Sorry, but the plans to invade Canada are put on hold (the CONCLUSION!)

(For those just now joining us, parts 1, 2, and 3 are here, here and here)


-I needed food.

My contact was keeping me as a prisoner of necessity in her subterranean bunker and supplies were running low to the point of potential cannibalism, with even leather goods looking like sweet sweet foodstuffs. I did turn to the cat, fork and knife in hand like some sadistic cartoon, but it just rolled it’s shoulders like an old street fighter and extended a paw, beckoning me on as if to say that it was ready to go. Hell, I think the damned beast even winked at me while licking it’s lips.

Cats have lips. Who knew.

We all also know that the difference between American cats and Canadian DEVIL cats is that the American breeds will at least wait until your corpse has cooled before dining on your eyes.

Canadian ones like to eat the eyes last so you can see yourself being consumed. They are just THAT sadistic. -And to think that my contact had labeled this little shard of Hell “Chandler”.

My contact and I knew that we had to exit the relative safety of the dungeon to forage, so we both kitted up, and armed to the teeth with weapons concealed we set out to the wilds of the Canadian tundra to see what unknowing wildlife would fall to our tracking and hunting skills. A wild wind swept across the landscape and a hint of an impending storm was evident, but this would not deter us from our mission to find sustenance. We were set, we were prepared for all contingencies, and we went forth.

-To a greasy spoon that was just down the street. It looked like a classic American diner / deli from the 50’s, complete with interior chrome detailing an leather plush seating. Even the uniforms were pretty close to period-accurate, complete with order pad and personalized girly pens to take the orders, not to mention the burly dude behind the flat grill barking orders… But that was where the similarities to what I was familiar with came to an end. First off the food portions were of a size that could feed a platoon of Foreign Legionnaires after eight weeks of forward deployment in Sierra Leone, myself personally being served an omlette the size of a cargo barge. I was amazed at the upper body strength of the slightly waifish server as she deposited this orgy of egg and cheese on the dining platform, and I do believe that I heard a hydraulic whine come from beneath the table as the hidden shock assist embedded in the table legs settled to adjust to the massive amount of new weight it had to displace.

Then came the bacon.

I have seen many incarnations of sliced slivers of pork fried under their own fat in my day, and have even carved my own slices from a pig I killed with tooth and nail as my only weapons and at the tender age of 4, but this… This was something for the records. The only comparative reference I can provide is that if you had a 24 ounce sirloin served to you mid rare, but made of pure swine, this would be that “bacon”. I mean if that is their idea of bacon, HOW BIG IS THE GODDAMNED PIG?!?!?!? Do they do their hogs like the Spanish do to their bulls, put them in friggin arenas (due to their comparative size to said bull), and if they are killed by the Canadian version of a matador they go to the slaughter house, so that their meat can be consumed to gain the strength of the battle swine?!?!? Visions of up-armored tusked battle boars danced in my head as I ate only a fraction of the food ordered, as fear had pierced my intestines like a spear of ice and had suppressed my hunger.

-Not to mention the size of their moose (Meese? Mooses? I have no idea). Later that afternoon we had decided to infiltrate one of the local gathering places on a final minor intel mission while we awaited our transportation to take us to my extraction point, as I had finally radio-ed in that the mission was over and all applicable data had been gathered. As we proceeded at a duck walk, hands at the ready to draw on any potential threat, we rounded the corner of a squat concrete structure that carried a wood cabin motif when we came upon it.

It was a beast of such proportions that it set my mind reeling and I nigh collapsed in a pool of gibbering terror.

Stretched between it’s massive, man-eating muzzle was a veritable plate of razor sharp tines and spikes.

The hooves looked to be made of sharpened obsidian, as if carved from the black heart of Satan himself.

-And the eyes, oh dear GOD the EYES…

After my contact pneumatically injected me with liberal doses of tranquilizers (500 cc’s of Gentleman Jack-anol is preferred in situations such as these) the fear left my eyes and I saw this beast for what it truly was: a life-size replica of another of the Canadian war-beasts, the Moose. The damned thing stood about ten feet tall and had a chest span of about five, and if my estimate was right it was roughly sixteen feet long, nose to tail.

Everything from this point after was a blur. I had no concept of up or down, and time was lost to me. I had reviewed the tactical data gathered while in our down times and had discovered that it is not that Canadians as a people are to be a challenge to our supposed military might, but that through their use of genetic manipulation and proper resource utilization, creating a frightening array of both natural and UN-natural weaponry and defense structures we had only three options at our disposal.

Option 1:

Nuke the shit out of them and hope that it does more than just piss them off.

Option Blue:

Hide and hope they take no notice of us. If we are REALLY REALLY quiet then they shouldn’t realize that there is an entire country to the south of them, and should leave us alone.

Option Dammit:

Make friends with them in the doomed hope that all will be well with our supposed “Neighbors to the North”, praying with all of our might that their hordes of battle hardened attack polar bears, war swine and demon moose don’t stampede across the border, consuming all in their accursed wake and leaving nothing but despair and doom.

I think I am going for option Dammit.


In closing (a LONG overdue one):

-Thanks you guys for hosting me. I know it took some time for me to finally put this little story out there, but I had one hell of a time and am looking to replicate the adventure some time in the near future. You all were the warmest, most friendly group I have had the pleasure of meeting in some time, and for that you have my undying gratitude. Please, if you are ever in the southern region of the States while I am in the area let me know, and you might have the making of your own little invasion story after we are done.

Cheers, and to repeat:

The plans to invade Canada are put on hold.

‘Cause you guys are awesome.


About Old Iron
I'm just a guy that works overseas alot and likes to play just as hard as I work. Been to a FEW countries, know a shitload of people all over, and generally have a good time wherever I go. -Oh, and I am currently in between girlfriends, and strangely enough and perfectly happy with that status. In the long run hookers are cheaper. Take my word on that.

One Response to Sorry, but the plans to invade Canada are put on hold (the CONCLUSION!)

  1. ~KC~ says:

    We are…
    Pretty Awesome.

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