An ugly orange pickup truck made its way down Bertie Drive, turned onto Clarendon Crescent and finally parked in Enloe's west parking lot. The driver adjusted the crown on his dashboard and disembarked from the truck. As he walked toward the building, he felt a vague sense of nostalgia; it had been years since he last visited these grounds. Of course, if it had still been a school, nostalgia would have been the last sense he felt. He instead would have probably been focused on the tyranny of Miss Raper (it's Mrs. Cooper now, isn't it? he thought), the insane and inane ramblings of Mr. Leslie, and the ineptitude of the administration. But no, Enloe High School was now Enloe Oligarchy Government Complex, and all the inside jokes he had laughed at as a student had now ironically become entirely true.
As he approached the doors, an old friend emerged to greet him. "Standby to take 40s!" said Co-Ruler of the World Brendan Dillon.
"Kill it," replied North American Continental Governor Josh Rothney, smiling.
Josh had come to Enloe to discuss methods of tracking down Jean Chretien, formerly Prime Minister of Canada and now an escaped war criminal. It was a far cry from the first time he and Brendan had worked together -- as cameramen for Enloe's morning announcement show, "The 'Loe Down."
They went to the conference room in the library, where Cronan and Wayland were waiting.
"Okay," Cronan began, "we kicked a substantial amount of ass in the war... now what?"
"We start north," Josh began. "Most Canadians can't handle temperatures over 55 degrees Farenheit. I have doubts that he'll be anywhere south of Massachusetts. After that, it's just a matter of tracking down anyone who isn't a smartass. Damn Canadian politeness... it's evil, I tell you."
The conversation continued for a couple hours as they discussed strategies and stuff. Afterwards, Josh left and headed towards his truck only to find that a bomb had been planted under it. He crouched on the asphalt and inspected the bomb.
A moment later, he burst back into the conference room. "Guys, you need to see this. Now."
Josh and the Co-Rulers surrounded the truck and looked at the bomb casing. "Oh, my god," said Wayland.
"That's just sick," Brendan agreed.
Painted on the casing was a flag.
In the Prison-Nation of France, it was just an average day. Force fields were being erected on the German border. Idiots in Bordeaux were being taught that they live in Gironde, not Guyenne. Ports in Marseille were being shut down to prevent another Andorra-like incident. Parisiens were rallying against the Oligarchy?!?
"What the hell is going on?" yelled Warden Aethel Castellow as she ran into her headquarters in the Palais de l'Élysées. A subordinate just pointed out the window. Aethel looked across towards the Avenue des Champs-Élysées, where thousands of Frenchmen were parading from the Arch of Triumph to the Place de la Concorde, waving signs and yelling, "Révérez Chretien! En bas avec l'Oligarchie! Révérez la France et le Canada!"
"Crap. Get Raleigh on the line, immediately."
Brendan answered. "What's going on, Aethel?"
"Brendan, we have an uprising. The evil French are supporting Chretien, and they're rallying down the main road of Paris. I need more troops."
"I'll have Bevin send a peacekeeping force. They'll be under your direct control."
"Thanks, Brendan," Aethel said, and hung up.
Bevin Conners was not technically an officer in the Oligarchy Army, but she had donned the uniform of a four-star general just for effect. She also wore the quite obviously non-regulation Evil Deadly Hairclip, for the same reason.
"All right, you maggots!" she said before the 42nd Army Division. "We're going into a high-resistance zone. Currently, our mission is to watch Paris and surrounding areas and be ready for anything. So far, no one has taken arms against the Oligarchy, but remember that we're dealing with the French, and after their failed gambit with Canada and Andorra, we don't know what they'll try. Dismissed." The massive formation of troops filed out and loaded into convoy ships and planes.
Brendan ran through the door into the conference room. "They've found him! They've found Chretien!" he shouted to Cronan and Wayland.
"Who found him?" Wayland asked.
"The Dave Matthews Band. They found him in southern Canada. They're going in."
"Muhahaha!" Jean Chretien
yelled to Franklin Kirke, the former Enloe guard who helped Chretien
escape. "Soon the Oligarchy government in France will be
overthrown and I will be declared their leader. Then it will only
be a matter of time before I regain Canada." He sat down
in his hideout in Beauséjour, Manitoba, and poured himself
a glass of water.
"Don't Drink the Water," said a voice.
"Who was that?" Chretien wondered out loud. He turned his head, just in time to see an entire side of the building explode. Carter Beauford stepped over the rubble carrying a rocket launcher, followed by Dave Matthews, Leroi Moore, Stefan Lessard and Boyd Tinsley.
"This is The Last Stop, Chretien," Matthews said. "Your Stay in the free world is over. We will Crush you under The Stone, you Pig, so Say Goodbye before you Lie In your Grave. Spoon!!!"
Lessard deactivated the safety on his AK-47 and aimed it at the Canadians. Tinsley did the same with his Kill-O-Zap Rifle. Kirke pulled out a revolver and started firing. Tinsley vaporized him. Chretien then reached into his coat and pulled out a big-ass sword. "Die, you singers of good music!" he shouted, lunging at the closest band member, Leroi Moore.
Moore reached to his belt and activated his light saber. Waving back Lessard and Tinsley, he fought off Chretien's attack with mastery for quite some time. Unfortunately, Moore eventually tripped on a hand -- the only thing that had survived Kirke's vaporization. As he stumbled, Chretien slashed his upper leg.
"Fuck this," Lessard announced. He aimed his AK-47 at Chretien and fired. Chretien staggered back, but did not fall. Lessard switched the rifle to automatic and continued his attempt to blow Chretien to hell. The pea-souper ran towards Lessard, seeming to hardly even feel the bullets pounding into his flesh, and knocked the AK right out of his hands with one hard slash of the sword.
"There's something you don't know about me, said Chretien, as his bullet wounds closed up on their own. "I am Jean Chretien of the clan Chretien. I was born in the highlands of Quebec in the 16th century. And I am immortal."
"So," Matthews began, stepping forward. "You're a Highlander, then? I've done battle with your kind before. Even your type of immortal has weaknesses."
"True, but your swordsman has already been dealt with." Chretien looked to the floor, where Tinsley was bandaging Moore's wounded leg.
"I'm not talking about disembodiment. I'm talking about the Fundamental Interconnectedness of All Things. It's a non-physical force; you have no way to guard against it."
Matthews picked up a peice of paper from the floor. Manipulating the paper's molecules with his mind, he caused a tornado to spontaneously form over Beauséjour and tear the roof off of the hideout. This, along with the earlier destruction of the north wall, led to a total loos of structural integrity. What remained of the building collapsed. As the tornado fizzled out, the last gust of wind blew a falling steel beam straight towards Chretien's neck, but at the last second, it moved off course as if deflected by some invisible object.
"What the hell?" Matthews wondered out loud. "How did you do that?" he demanded of the Canuck.
"I didn't. A friend did -- a friend who is just as powerful as you." From behind the remains of a refrigerator stepped one of the most well-known evil masters of the Fundamental Interconnectedness of All Things -- and a Canadian to boot.
"No," Beaufort breathed. "By the Three Gods of Sandwichmaking, no..."
"Yes, I'm afraid so," said the newcomer, smiling. She picked a splinter from the ground, and seconds later, the Dave Matthews Band rose into the air. "Just think. You guys had me doing backup vocals on Before These Crowded Streets, and now here I am, helping my Prime Minister do battle with you. Isn't it ironic?"
"Alanis, please," Matthews begged. "Don't do this."
"I'm afraid Miss Morisette is very much on my side," Chretien interrupted.
"I can't beleive I judged you so incorrectly," the heroic vocalist said. "From this point forward, I declare 'Spoon' to be an Alan Smithee song."
But it was too late. The band was thrown into a cage and wheeled into a jet. Chretien and Morisette boarded and took off, heading east.
Wayland was in his office, looking over Brendan's new law banning annoying commercials, when he suddenly decided that he wanted a Holy Chili Dog. He logged onto the TRUE RELIGION website to find the recipe. He was quite shocked to find what the page now looked like.
THE FALSE RELIGION is a religion formed by none other than the Co-Dictators of the World, Brendan, Cronan, and Wayland. This page is dedicated to this religion's invetiable downfall.
Whatever you may have heard, this is nothing like the Heaven's Gate cult. First of all, we may be insane, but unfortunately, we're not fatally insane. Second of all, we'd much rather stay here on earth and kill innocent people than commit suicide. And lastly, we are the official religion of The World Oligarchy, which is destroying Canada's way of life even now.
[et cetera]
"By the Three Gods of Sandwichmaking," he thought out loud. "They hacked into the TRUE RELIGION website!"
He immediately opened an e-mail.
From: Wayland Phillips <terminalwriter@geocities.com> To: Brendan <bdillon@mindspring.com>, Cronan <cronan@deathsdoor.com> Subject: Holy Website hacked! You guys need to see the True Religion website. It looks like Chretien hacked it. It must have been just before the Dave Matthews Band went for him. I'll get it taken care of. Wayland Phillips, aka Terminal terminalwriter@geocities.com
He picked up the phone and dialed the code for the east computer lab, where the Oligarchy's web server was located.
"How the hell did he get into our system?" Wayland yelled after explaining the situation.
"I don't know, sir," said a lackey on duty.
"Well, find out, damn it!" He hung up, then picked up the phone again, and dialed Brent's office.
"I'm sorry, sir, but Brent is in Norway visiting Robin," a secretary informed him. He rung Oslo, and Robin picked up.
"Hello?"
"It's Wayland. We have an emergency. Is Brent there?"
"Yeah, just a second."
A second later, another voice come onto the line. "Hey, Wayland, what's up?"
"Brent, Chretien hacked into the TRUE RELIGION website. As Computer Crimes Inspector-General, we need you to track him down, figure out how he did it and where he probably did it from."
"Ok, no problem. I'll link up a computer here with the server."
"You can do that?"
"Of course I can. The plot necessitates it."
"Oh yeah."
Chretien's jet was passing over the west coast of France. "Okay, we have two choies," he said to Alanis Morisette. "We can land in Rouen, sneak into Paris, and take over from within. On the other hand, we've got a jet; we could go straight to Paris and blow shit up. What do you think?"
They both pondered for a second or two, looked each other in the eyes, and grinned. "Blow shit up," they said in unison.
"Sir, I'm detecting something on radar," said Air Force radarman Sgt. Stephen Montrell. "Looks like a jet of some sort, and it's coming across the coast of France at almost 900 miles an hour."
"Check its course," said his CO.
"I haven't been tracking it long enough to get an exact reading on that, but it appears to be on its way to north-central France, possibly Paris."
"Crap. Contact Oligarchy Command. Tell them we've got a jet which could be incoming towards Paris."
Montrell was about to send the message when he suddenly froze. "Sir, I'm getting a really weird feeling of déjà vu," he said to his commander.
"Never mind that, just send te message," she replied.
"Yes, sir."
Aethel walked into Bevin's temporary headquarters. "I assume you've heard the news?"
"I certainly have, and we're getting ready to knock that thing right out of the sky."
"Hold on a second. We don't really know who's on that jet."
"Sure we do. It's either Oligarchy or it isn't. A jet like that is only used in the military. We have no flights, drills, or anything like that scheduled for the area, so it can't be ours. So, we have a non-Oligarchy or non-scheduled military aircraft coming from the west. Anything from Dogbert's New Ruling Class would be coming from the east, so it's either Chretien or a supporter, or someone in the Air Force went nuts. Either way, my fighters and antiaircraft weapons are in place and ready to be deployed."
Aethel sighed. "Gee Bev, I didn't know you had such mastery of logic."
"I don't. J'étais Bleu told me that stuff."
* Now chatting in #oligarchy <Terminal> Okay, Brent, what do you have for me? <necrosis> He must have one hell of a cell modem. He's still messing with our system from that jet. I'm trying to compensate. <Terminal> Brendan and Cronan are on their way. * FleetAdmDillon has entered #oligarchy * Cronan has entered #oligarchy <FleetAdmDillon> What the hell's up with the website? <Terminal> Brent's working on it. Chretien's screwing around with the server as we speak. <necrosis> He just got past another firewall, I'm backing it up. <FleetAdmDillon> Brent, I'm *writing* this story, and I still don't know what you're talking about. Deal with Chretien, *then* breif us. <necrosis> ok, l8r. * necrosis has left #oligarchy <Cronan> Am I going to have to launch the Pocket Shuttlecraft again? <FleetAdmDillon> I think Bevin has things under control. * Bevin has entered #oligarchy <Terminal> Speak of the devil (or demon in this case)... ~smirks~ <Bevin> Ok, I'm new to this IRC stuff... <Cronan> What are you planning for our lifelong chum? <Bevin> I have fighters ready to launch and ground weapons for covering fire. It should be a short battle. <FleetAdmDillon> Hold on, Bevin. I have reason to beleive that the Dave Matthews Band has been captured and is on that jet. * FleetAdmQuinton has entered #oligarchy <FleetAdmQuinton> Brendan? <FleetAdmDillon> Hey, Andy. I can't come to #tenforward or #excelsior right now, I'm dealing with an Oligarchy emergency. <FleetAdmQuinton> Ok... * FleetAdmQuinton has left #oligarchy <Bevin> Ok, so what should I do about the jet? * necrosis has entered #oligarchy <necrosis> Chretien's gotten into the IRC server... there's gonna be a net split any second. * Terminal Quit (connection reset by peer) * Cronan Quit (connection reset by peer) * necrosis Quit (connection reset by peer) * FleetAdmDillon Quit (connection reset by peer) * Bevin Quit (connection reset by peer) * Disconnected
"We're five minutes away from Paris, Jean," Morisette announced.
"Excellent. Prepare our missiles. We will fire at the Oligarchy military headquarters."
The radio crackled. "Chretien, you know you can't win. Turn back now and you might not be captured yet."
"Who is this?" Chretien yelled into the radio mic.
"I think you know. You don't want to be captured yet. You haven't finished with us yet."
The Canadian let out a long sigh. "How did you find me, Page?"
"From Tom Brokaw, you idiot. You were detected hours ago. It's been all over the news."
"Who is this guy?" asked Morisette.
"A traitor."
"Hardly," said Page. "I'm Steven Page of the Barenaked Ladies."
Morisette slapped her forehead. "A Canadian band fighting on the side of good? That's evil! Er -- well, you know."
"You've been hunting the Canadian Resistance ever since we got started. Land, Chretien, and finish what you started, dammit."
"I certainly will. Where are you?"
"Do you think we're idiots, Chretien? You land, then we'll find you." The radio crackled off.
Chretien switched off the autopilot, grabbed the controls, and banked sharply. "Where the hell are you going?" Morisette demanded. Not responding to her question, the Canuck lowered the jet and made a perfect three-point landing on the Avenue de Suffren.
Robert Sledge, Darren Jessee, and Ben Folds were at the top of the Eiffel Tower, looking over the Seine River to the north when an unbearably loud booming noise was heard from behind them. They fell to the floor and clutched their own ears, writhing from the extreme decibel level. A moment after the noise ended, the three members of Ben Folds Five ran across the observation room to find a jet in the middle of the road nearby.
"What the hell's going on?" Jessee yelled over the ringing in his ears.
"That looks like Alanis Morisette!" Folds yelled in reply as a figure disembarked.
"And she's with... Jean Chretien?!?" Jessee added.
"How can you recognize them from way up here?" Sledge asked.
"Because the plot necessitates it," Folds said. "Weren't you reading earlier?"
"We weren't in the story yet."
"Oh yeah."
A car approached the jet, and five men stepped out. "That must be the Barenaked Ladies," Sledge said.
"See, it's not so hard," replied Jessee. Sire enough, Steven Page, Ed Robertson, Jim Creegan, Tyler Stewart, and Kevin Hearn surrounded Chretien.
Off to the side, Morisette plucked a blade of grass, examining it carefully. Suddenly, despite a relatively clear sky, a torrential downpour overtook the city. The ground muddied near the Avenue de Suffren, and the Ladies slipped, collapsing onto each other.
"I heard about what happened to the Dave Matthews Band," Sledge began. "And they actually had someone who was an Interconnectedness master. The Barenaked Ladies don't stand a chance on their own."
"You think we should help?" Folds asked.
"It'd be worth a try. Would you rather Chretien take over France?"
"I agree," Jessee agreed.
"All right then, let's go." Folds smashed a window in the observation room, ripped a sleeve off his shirt, wrapped it around a peice of the structure, and used it to slide down the tower, as there was no time to wait for the elevator. Sledge and Jessee followe suit. Unfortunately, they did not take into account the fact that it had just rained. The downpour had already ended, but the Eiffel Tower was still wet, and the moisture soaked into the band members' sleeves, increasing the friction and stranding them as they dangled hundreds of feet above the ground.
"Fools!" Chretien boomed as the Barenaked Ladies struggled to stand. "You should not have demanded this confrontation. You will die because of it. Alanis, call in the others."
"Right away, Jean." Morisette whipped out a cellular phone and dailed in a code. After listening for a breif acknowledgement, she replaced the phone.
"Well, this sucks," Sledge declared as he hung on for dear life.
"Dude, this was your idea," replied Folds.
"My idea? I said we should help out the BNL. I never said anything about jumping out of a window at the top of the fuckin' Eiffel Tower! But no, we don't have time for the elevator," Sledge finished in a mocking voice.
"Um, guys," Jessee interrupted. "Something's coming."
Folds and Sledge turned their heads and found that something was indeed coming. Two things, in fact, soaring across the sky like hang-gliders. As the things got closer, the trio found that they were hang-gliders. And they were gliding straight towards Ben Folds Five, because... well, you know.
"Grab 'em!" Folds yelled as they soared past. The band jumped onto the hang-gliders and held on as tight as they could as they waved in the air over the Champ-de-Mars.
Brendan, Cronan, and Wayland materialized on the Avenue de Suffren after being e-mailed to Paris from the Pocket Shuttlecraft. They took a quick look around and saw Jean Chretien and Alanis Morisette kicking the Barenaked Ladies' asses while Ben Folds Five sailed helplessly overhead.
Fortunately, Cronan had brought popcorn.
The added weight caused the hang-gliders not to hang quite as well. They dropped to the ground near the base of the Eiffel Tower. Ben Folds Five collapsed, then looked up to see who they had stolen a ride from. They found themselves staring into the faces of Fiona Apple and Celine Dion.
Chretien and Morisette approached. "Good of you to finally join us," the former Prime Minister said to Apple and Dion.
"Sorry," said Dion as she looked down at the stowaways, "but a small problem dropped in."
"By the Three Gods of Sandwichmaking, no, not Fiona Apple and Celine Dion!!!" Brendan shouted.
"It could be worse," Cronan replied. "According to our satellite surveillance, the Spice Girls are raiding a spandex factory, Yanni is still with Pauly Shore recovering from their encounter with the Brokaw Team, and Hanson is busy working on making fake IDs so they can try to buy Playboy magazines."
Ben Folds Five had recovered and regrouped. Meanwhile, Morisette, Apple, and Dion came together to form an evil trinity of annoying singers, then attacked. Fortunately, this left Chretien unguarded. The Barenaked Ladies got out of the mud and lunged for the Canuck. Morisette realized that they had been diverted and sent Dion and Apple to defend Chretien while she dealt with the new threat.
Dion drop-kicked Jim Creeggan and Kevin Hearn. Apple attempted to bitch-slap guitarist Ed Robertson, but he dodged. "Wait a second," he said. "You're not Canadian, Apple -- what are you doing here?"
"Um... oh yeah, I'm against the Oligarchy because it's prejudiced against stupid people," she replied while feebly attempting another slap. Drummer Tyler Stewart grabbed her by the waist and knocked her to the ground just before getting kicked in the head by Celine Dion.
Of the five Barenaked Ladies, only Page and Creegan remained conscious. They backed up and prepared to attack again. Chretien and Dion assumed a defensive stance. Suddenly, the Canadians felt something poking their backs. It was an AK-47 and a Kill-O-Zap rifle, held by Stefan Lessard and Boyd Tinsley, respectively. Dave Matthews stepped in front of the evil pair.
"How the hell did you get out of the jet?" Chretien yelled.
"Well, with Morisette busy elsewhere, it was quite simple to use the Fundamental Interconnectedness of All Things to manipulate the locks," Matthews replied.
"Alanis!" Chretien looked over to his friend only to find her laying on the ground, face-down and unconscious, with Ben Folds Five standing around her triumphantly. Folds's left foot was planted firmly on Morisette's upper back.
"Merde," whispered Chretien. He sighed deeply and looked around. "D'accord, d'accord... I surrender."
Later that night, Chretien and the evil singers were placed in the Bastille. A stage was set up in the Champ-de-Mars, and the Dave Matthews Band, Ben Folds Five, and the fully recovered Barenaked Ladies were holding an improv concert to celebrate their victory.
"Hold it now and watch the hoodwink
As I make you make you stop, think
You'll think you're looking at Aquaman
I summon fish to the dish, although I like the Chalet Swiss
And I like the sushi cause it's never touched a frying pan..."
As the Barenaked Ladies performed with the Eiffel Tower, well, towering behind them, the Co-Rulers of the World talked with the other bands backstage. "There's one thing I still don't understand," Cronan said. "If there's only three of you, why are you called Ben Folds Five?"
Folds, Jessee, and Sledge exchanged a few glances. "Well," Folds shrugged, "it's still called the Hitchhiker's Trilogy even though there's five books now. No one has a problem with that."
"Point taken."
A lackey ran up to the Co-Rulers. "Sirs," he panted, "Chretien just broke out of the Bastille."
"What?!?" Brendan shouted. "How?"
"Apparently he was hiding a small explosive in his shoe sole. He blew up the cell wall and ran off. He seemed to be coming in this direction."
As if on cue, another lackey came in and said, "Chretien was just spotted under the Eiffel Tower!"
Everyone backstage ran out towards the tower. Before they arrived, however, Chretien began to glow bright red. "Suckers!!!" he yelled, then dematerialized. The glow remained, though it seemed to be coming from nowhere in particular. It split into four, and each disembodied glow floated to one leg of the Eiffel Tower.
The red glow pulsated up the structure, growing more intense by the second. As it reached the top and combined again, a red beam shot upwards from the top of the tower, then vanished a second later.
This all happened as the Barenaked Ladies were finishing the song "One Week," so most of the audience thought it was just part of the show, and applauded heavily.
Several days later, the Co-Rulers of the World were eating Holy Sandwiches at Enloe, and thinking about what may have happened to Chretien. "Maybe some kind of mental-teleportation power?" Wayland suggested.
"No way," Cronan replied. "He's immortal, but he's not a god. Not even Sub-Etha."
"It could have been a transporter of some kind," said Brendan.
"For all we know, he could be dead," Cronan said. "How do we know Chretien was expecting that? Even if he's a Highlander-style immortal, dispersing his molecules would make him as close to dead as makes no odds."
"I don't know. He seemed pretty smug," replied Brendan. "I don't know what happened to Chretien, but I have a feeling we haven't seen the last of him."