Found some master to teach him to hone his skills for the you know what.”

“Right. How’s that going?”

Naomi flicks her lighter and starts up an IttyBiz. She exhales slowly. “Said it’d probably take about six weeks before he’s ready. From what Harry tells me, I don’t know if we have that kind of time. I’m telling you, we should have made him start right away. You know how Nick is.”

Rogue and I nod. “Organized as hell but likes to put things off,” I say.

“Mm. Where’s Navarro when you need him?”

“Rocking his weekend, I heard.”

“So Harry’s been watching the streets, then?” Rogue asks. “You know I’ve got your back here. You can bet on it.”

“Well, he’s got us an informant now. An American on our side. Calls herself Words for Hire.”

“Writer?”

“And more,” Naomi says. “Harry figured she could pose as a journalist and find out what the Americans are planning. You can’t trust the news or the papers. Last I heard from Harry, they’re having a hard time rounding us all up and kicking our asses out. Their latest tactic is some form of brainwashing to get us to assimilate.”

“Fuck assimilating,” I say vehemently. “I like my salads tossed. Nothing against you, Rogue, but I like my country. I come here for the brilliant entertainment, sure. There’s no place-”

The intrusive screeching of brakes outside the pub interrupts me. Engines rev.

“Speaking of brilliant entertainment,” mutters Rogue, tensing and quickly moving in front of the bar. “Get behind me.”

“It’s the troopers!” says Friar unnecessarily. He’s peeking out the window. “And there’s, like, a million of them!”

“Shit,” Naomi and I say together. We put down our glasses and join the boys. It’s a fine day for James to be wearing his Canadiens jersey.

Five state troopers stand at the door. “All right, miss,” the fattest one says to Rogue. “We know you’ve got Canadians here. Hand ‘em over.”

“Welcome to the Lusty Weevil,” says Rogue, cheerfully ignoring him. “Pints all around, boys? To go with those doughnuts you’re holding, I mean?”

“Miss, we’re not here to cause any trouble. If they just come quietly like good little Canadians, we’ll be on our way.”

Rogue stands her ground. “If you want them, come and claim them,” she dares the troopers. From my place at the table, I muffle a laugh. Just like her to quote a certain elf.

“Don’t make us come in there and use force, girl.”

“Like you’re not used to such a thing,” says Harry.

“What the fuck’s that supposed to mean?” Fatty swivels to face Harry. He’s quickly losing patience.

“Dude,” I say appeasingly. “Chillax, eh? Let’s all be polite-”

“Enough of this shit,” Fatty interrupts me, pushing past his men into the pub. “If we were Mounties, we’d have tasered you to death by now.” He turns to his cohorts and holds up a piece of paper. “The report lists two men with pens, one wearing a Canadiens ball cap and the other, studded boots, and one woman with a smoking IttyBiz.” He stops. “A smoking IttyBiz?”

“She was smoking,” clarifies a cop in the back, whom I recognize from our first encounter.

“Right. Well, book ‘em, boys. I’m sure you won’t have any difficulty. There’s only three of them and you have guns. You know how to use them.” Fatty turns and walks out of the pub.

Friar, Brett, and I exchange confused looks as the four remaining troopers approach. I know I’ve given myself away several times already. What’s going on?

“Fellas,” says Friar, moving quickly in front of James, Harry, and Naomi. “Let’s talk this over like civilized people, shall we? Look, I bet I know what the problem is. You guys were ripped off in childhood, weren’t you? No cool toys from the back of comic books, no X-ray glasses? No plastic swords? No bottle rockets, cap guns, slingshots?” Friar singles out one of the cops, who have all stopped in their tracks. They look stunned. “You,” continues Friar. “You got a lame-ass sticker in your Cracker Jack box to put on your light switch, didn’t you? And you,” he says, pointing to another trooper, “you got stupid mazes on the back of your cereal box, right? No fun stuff wrapped in cellophane?”

The four state troopers look as though they might cry.

“I have a theory, boys. And I weep for you, I really do. Because here’s what I think: in their politically-correct, sanitized, safety-oriented, lawsuit-ridden society, your parents became so fearful that they wouldn’t even allow you the joy of finding a small prize in a box of candy. You were never allowed to experience life, to learn to cope with danger and risk. Now you don’t even know how to handle Canadians. You think they’re a threat. You were so deprived as children that now you have to take it out on someone else, not to mention with full-sized, real guns. Shame on you. Blame Canada, you say. But what about looking at home, first?”

“Whoa. That’s deep, Friar,” I say.

But I’ve ruined the moment. One of the men snaps out of it. “Whatever, guy. Now back off and cough up them Canadians before we have to hurt you.”

Rogue steps between us and the troopers. “You go through me, first,” she says. “It’s my business you’re taking away here, and I’ll be damned if I let you do that today.”

Surprisingly quick, one of the troopers unholsters his gun, cocks it, and holds it point blank at Rogue’s forehead. I gasp. Swords are no match at such close range. “Whatever you say, miss,” he says, and grins. “Not so quick with the big words and fancy swords this time, are you?”

“Okay,” I say, starting to freak out. “This is TOtally not cool. For one, you can’t take James, he’s not even Canadian. We told you before.”

“But he’s wearing a Canadiens shirt.”

James opens his mouth to speak but Naomi interrupts. “Fuck,” she says. “First, it’s a jersey, you idiot. Second, even Canadians don’t cheer for the Canadiens. Everybody knows that.”

“That’s enough out of you,” says one of the troopers in whose face she had previously exhaled smoke during our first encounter. Roughly, he grabs Naomi by the wrist. It takes two of them to get hold of Harry, and the last snags James.

“Where are you taking them?” asks Brett.

“To the station. Then to Canada.”

“You’re taking them home?” I ask incredulously. “That’s it?”

“First to the station.”

Rogue shifts on her feet and I struggle to think. Guns are no match for us: we’re not superheroes, after all. There’s no way to get Naomi and James and Harry back right now, but there are three of us left, plus Rogue and the other Americans on our side. Still, these are our friends, and I don’t know whether or not to trust that nothing will happen to them. The troopers handcuff James, Harry, and Naomi and walk them out the door. Tears of frustration spring to my eyes as I watch them go.

“Damn it,” says Brett. “On the one day I should have trusted my gut and worn my kilt.”

Shaking, I run to the door. “Hosers!” I shout at the cruisers. I wipe my nose on my shirt and sniff.

“Don’t worry, Steph, we’ll get them back,” says Friar soothingly. “And we have Nick, don’t forget.”

* * *

“Palintoshed,” I say, and rest my head on the bar.

Rogue takes my glass and smiles. “Yes, you are, sugardumpling. Paggered, peevied, pished, spiffed, spongled, and squiffy. You are most certainly drunk. Also, you lose again.”

“I want my friends back.”

“So do we all. But we need a plan.”

“I can’t believe they thought Harry was Canadian,” Kelly says as she tucks into a plate of spicy ledes. “He looks like a character from Easy Rider, for crying out loud.”

“Yeah, but nobody said anything otherwise,” I moan miserably.

“Are they still at the police station?” asks Rebecca.

“Far as we know,” says Friar. Two long days have passed since we sneaked down to the station to see if we could find James, Harry, and Naomi. Anticipating this, Harry had tied his red bandanna to a bar on the grate covering their cell window. When Friar whistled up, three heads appeared.

“You guys okay?” I asked.

“Jesh fine!” Harry answered sloppily.

“Harry?” asked Brett, concerned. “Are you-? Why are you slurring your words? Are they drugging you?”

Naomi snorted, disappeared, then reappeared, holding up a bottle of Moosehead.

“Contraband,” said James, grinning.

“Otherwise they’re making us drink Miller Light. And you know how that shit tastes,” said Naomi.

The three of us below nod our heads and grimace.

“But we do have cable TV.”

“What?” I asked.

“Yeah. Only it’s all US channels. We’ve seen American Chopper ten million times already. Of course, Harry loves it. And we get books to read, but they’re all by fucking Cormac McCarthy and Mark Twain. Hey, Steph, I found Atwood’s Circle Game in a plastic bag in the toilet tank when I was looking for a place to hide my last IttyBiz. You want it?”

“Got it already, thanks,” I said. “Look guys, we have no real plan yet for rescuing you. But Kelly, Rebecca, and Rogue are in, and if we can find Words for Hire, I know she’ll help too. Nick’s still at avenue z.”

“It’s hokay, Steph,” James said. “We’re ‘appy.”

“Until the Moosehead runs out,” muttered Brett morosely.

Rogue interrupts my thoughts. “All right, dudes. Here’s what I think. We can’t put things off any longer. Screw this six weeks thing. We’ve got to get Nick here, ready or not. Steph, I’m leaving you with Rebecca and Kelly. Man the bar. Friar, Brett, come with me. We’re going to avenue z.”

Not long after two am, a woman in a business suit walks into the Lusty Weevil. She shakes her umbrella and folds it. Leans it against the entry. “Coffee, please,” she says to me, setting her briefcase on the stool beside her. “Black.” I offer a bowl of nut grafs she refuses. “Words for Hire,” she says. I nod. She folds her hands on the bar. “I have bad news.”

When Rogue, Brett, and Friar return with Nick in tow I’m brewing another pot of coffee and Rebecca’s baking in the kitchen. It’s three in the morning. Words for Hire sits across from me at the bar. Kelly’s asleep beside her, glass of champagne still in hand, Manolos resting smugly beside her tousled head. Gently, I wake her. “They’re back.”

“What’s going on?” asks Rogue immediately, sensing tension.

“We know what the Americans are doing.”

“And?”

“The deal is, they’ve been having a hard time capturing all of us. Assimilation is not going as planned. They’re tagging the Canadians and taking them to some camp at Walker Ranch Park. Now they’re trying to prepare them for ‘reintegration into the wild,’ aka sending them back Canada. It’s called Operation FM, as in forced migration.”

“What?” Brett and Friar say together incredulously.

“That’s not the worst of it.” I stop and take a sip of coffee for fortification. Words for Hire steps in. “Naomi, James, and Harry have been moved to the camp,” she says.

“Shit,” say Rogue, Brett, and Friar. Rebecca emerges from the kitchen with a tray of cookies.

By five am, Words for Hire has left on her next assignment for another client. Kelly and Rebecca are dressed in lumberjack shirts, toques, and jeans. Brett is happily wearing his Viking kilt, which, according to certain speculation, imbues the wearer with certain strength and wisdom. They will need it. I am wearing Kelly’s pinstriped pants, which I’ve had to roll under several times and fasten with duct tape. I am not wearing her Manolos.

“These puppies are staying behind the bar,” she says. “I love you, Steph, but not enough to lend you my best shoes.”

“All right,” says Nick, taking the last cookie from the plate and brushing crumbs from his suit lapel. “Let’s recap. No details, please, just tell me where you’re going.”

“I take Brett, Friar, Kelly, and Rebecca to the camp on the pretense of being a cooperative and having captured them,” says Rogue crisply and with purpose. She double checks the bindings on her weapons. “We look for Naomi, James, and Harry. We rescue them.”

“Right. I will take Steph. We’re off to see the wizard.”

My palms sweat as we drive into Operation FM headquarters. Apprehended at the gate, Nick gives a slight wave of his hand and says he has an appointment with the general. Nick has been well trained: we pass through easily and are led by troopers to the general’s empty office, where we’re told to wait. Minutes later, the general arrives, followed by his assistant.

“Gentlemen,” Nick stands importantly as they enter the room and before anyone can say anything. “Nick Cernis. Pronounced Churnis. Let me cut to the chase, here. I hear you’re having problems with the Canadians.” He sticks out his hand for the general to shake.

“Goddamn nuisances is what they are,” says the general.

“Well, sir. I’m about to rock your day, as they say. Please, take your seats. This is Steph VanderMeulen, my associate.”

The men nod in my direction. I feel conspicuous in my rolled-up suit pants and sit down immediately, hiding my feet behind Nick’s briefcase.

“Now then.” Nick pushes up his glasses. “As British Minister of the Department of Royal Subjects, it has come to my attention that, of late, Canadians have been crossing the American border in large numbers. This is perhaps because of the rapidly declining state of your economy and the strength of their dollar. However, it has been reported that, according to the United States, these Canadians often overstay their welcome. Obviously, this has become a concern to you. British intelligence is now fully aware of your – if you’ll pardon the term – barbaric methods of dealing with this issue.”

The general’s assistant looks at me. “Are you all right, miss?” he asks. I discover I’m clutching my clipboard, my knuckles white. Department of Royal Subjects? “Brilliant, thanks,” I say politely, mimicking Nick’s accent. “Please, do continue.”

“Yes. Well,” says the general. He clears his throat. “The Canadians are a wiley bunch. Unruly. Difficult. Unwilling and seemingly unable to assimilate and therefore causing havoc in an otherwise happily bubbling melting pot. And all the while being polite. Damned annoying. A little discipline would not be out of the question, I’m sure you would agree.”

“Hmm,” says Nick. Casually, he flicks a imaginary piece of lint from his suit jacket. “And the American way is the right way. I suppose torturing them with Miller Light and American irritainment will break them? How is that working for you?”

The general’s face turns red, and his assistant quickly speaks. “I’ve never heard of this Department of Royal Subjects. What is it you do, exactly?”

“Just what it sounds like,” Nick says smoothly. “We handle issues of royal subjects.”

“But Canada hasn’t been under British rule since 1867!”

“So they think,” Nick says, smiling confidently, touching his finger to the side of his nose. My stomach lurches. What is going on? “But once an imperialist, always an imperialist. As they say. I’m sure you understand.” He smiles, and there’s something in that smile, besides his apparent lack of poor dental hygiene, that makes me uneasy. “Look here,” he continues quickly. “You tried a long time ago to push your ways into Canada. I don’t think I need remind you that you were unsuccessful. Canadians have ever adamantly defined themselves as not American. Even on your own soil assimilation is simply not working out for you. On the other hand, we Brits know all about Canadians and their ways. Half of them are still bonkers for the blooming royal family. The queen’s portrait still hangs in their libraries, still smiles benevolently up at them on their currency. Now. Are you going to hear what I have to offer or not?”

“How do we know we can trust you?” asks the general’s assistant.

Of course, I’m wondering the same thing. Yet we otherwise have no hope that I can think of. Perhaps he’s changed tactics for a better idea.

“The Americans and the British have been in cahoots for years. Why stop now?” asks Nick.

“But-”

“Plus,” he says, scrambling, “I live in a castle. Seriously.”

“Really?”

“Yes. And, er, people who live in castles are always trustworthy.”

“But I-”

“Come onnn,” Nick says persuasively.

“Well, when you put it that way. Okay.”

“Right then. It has been brought to our attention that you have been taking Canadians to a camp where they are now being tagged and prepared for reintegration into their country. However, let me suggest that sending back Canadians is not in your best interest.”

“It’s not?”

“No,” says Nick. “You don’t want to send them back, you want more of them to come.”

“We do?”

“Yes,” says Nick. “You need them here to bolster your economy. You need to keep them here, to encourage them to spend. But what you have is not working as well as what I can offer.”

“Which is?” asks the general impatiently.

Nick smiles. He reaches into his briefcase and pulls out his laptop. He starts it, finds what he’s looking for, and turns the laptop to face the general and his assistant. I have no clue what he’s going on about.

“Gentlemen, I present to you…todoodlist.”

“Come again?”

“Todoodlist.” Nick slaps the laptop closed. “It’s a revolutionary take on technology today. Ever notice how complex your life is these days? How fast-pased everything is? How tied we are to PDAs, mobiles, laptops, gadgets of all shapes and sizes?”

The general’s assistant nods sympathetically.

“Well, what if there were a deliciously low-tech fun way to make it all simpler?”

“It would be…revolutionary!”exclaims the general.

“As I said,” smiles Nick. “And here it is. Canadians these days are very caught up the technological rat race. They sleep with their BlackBerries. They are exposed to damaging cell phone radiation. They text message during meetings and in the car and while getting their pedicures in spas. They need this book. What I propose is that you make it available to them. Here, in this country only. They can’t buy it online, they have to physically come and get it.”

“That sounds a bit far-fetched,” says the assistant dubiously.

“Is it? Is it really?” asks Nick. “They come to see Celine Dion in Las Vegas, don’t they? Listen. Just do what you normally do. Market this product like crazy. Run TV and radio ads. Don’t tell them what it is, just create so much hype they can’t resist it or stand to be the one without it. Tease them. Taunt them. Reel them in with excited announcers and bright colours. But market directly to Canadians. Soon, they’ll be flocking to your country in droves, all clamouring for this product. Your economy will be booming.”

“By God, you’re right!” the general exclaims. “It’s just what we need!”

But I hear this only as I’m running from the room, duct-taped pant legs flapping.

* * *

“Keep the change!” I say to the cabbie and with that I run to the back of the Lusty Weevil and go through the special entrance for us rogue Canadians: a small door threateningly marked “Take off, eh!” I find the pub empty and dark, except for the two dim signs reading “men with pens” and “maximum customer experience” over the men’s and ladies’ rooms. Before anything else, I flip open my cell.

A throat clears somewhere in the corner. I drop my phone. “Who’s there?” I fumble for the light.

At a corner table sits Nick Cernis. Calmly, he leans back, pushes up his glasses, and smiles.

“How the hell did you get here so fast?” I ask, staring.

Nick picks at a piece of imaginary lint on his suit. “Oh, just a little something I invented,” he says casually. “Now. What was all that about in the general’s office?”

“I might ask the same of you!” I huff and cross my arms.

“Yes, well. I simply saw an opportunity for myself and I took it. I stand to make millions from the sale of Todoodlist. Is that so wrong, considering I also got the general to agree that having Canadians here is a good thing?”

“Yes! And no! But that’s beside the point! You totally deviated from the plan! And you’re taking advantage of us. What’s all this bullshit about us still being a British colony? And what the hell was that six weeks thing at avenue z, then?”

“As I said. Opportunity knocked and I answered. So did the general. I fail to see the problem.”

Suddenly, the doors to the Lusty Weevil swing open. Kelly and Rebecca trudge in, dressed in their lumberjack shirts and holding their toques, followed by Brett in a torn kilt, Friar with a blackening eye, and Rogue and Harry, who carries James across the threshold.

“I’m glad you’re back!” I exclaim. “What’s wrong with James? Where’s Naomi?”

“Sugardumpling,” says Rogue, walking behind the bar and pulling up shot glasses for everyone. “Be cool. Naomi’s down the street getting some things. James just needs a good stiff drink in him.”

Harry carries James to a chair and sets him down. “What’s up with your pants?” he asks me.

“Duct tape. Literally.”

Harry raises an eyebrow. “Cheers,” says Friar. “Glad to have you guys home.” We tip back our shot glasses. Harry forces James to drink. I splutter. “What is this?” I manage to choke out.

“My special brand of awesome,” says Rogue, grinning. “I’ve been waiting for a time like this to launch it. Ladies and gentlemen, I give you Batshit Crazy. Named after my friend Amy. She writes from home, which may explain things. Helps, doesn’t it, James?”

“What happened over there?” I ask.

“Brett fought like a Viking!” starts Kelly.

“It was the kilt.”

“And Rogue – well! I’ve just never seen a sword used that way.”

“Thanks, babe,” says Rogue. “I could say the same about Harry, though. He kicked ass, man.”

“Friar ran into James’s fist by accident.”

“And poor James got hit pretty hard on the head.”

“He seems to be coming around now,” says Rebecca. “James? Are you okay?”

James looks up at her. “I’m fine. Why? Hey, can I have another one of those shots? That was fucking good.”

No one speaks for a full minute. “What did you say?” asks Harry finally.

“What’s the matter with you? You’re sitting right there. I said, can I have another of those shots.”

“What happened to your accent?” asks Nick from the corner table.

“What accent?” says James, turning around.

“What do you mean, what accent? You used to speak with a French accent!”

“It’s you with the accent, buddy,” says James, shaking his head. “I never had one. Câlisse.”

“Well, if it wasn’t the bump on his head, you’ve got a new slogan for your drink, Rogue,” says Friar. “Strong enough to knock the accent right out of you!”

“So what happened at headquarters?” Harry asks me.

“Long story. Why don’t you get Nick over there to tell it?”

Nick smiles. “Happy to oblige. Long story short, then, the general agreed to let Canadians in the country. They can stay as long as they like.”

“Not true.”

Words for Hire has just walked in and she makes her way to our table.

“What?”

“It’s not true. In fact, quite the opposite. When Mr. Cernis left, the assistant convinced the general that there was no possible way they could afford to buy Todoodlist. The American government is way over its head in debt to foreign countries. They can’t afford anything more and they were certainly unwilling to spend as much as Mr. Cernis asked when they found out he normally sells it for $14 online.”

“Bloody hell,” says Nick. “How do you know this?”

Words for Hire shrugs. “My business to know,” she says coolly.

“Anything else?” asks Rogue.

“Yes. Your escape from the camp was noticed, of course. You need to come up with something quick before they come here again. You don’t have much time: you can’t put things off.”

“Perfect,” says Naomi, back from her jaunt and joining us at the table. “I like a good challenge.” Lighting up, she exhales slowly and with feeling. “Ahhh,” she sighs. “Nothing better than a good ol’ IttyBiz. Good to be back.”

“Well, what now?” I ask impatiently. “For shit’s sake, all we want is to be able to hang out with our friends and have a good time. Is that such a crime?”

“Your crime is being Canadian,” says Words for Hire matter-of-factly. “The only way to escape that is to find some way around it.”

“Or beat the system,” says Naomi. “I have an idea.”

We all lean in.

“I say we call China.”

Time stops briefly.

“I’m-I’m sorry. I thought I just heard you say ‘call China,’” Rogue says.

“That I did,” Naomi confirms.

“And she didn’t even have a Batshit Crazy,” says Friar, shaking his head.

“Are you talking about the country China?” asks Brett.

“I mean the country, yes.”

Blank looks all around.

“Okay, look. Let’s recap for a minute. Here we are, bunch of Canadians sitting in an American pub. We enjoy ourselves, we get along, we contribute to the jokes, to the US economy. But suddenly we’re not allowed to be in the country anymore simply because we’re Canadian. We’re stripped of our freedom to drink and hang out where we want. We get arrested like criminals and tagged like animals. But they’re allowed in our country, aren’t they? And then they buy up our hockey teams, our restaurants, our breweries. They want our oil, our water, our wood, our dollar value. They think they can own the world. Well, I won’t lose any more of our already sketchy Canadian identity, and I will certainly not bow out to some country whose leader can’t tell a book’s right side up. I say we fight for our right to come here whenever we want, for however long we want.”

“Here, here!” says James.

“Words for Hire was right,” continues Naomi. “The American government is trillions of dollars in debt. And who holds the majority of that debt, do you think?”

“China?” asks Rebecca.

“Bingo,” says Naomi. “And now the tables turn.”

* * *

Expertly coerced by several Canadians powered by Genius and an insatiable lust for Rogue’s poetry recitations, champion sword demonstrations, weevil sex jokes, and her mean version of Tupac’s “California Love” with the karaoke machine, within six weeks China causes an American state of emergency. Expansion in mind, she threatens to cash in her treasury bills and sell off all her US holdings. Pockets turned out, the American government has little choice but to print money like it’s going out of style. Which of course it does. The country is worth nothing in no time.

“Not trying to kick us out, now, are they?” asks Naomi smugly.

“Where’s James?” I ask the other half of Men with Pens as we munch on nut grafs and spicy ledes.

“No clue,” says Harry. “Said something about going to get change two days ago. Haven’t seen him since.”

“Speak of the devil,” says Naomi. James saunters up to our table at the Lusty Weevil looking a little more patriotic than usual. Still wearing his Canadiens ball cap, James also sports a new shirt that reads “I am not Canadian.”

“Feeling a little separatist today?” I say. James grins.

“Where were you?” asks Harry. “We had a drive-by shooting scheduled for this afternoon. I had to cancel!”

“Auction,” says James, still grinning like an idiot.

“You went to an auction? You skipped our drive-by for an auction?”

“Yup,” says James. “A Chinese auction. Hey, Rogue, how about a round of Sidesplitters here? On me.”

“Dude! What’s the occasion?” I ask, surprised. “You never treat.”

“Oh, this is my treat, all right,” says James with a smirk. Friar and Brett, who’ve been discussing Viking cartoons, join our table. Rogue serves up our shots.

“Say congratulations to the new owner of the United States,” says James, and then he busts out laughing.

“What have you been into?” asks Harry, bewildered.

“Too many Batshit Crazies,” says Brett, amused.

“No, no,” giggles James. “I’m serious. Seriously.”

“You…bought…the United States?” I ask, aghast. Now here’s a marmalade dropper.

“For a loonie,” gasps James, and he doubles over with laughter. “Ch-cheers me,” he says finally. “Tabarnac! I’ve always wanted my own country.”