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After former Canadian Prime Minister Jean Chretien mysteriously dematerialized from underneath the Eiffel Tower, many Canadians and French lost heart in their cause. Most of the somewhat-evil men and women decided, "ah, to heck with this," and turned over to The World Oligarchy. The remaining hardcore individuals went underground en masse and were, for the most part, forgotten. The Andorrans gradually got used to their new home on Baffin Island, Canada, founding the city of New Andorra, which failed within two years because it was too damn cold to grow anything and there was no place to smuggle anything to. The former government of Belgium was bought out by the Eggo Waffle Corporation. The old leaders, more stupid than truly evil, blew their profits on a bottle of maple syrup.
Four hundred years later....
The Oligarchy scout ship Ned Gerblansky was headed towards the asteroid-colony Fraggle Rock, bringing a much-needed shipment of fresh radishes to the famined population.
"I'm detecting something on long-range, ma'am," said Petty Officer Stephen Montrell. "I don't know what it is, but it's big, and it's moving galactic northwest at almost 900 times the speed of light."
"Check its course."
"I haven't been tracking it long enough to get an exact reading, but it appears to be on its way to that cloud over there."
"What cloud?" asked the CO, Captain Annette Scott.
"The big, black, evil-looking cloud that's transmitting a signal that says "Super-Sekrut Evil Base! No Oligarchy allowed! Go away."
"Crap. Contact Oligarchy Command. Tell them that we'll be late to Fraggle Rock, we have to check out an unknown area of space."
"Yes, Captain," Montrell replied as he began the message, but then he stopped. "That's it. I know this has happened before. What-"
"I don't know what you're talking about. Just send the message."
"I want answers, Captain!" was the last thing Montrell got out before his eyes rolled back and he hit the floor.
"Medical emergency on the bridge! Dr. Kenwood, report immediately. Lieutenant Darius, report to the bridge and take ConnOps."
Darius arrived and took Montrell's position, completing and sending the message. Dr. Kenwood scanned Montrell and reported, "He has a bad case of Recurring Character Syndrome. He's in a deep coma for now, probably for the remainder of this story. He'll be fine after that, but if another sequel is written, I highly suggest that he be left out of it."
"Duly noted, Doctor. Thank you," Captain Scott replied as Montrell was removed from the bridge. "Set course for that could-thingy. Maximum speed."
On a higher plane of existence that even the Head Prophets cannot fathom, but only Duct Tape-Class Gods, Allah was having a bad day. He had already poured a bowl of Cheerios before He realized he was out of milk; the only clean socks He had didn't match; and on the way to work, He accidentally took the wrong exit and ended up on a transdimensional gateway to earth. He materialized on US Skyway 64 and swerved sharply to avoid hitting a mortal's aircar. Unfortunately, the swerve sent Allah into oncoming traffic, where He sideswiped a limousine before finally pulling up and out of the street.
"Fuckin'-A," was the word of Allah.
"We're getting close to the evil-cloud-thingy, Captain," Lt. Darius reported.
"Activate the sensor screens, Lieutenant. We don't want them to see us." She tapped a button on her console. "Bridge to shuttlebay. Prepare all shuttles for launching."
"We're taking all four, Captain?" asked Commander Veracruz, the first officer.
"That's right. I want to make sure we get all the information we can get. You have the bridge, Commander; I'll be in my office, making the shuttle arrangements. We'll launch in fifteen minutes."
"Yes, ma'am."
Fifteen minutes later, much of the bridge crew and other staff met in the shuttlebay. Captain Scott read off of an Epad.
"Commander Veracruz and Lt. Winchester, you will take Shuttlecraft Warlord. Lt. Darius, you and I will be in the Recon. Lt. Commander Milton and Petty Officer Hiroyoshi, the Pathfinder; and Lt. Cmdr. Bryce and Ensign Mecklenburg, the Scorpion. We'll approach separately, find out whatever we can find, and get out. No one should stay in for more than twenty minutes or so, and if you meet with any hostile force, get out immediately. Any questions?"
The mission crew nodded their understanding.
"Good. Fall out to your shuttles, and good luck."
Jacques-Charles de Vigny sat at his desk and worked thoughtfully on a document. He soon reached a point of concentration where the entire document was planned out in his mind and the slightest interruption would ruin his train of thought completely. Almost immediately, someone knocked at the door. "What is it?" de Vigny yelled with a grumble.
General Mort de Guerre, de Vigny's military chief of staff, entered. "Sir, a new breakthrough has been made in the Québeçois' primary weapons system. My engineers have moved the projected completion date to the 26th of this month."
"Excellent. Just enough time after the Arrival to get him ready. Today is the 17th, oui?"
"That is correct, sir. Is there anything else?"
"No, General. You are dismissed."
"Yes, sir. Révérez le Canada!" Gen. De Guerre proclaimed, as he executed an about-face and marched out of the office.
Cronan stepped out of the elevator on the 11th floor of the rebuilt-for-the-eighth-time Enloe Oligarchy Government Complex. "Good morning, sir!" said a passing lackey.
"Ah, bugger off."
"Thank you, sir! I'll get on that immediately," the lackey replied as he got on the elevator.
Cronan walked around the corner and entered the briefing room. "I can't believe this shit," he said as he slumped into his seat.
"What's the problem?" Brendan asked.
"Some asshole swerved into traffic and hit the side of my limo on the way here. Look out there -- the left side's all scraped up and smashed in."
Brendan and Wayland looked out the window, and sure enough, a relatively fucked-up limousine sat on the parking deck.
"Why didn't you just zap the guy?" inquired Wayland.
"I tried to. It didn't work."
"What do you mean, it didn't work?"
"He just pulled up and kept going like nothing happened. It's like I was powerless around him. The worst part is, his car wasn't damaged at all. Not even a little chipped paint."
"I can see how that would be a little annoying," Brendan surmised. "How's your car insurance?"
"For Delilah's sake, I'm a General Purpose God, do you think I bothered with friggin' car insurance?"
"It's not a bad idea. I have pretty low premiums; no accidents in four centuries will do that for you. Now, life insurance, on the other hand, would be a bit of a waste for us."
A tall stranger walked in. "Um, yes? Who are you?" Brendan asked him.
"I just wanted to apologize about the car," the man replied.
"Ah, so that was you," Cronan said. "Your apology is, um, that thing. Just a moment, please." He pressed a button on his desk and whispered, "Cronan to Security, intruder alert in the main briefing room. Your orders are shoot to kill."
"I am afraid that will not work," the man declared. "You see, I am Allah, Lord of the Muslims."
"Bring a straightjacket and a sedative," Cronan added. "This one's nuts."
"Please allow me to prove myself and my sincerity by repairing the damage to your car." Allah closed His eyes and bowed His head. After a pause, He looked up and said, "It is done."
The Head Prophets looked out the window once again, and saw Cronan's limo fully restored, as if new.
"Ok, so you're Allah. What, if I may ask, were you doing on 64 swerving around my car?"
"It was an accident, I assure you. You see, I come from a plane of existence only visible to Duct Tape Class Gods, and is in fact the origin of all such gods and home to many. I took a wrong turn this morning and ended up on earth -- I'm having a pretty crappy day today."
This made Wayland curious, and he decided we could use some plot exposition anyway. "I'd like to know more about this plane of existence, if you don't mind."
"Well, all Duct Tape Class Gods originate from there. The gods of all religions exist there," Allah explained. "We can come and go as we please, and even take residence in your world if we so choose, as Delilah has. Earl of Sandwich did at one point; some of us visit earth for a period and live single lifetimes as mortals, just for the hell of it. Others impart themselves by other mediums; for example, Arthur Dent and Dagwood Bumstead projected themselves via the imaginations of Douglas Adams and Dean Young, respectively."
"Why did Dent choose a Senior-Class God and Bumstead a mortal?"
"How the hell should I know? It's a personal decision. I spread my knowledge and wisdom through a mortal son, Mohammed. He became a Prophet of Islam. Then he went into boxing. I never really understood that kid."
"I... see. Thank you, Allah. Are you planning to return today?"
"Actually, I may stick around. It's been too long since I took a vacation on earth."
At this point, security finally arrived. Two officers aimed Kill-O-Zap laser pistols at Allah. "Freeze!" one of them yelled.
"Never mind that," Cronan commanded. "Give Mr. Allah a room on the VIP visitor's sector. He'll be staying with us for a while."
The Ned Gerblansky stopped a safe distance from the cloud for the mission. The bay doors were opened, and shuttles Warlord, Recon, Pathfinder, and Scorpion launched, approaching various points on the cloud. They each passed through the edge and disappeared from sight.
General de Guerre began his nightly rounds as usual before leaving work. As he inspected the arms room, his cellular phone rang. "General de Guerre," he spoke into the phone.
"Sir, this is Major Douleur," the caller replied. "We are tracking four small vessels which just entered the cloud. We suspect hostile intent."
"Kill them," the General commanded.
"Oui, Général."
Lt. Darius piloted the Recon as Captain Scott compiled the sensor data. "Head 65 degrees starboard, 18 dorsal," she instructed Darius.
"Yes, ma'am. Looks like they're building something over there."
"Something large, Lieutenant. I want to know what it is."
They approached the construction site and entered a port, and immediately the Captain's question was answered. "That's one big-ass ship, Captain."
"Worse than that. Look what's written on the hull."
Darius craned his neck and looked at the name inscribed on the hull plates. "V.E.C. Québeçois? That doesn't look too good."
At that moment, something that didn't feel too good either struck the Recon's shields. "We're under attack, Captain! I'm taking evasive."
"Get us the hell out of here!"
Darius spun the shuttle to avoid the attackers' weapons fire and then plummeted downward, exiting another port.
Lieutenant Commander Harris held the bridge in the absence of the Captain and the XO. "Any word on the shuttles?" he asked.
"None yet," replied the ConnOps officer. "...Wait a second. I'm detecting a shuttle leaving the cloud. It appears to be having some sort of core overload."
"On screen."
One of the shuttles appeared on the viewer and, as if on cue, promptly exploded. Harris winced. "Which one was that?"
"The Scorpion, sir. Two more are following. They're in better shape, but they're being tailed."
"Alert status. Prepare weapons systems."
The Warlord exchanged fire with its attacker, then maneuvered around the other side of the Ned Gerblansky to cut in front of the Recon to the shuttlebay. Another enemy vessel emerged from the cloud and destroyed the Warlord before it came near the bay.
"Engage all enemy vessels," Harris ordered. "What about the Pathfinder?"
"It's coming," the officer replied. "Wait, sir. An object is leaving the cloud, but-" He sighed. "It's a twisted-up chunk of the Pathfinder's hull."
"Keep firing at the attackers. Clear a way for the Recon. Helm, position us with bay doors closer to the shuttle."
Two fighters moved between the Recon and the Ned Gerblansky but were taken out by the larger vessel's weapons. A remaining enemy craft attempted a nosedive at the shuttle, but was caught in a crossfire and explodiated. [explodiate (v) -- to explode brilliantly, impossibly close to Our Heroes, without causing them any harm whatsoever -- The Cronan Dictionary.] The Recon docked and Captain Scott headed for the bridge.
"We have to get this information to Oligarchy Command immediately," she said upon arrival. "Set a course for earth -- ludicrous speed."
The Co-Rulers of the World called an emergency meeting when the Ned Gerblansky arrived. "Obviously," Cronan began, "this looks like the beginning of another major French-Canadian threat. I believe we should bring in a large force to investigate; this way, if it is as important as it looks, we'll be ready."
"I agree," Brendan replied. "Then, if it turns out to be nothing, we can just turn around and go back. But, I seriously doubt if it's nothing -- if so, no one would be writing a story about it." The others nodded, acknowledging his point. "I propose a three-way offense. Cronan would man the Pocket Shuttlecraft. I will take a unit from the Oligarchy Army to infiltrate the cloud and work from the inside. Wayland, this would leave you in command of the USS Oligarchy One."
"Sounds good to me."
"Don't tell me you're taking that aviation unit of yours," Cronan said. "What are you going to do, fly a Blackhawk up their ass?"
"No, no. I've already discussed this with Bevin. We decided that, for a mission like this, the best choice would be the 14th Special Forces Group."
"Green Berets?"
"Exactly."
Allah flashed in at this moment. "I sensed that you guys were having some kind of problem. What's up?"
"An old arch-enemy of our early days has returned to haunt us," Brendan said.
"Sounds spooky. Need any help?"
The Co-Rulers exchanged glances. "Don't look at me," Cronan spoke. "I already have a partner." He indicated Norman, who was asleep on his shoulder.
"The Oligarchy One already has a full crew," Wayland added. "I would suggest that if Allah came along, he should join Brendan and his Army unit."
"Good idea," Brendan replied, then looked at the Duct-Tape Class God. "I'll fill you in on the details after the meeting."
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The next morning, Brendan faced the 14th Special Forces group in Class A uniform. Next to him stood Allah in Battle Dress Uniform that had been furnished for him.
"As of tomorrow," Brendan began, "this unit will be deployed by way of the USS Oligarchy One for a mission in deep space. We will be infiltrating an enemy base which appears to be run by French and Canadians. We know they have built or acquired some sort of battleship. We will have space support outside the base; our mission is to get inside the base however we can and sabotage their efforts from inside. You will each be issued mission plans after this briefing, to include specifics for the unit as well as for individuals. I will be personally accompanying you, as will Allah. All other pertinent information will be in your mission plans. Do you have anything else, Allah?"
"Nope."
"On the command of 'dismissed,' group commander stand fast, everyone else take care of business. Dismissed!"
The formation of soldiers disassembled and left, with the exception of the commander, who approached Brendan. Brendan held out his hand, and the commander shook it, then saluted. "Major... MacLeod, isn't it?" Brendan asked as he returned the salute.
"Yes, sir. Connor MacLeod. I must say, it is an honor to be serving with the Co-Rulers of the World -- especially if there is a chance of meeting with Chretien again."
"You've met with him before?"
"Oh, yes, sir. I am an immortal, as he is; we have been rivals since long before the days of the Oligarchy."
"I see. That could be advantageous, actually. If we do find Chretien, I'll be sure he's left to you."
"Thank you, sir."
"It is time, General."
"Sir," Gen. de Guerre replied to de Vigny, "I realize the gravity of this situation, but the Québeçois is not completed. The weapons systems must be tuned in order for-"
"Will they blow shit up real good?"
"Well, yes, sir, but at a great loss of power. Besides, the Arrival is two days away."
"The Arrival is unimportant at this point," de Vigny shouted as he pounded at his desk. "The Oligarchy knows of our existence. The element of surprise is lost. We must strike now before they have a chance to build up their defenses. The leadership of Lord Chretien is a major aspect of our plans, yes, but we can begin without him. Your orders are, prepare the Québeçois for launch first thing tomorrow."
"Yes, sir. Révérez le Canada!" General de Guerre proclaimed as he did an about-face, marched forward, executed a double to the rear with a slight hesitation, and left the office.
The USS Oligarchy One was a beautiful starship. Officially part of the Oligarchy Starfleet, it was actually under the direct control of the three Co-Rulers of the World. At the moment, the bridge crew was staffed entirely by Prophets and all of the mission's leaders were present. At Wayland's command, the Oligarchy One sailed majestically from its spacedock and proceeded at faster-than-light speed to the coordinates reported by the Ned Gerblansky. (The crew of the Gerblansky wanted to join the Oligarchy One to take vengeance for their crewmates, but the Co-Rulers told them their end of the mission was over and that their were some hungry Fraggles waiting for them.)
As the great vessel reached its destination, its Somebody Else's Problem field was activated to make it invisible to the enemy. Cronan launched the Pocket Shuttlecraft from the ship's bay and piloted it around the cloud. Meanwhile, the 14th Special Forces gathered belowdecks and prepared for deployment.
"Okay, everyone," began Prophet, Junior Grade B.J. Handy, who had taken the position of chief engineer on the Oligarchy One, "my team and I have devised a system of modifying the ship's escape pods for troop infiltration and landing. It's a very complex procedure consisting of jerry-rigging at the last minute. Safety, of course, was at the forefront. You can fit four troops per pods, and when launched, you should be able to enter the cloud undetected and if you're lucky you won't even die in the landing."
Major MacLeod then took over. "Thank you for that, ah, encouraging briefing, Mr. Handy. Now, we are going to split into three platoons, the first commanded by Brendan, the second by myself, and the third by Allah. The platoon commanders will take the first three pods. Those of you assigned to join us in the first launches, let's go. Other launches will be at 20-second intervals. Good luck!" All the soldiers boarded their pods and prepared for launch. Within minutes, 12 pods had been launched and the 47 SF group members had landed in three areas of the Canadian stronghold. (Crash) Make that 43 members.
Jacques-Charles de Vigny found his seat at the launching ceremony later that morning. The Québeçois would launch within the hour; final cargo loading was nearing completion.
Allah led His team down a long corridor until he found a door. He pushed a button to allow it to slide open, but pressed the "stop" button before it opened an inch. He peered through the doorcrack.
"What's in there, sir?" asked the platoon sergeant.
"A lot of crates and boxes," the mighty god replied. "It looks like they're being moved by some kind of small-scale tractor beam... they're being placed on a conveyor belt. This must be some sort of loading dock for that ship the Ned Gerblansky crew saw." Allah faced the group. "All right, everyone," He began, "we're going in. I'm going to use my godly powers in a minute, so hold on to your bearings." They walked into the room, and Allah promptly turned the entire platoon into cargo crates. The tractor beams loaded them into the Québeçois.
De Vigny looked through an observation window at the product of four centuries of evil Canadian research and development. He marveled at the beauty (in his eyes) of the monstrous starship. He looked forward to a future where Canucks have overthrown the Oligarchy, retaken their homeland, and conquered the earth, ruling with an iron fist.
"Launch in three minutes, Monsieur de Vigny," a voice said over his radio.
"Hey, dumbass!" said Ziggy, the Pocket Shuttlecraft's onboard computer.
"What is it this time?" Cronan replied.
"I'm reading a power buildup inside the cloud somewhere. Not that I care."
"They must be powering up that ship. Norman, activate the Reality Field (tm)."
"We're ready, sir," the helmsman of the Québeçois reported.
"Merveilleux," Gen. de Guerre replied. "Remove docking clamps and take us out of the cloud."
"Oui, Général." The ship shook slightly as all clamps and cargo tubes were disconnected. Soon, the vessel began to move forward. The bridge crew cheered as the Québeçois sailed out into open space...
...As did Jacques-Charles de Vigny and many other pea-soupers present at the ceremony. The image of de Guerre appeared on the window, which doubled as a viewscreen.
"We are clear, sir. Orders?"
"Head to earth and kick dèrriere."
"Yes, sir. Révérez le Canada!" de Guerre proclaimed as he dropped and did five push-ups, stood up, executed a 15-count manual of arms with an imaginary rifle, flipped over backwards and shut off the ship's communicator.
"The Québeçois has set course for earth, Wayland," announced Prophet Otaku-Class Jason Smith, currently operations manager of the Oligarchy One.
"Follow them, but don't engage."
Seconds later, the Canuck monstrosity noticed the Oligarchy One and began to turn around. "Prepare the weapons systems," Wayland ordered. "It's about to begin."
Brendan's platoon was taking a short chow break. Two cases of old-fashioned MREs (Meals, Ready-to-Eat) had been brought along.
"I can't believe soldiers actually used to eat this stuff," Master Sergeant Jeremy Holt, the platoon sergeant, said to himself as he fumbled with the chemical heater.
"Ahh, the memories," Brendan said to no one in particular as he walked up to the MRE case. "Someone hand me a Cheese Tortellini."
"Sir, with all due respect, couldn't we have brought some real food?" Holt asked.
Brendan laughed. "Sergeant, when I was in Bosnia with the U.S. Army, all the civilian cooks left our camp at one point and this is all we had to eat for several weeks."
"What barbaric times you lived in before the Oligarchy. Sometimes I wonder if being immortal would be all it's cracked up to be. What the hell kind of crackers are these, anyway?"
"You know," Brendan continued, "these things may not taste like much, but it is amazing how long they keep up."
Holt blinked. "Sir -- are you saying that this particular case of MREs is left over from before the Oligarchy took over, four hundred years ago?"
"That's about the size of it."
"I think I'm going to be sick."
"You're a wuss, Sergeant," Brendan said as he dug into his tortellini.
[Insert Imperial March here.] "Is the Oligarchy ship in weapons range?" Gen. de Guerre asked.
"Yes, sir. Shall we engage?"
"Oui. This shall be our first real test of the Québeçois. Fire on my command... fire!"
Beams of destruction leaped out from the warship's hull. They inflicted minor damage to the Oligarchy One before shielding screens modulated to match.
"They're taking evasive, sir. I'm attempting to follow their pattern with the weapons."
"We're receiving a message from the cloud, General."
De Guerre sighed. "Put it on screen."
"General," de Vigny began as he appeared on the viewscreen, "quit piddling with them and use the primary weapon."
"Sir, as I said, the primaries are not tuned correctly yet-"
"That's an order," de Vigny added as he cut the communication.
"Merde," the General cursed. "Activate the primary weapon and fire when ready."
A moment later, a green glow emanated from the Québeçois. Suddenly, a small shuttle flew in front of the vessel and into the path of the weapon. Seconds later, the shuttle exploded, followed by the Oligarchy One.
The various Prophets on the Oligarchy One bridge watched as a green glow emanated from the Québeçois, then, viewed with horror the destruction of the Pocket Shuttlecraft as it maneuvered itself between the two starships. The glow reached the ship, and everyone expected disaster.
Then things got weird.
"Wayland, I'm detecting an explosion at our coordinates, but, ah, it's not us."
"What do you mean? We're exploding, but we're not?"
"Well, the debris looks like ours, but obviously we're not really exploding because we're still alive. I think it's a hologram."
Wayland pondered for a split second. "Activate the Somebody Else's Problem field, quick!" The ship effectively vanished, leaving only the holographic explosion visible.
"Interesting idea," Wayland thought out loud. "Make them think they've destroyed us, while we go invisible. Hail the Pocket Shuttlecraft."
Cronan came up on the viewer. "Pretty nifty trick, wouldn't you say?"
"Sure. But what about the weapon? Why didn't it actually hurt us?"
"Well, I wasn't sure if you guys could withstand it, but I knew my Reality Field (tm) could -- any energy weapon is rendered pretty much harmless when it's forced to adhere to actual science. The beam was real up to the point where it hit me, the rest was part of the hologram."
"So what are we going to do now?" asked Bevin, Wayland's first officer.
"We follow the Québeçois. We must prevent them from doing any further damage," Wayland said.
"What if I disagree?" Cronan replied.
"Well, what's your plan?"
"I say we follow the Québeçois. We must prevent them from doing any further damage."
"That's what I just said!"
"I still like my plan better."
"Continue as planned," de Vigny told General de Guerre over the comm. "I will wait here until the Arrival tomorrow and catch up with you."
"Yes, sir. I trust the taking of earth will be a simple matter. I have an intelligence report that states that the ship we faced was one of their most important, and we destroyed it with great ease. The Oligarchy will not put up much of a fight."
The General deactivated the comm. "Helm, set course for earth."
The helmsman plotted a course, pressed a button, and stared at the console in bewilderment as all the bridge's lights went out with a loud "ker-plunk."
"Malédictionnes!!!" de Guerre cried out. "I told that fool that the primary weapon would drain our power. Engineer section, this is the bridge. How long until we are back on-line?"
"It may take a day, General."
"Damn. Contact de Vigny and tell him we have a bit of a delay."
"I think we've found something, Major," Sergeant Nicole Buckley reported.
"What is it?" Maj. MacLeod asked as he approached.
"A computer terminal. All sensitive material is locked out, but I just found an interesting item in its history records. Apparently, Jean Chretien is supposed to return on the 23rd."
"That's tomorrow. So it is true. My old enemy is returning."
Jacques-Charles de Vigny woke up the next morning knowing that the fate of his entire life's work would depend on this day. He showered and ate a breakfast of evil Canadian bacon, then headed to a room that had been untouched since it was built twenty years earlier. "Report," he demanded of a science officer who was on duty there.
"The cleaning servos have sterilized the room and we expect the Arrival very soon. You may have a seat if you like, sir." De Vigny sat in one of a couple of chairs at the back wall, designated for the select few who were to witness the Arrival personally, and began to wait.
MacLeod had informed Brendan of Sgt. Buckley's findings, and both platoons were searching for the site of the so-called Arrival. (They had lost contact with Allah some time ago, but assumed that He knew what He was doing.)
"I'm detecting an energy buildup, and it has a biological pattern," one of Brendan's soldiers reported, looking up from his scanner.
"That could be it. Let's go."
A bright red glow appeared near the ceiling, immediately grabbing the attention of de Vigny and all others present. The glow descended towards the floor, and began to intensify. Soon, a maniacally laughing Jean Chretien materialized. His laugh faded, then he suddenly looked sharply at de Vigny and asked, "Where the fuck am I?"
"You are on the big black sinister cloud of Canadian evil, in deep space, Lord Chretien. Four hundred years have passed since your ordeal in Paris."
"Four hundred years?! I didn't think I'd be gone that long... has Canada defeated the Oligarchy?"
"Not yet, sir, but with your leadership we will soon. When you disappeared, many of us were forced into hiding. The last centuries have been spent developing a starship which can defeat Oligarchy forces and conquer earth. That ship, the V.E.C. Québeçois, was launched yesterday. It has already been tested, with fantastic results."
"When do we begin?"
"The Québeçois reported they are ready an hour ago. We can begin whenever you are ready."
"Splendid," the Canadian immortal said. "I would like to see this ship of yours."
"At once, sir," de Vigny replied. He raised his comm link. "General de Guerre, Chretien is here. We are coming aboard. Prepare to depart."
"Yes, sir."
"And General -- no more of that power loss merde-du-faureau, eh?"
"Not to worry. The engineers have used the extra time to finish tuning the weapons systems."
"Good." De Vigny turned off the comm.
"What was that all about?" demanded Chretien.
"Nothing of importance. Come along, sir, the shuttle port is this way." The two left the compound on a shuttle and boarded the Québeçois.
Brendan and his platoon turned a corner just to see de Vigny and Chretien down the corridor, entering the shuttle port. "Damn!" he proclaimed, activating his comm. "Oligarchy One, this is Brendan. Bring all personnel back. We're too late."
The evil duo entered the bridge and took two seats alongside Gen. de Guerre. "Lord Chretien, this is General Mort de Guerre, our military chief of staff. General, of course you recognize Chretien."
"Of course. It's good to finally meet you, sir," de Guerre said as he shook Chretien's hand.
"So you're commanding this vessel personally, General?"
"That's correct, sir."
"Well, then, take us out."
"Take us out, helm," de Guerre repeated. The helmsman again plotted a course and pressed a button.
A computerized voice began to sound. "Warning. Self-destruct in five... four... three..."
"NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!" de Vigny screamed.
Then the V.E.C. Québeçois exploded.
Allah, his platoon, Jean Chretien, and Jacques-Charles de Vigny materialized aboard the Oligarchy One. The Green Berets aimed their weapons at the two Canadians.
"Allah!" Brendan proclaimed. "Where have you been?"
"On the Québeçois. I was a box for a while. Then we did a little rewiring. We hooked their propulsion system up to their self-destruct mechanism."
"Great work," Wayland said. "Hey, someone call the Pocket Shuttlecraft and tell Cronan to come back."
All of a sudden, de Vigny pulled out a small pistol. The Special Forces soldiers began to converge on him, but much to everyone's surprise, he aimed it at Chretien. "I spent my entire life building your evil empire. I'm tired of you pushing me around! Brendan, I have a business proposition you might find very interesting. Inside this briefcase-" he held up a Fendi briefcase- "Is one billion dollars."
Brendan opened the case and flipped through a stack of bills. "You're $832 short, de Vigny."
"I had to buy the case."
"Ahhh, so in essence I'm buying the case. But what if I don't like the case?"
"It's a nice case."
"No, no, it's a lovely case."
"It's a Fendi."
"I like the case! I don't like the idea of not getting a choice in the matter. I mean, here I am, I've got a-"
"All right, I've had enough," Chretien said, as he pulled a big-ass sword from his suit jacket and sliced de Vigny in half.
The soldiers raised their weapons a little higher, then MacLeod walked in. "Just hold on, boys. So, Chretien, I see it is true. You have come back. It’s time we finished up some old business," he said as he pulled out a sword of his own.
"I agree," replied Chretien. They began to circle each other. As Chretien prepared to attack--
"Wait!" MacLeod exclaimed. "We’re aboard the Oligarchy One, a holy vehicle in The True Religion. We can’t fight here. This is holy ground."
Chretien grumbled and lowered his sword. "You’re right. But I know another place we can finish this. I challenge you to a Celebrity Deathmatch."
"It’s been quite a night here on Celebrity Deathmatch," said Johnny Gomez.
"That’s right, Johnny," Nick Diamond replied. "First we saw master of horror Stephen King take a beating from British sci-fi humorist Douglas Adams, showing that the King of the supernatural is no match for an Infinite Improbability Drive."
"Then, phasers were definitely not on stun as Patrick Stewart went head-to-head with William Shatner."
"And now for our main event, a fight literally centuries in the making. Both combatants are immortal, with one weakness: decapitation."
"That may limit how the fight will end, but it won’t make this any less interesting. Otherwise, how do you think Highlander: The Series lasted so long?"
"And now let’s go to Stacey Cornbred, who is interviewing the Co-Rulers of the World."
The camera cut to the lovely Cornbred, along with Brendan, Cronan, and Wayland in the front row. "You’ve been trying to capture Jean Chretien for four hundred years. What made you decide to allow him to participate in this match?"
"Well, it was MacLeod’s decision, not ours," Brendan replied. "We could have stopped it if we wanted, but we felt it was his right as a Highlander to fight Chretien if he wanted."
"I see. And what do you think of the outcome of the fight?"
"Conner’ll kick his ass," Cronan declared.
"And now it’s time to introduce our competitors," Diamond announced.
"He was born in 1518 in the village of Glenfinnan on the shores of Loch Shiel, and he is immortal. Now a Major in the Oligarchy Army, he is the undisputed lifetime champion of chopping other people’s heads off. In the red corner... Connerrrrrr MacLeod!
"And the challenger: he was once the leader of the evil nation of Canada, and has been #1 on the Oligarchy’s Most Wanted list for four centuries. In the blue corner... Jeannnnnn Chretien!"
The competitors met in the middle of the ring with referee Mills Lane.
"What the hell do you think this is?" Lane shouted as he grabbed the swords out of both people’s hands. "This is going to be a good, clean fight to the death. Obey my commands at all times. Let’s get it on!"
MacLeod looked at Chretien and cocked his head. "How the hell are we supposed to fight without swords?" he asked hypothetically.
The Evil One answered by lunging at MacLeod’s throat. MacLeod responded in kind, wriggling out of Chretien’s grasp and executing a military collar-twist chokehold.
A small overhead explosion blew a gap in the ceiling and knocked over the two fighters; Chretien broke free from the Scot’s chokehold. As MacLeod stood back up he was knocked to the floor again by a man parachuting in through the hole. The man, wearing the uniform of a Canadian major, released the parachute harness and saluted Chretien smartly. "Lord Chretien, I am Major Douleur. I served under General de Guerre in the big black sinister cloud of Canadian evil. I have come to provide whatever service may be of use to you, sir."
Chretien returned the salute and smiled. "We’re going to kick this sheepfucker’s ass, Major."
"That’s it," Bevin said from the row behind the Co-Rulers. "I want him, Brendan. Let me at him."
"Be my guest," Brendan replied.
"What a night!" proclaimed Johnny Gomez. It looks like we’re about to see some tag team action here, as a Canadian officer has jumped in to support Chretien, while Bevin Conners, Chief Goddess of Pain and Wanton Destruction, is joining in on the side of MacLeod."
"It just goes to show, Johnny," Diamond said, "anything can happen here on Celebrity Deathmatch."
Douleur pulled out a Canadian 9mm. Bevin whipped the Evil Deadly Hairclip out of her hair and knocked the pistol from his hand. As the two of them began grappling, MacLeod and Chretien looked around feverishly for weapons. Chretien ripped a metal brace from Douleur’s parachute pack and swung it at MacLeod’s neck. He dodged, but the brace sliced into his upper arm. The wound healed within seconds.
Bevin had Douleur in a headlock and began kicking him in the shins in her traditional fashion. Meanwhile, as MacLeod struggled to defend himself with one hand, he pulled out an Army radio with the other. "Golf-Bravo-Six, this is Golf-Bravo-Main, over."
"This is Golf-Bravo-Six, over," a voice said over the radio.
"Golf-Bravo-Six, do you still have the item I left with you, over?"
"That’s affirmative, Main, over."
"Roger that, Six. Deliver it to my location immediately, over."
"Wilco, Main. Golf-Bravo-Six out."
Major Douleur was showing signs of defeat as Bevin flipped him over and slammed him on the floor. He wearily stood up and faced Bevin. He faked left, dove right, grabbed Bevin around the waist with one arm and reached into a pocket of her jeans. When he pulled it out, he held Je Suis Bleu in his hand. The evil Major produced a pocketknife and held it to Bleu’s throat. "Don’t move or the tent bag puppet gets it!" he shouted.
"You wouldn’t," Bevin replied coolly.
"Try me."
For a moment the words hung in the air between them, as they stared into each other’s eyes, fighting a silent, motionless battle. Finally Bevin dove for Douleur. He moved aside and slit the puppet’s throat. In doing so, he slit his own wrist, and immediately bled to death.
"Well, that’s done with," Bevin said, as Je Suis Bleu was lifted onto a stretcher for emergency medical treatment.
Suddenly, the "whump-whump-whump" of a helicopter drowned out all other noise in the arena. Through the gap in the ceiling produced by Douleur’s arrival, a Blackhawk helicopter could be seen, with a large crate slingloaded beneath it. The crate was released, and as it hit the floor in the center of the arena, it split apart to reveal an old-fashioned guillotine.
Chretien gazed at the guillotine in horror. "No. Fuck no. There’s no way you’re getting me into that thing, MacLeod."
"We’ll see," the Highlander replied, as he jumped on Chretien, attempting to wrestle him into the guillotine. But the Canadian was not forthcoming -- he made his own effort to push MacLeod’s head under the lethal blade. As the two rolled around on the floor, Bevin once again wielded her trademark hairclip and slashed at Chretien’s back. Though the wound was temporary, he wailed in momentary agony. The distraction was enough for MacLeod to wriggle out of his grasp and push him into the guillotine. He quickly reached for the switch. "NOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!" the Canuck screamed, as the blade fell, silencing Jean Chretien once and for all.
Through the open ceiling, lightning struck the center of the rig. Bursts of electricity raced through the air in every direction. MacLeod, having never done this without a sword before, threw his hands in the air as the energy enveloped his body. "There can be only one!!!" he yelled, as Chretien’s severed head burst into an electrical explosion. Lightning seemed to fill the entire stadium. Then, as quickly as it started, it all ended. The crowd of stunned onlookers, many with singed hair and clothing, were silent for one second, three seconds, eight seconds. Then, finally, a single spectator began to clap. The entire arena erupted suddenly into booming applause.
"That was one hell of a match," said Johnny Gomez.
"That’s for certain, Johnny," Nick Diamond replied. "I don’t think I’ve seen anything quite like it in all my days here on Celebrity Deathmatch."
"And, unfortunately, that’s all for us tonight. Until next week, I’m Johnny Gomez..."
"And I’m Nick Diamond..."
"Saying, good fight -- good night!"
The next morning, the Co-Rulers of the World met at Enloe over a breakfast of Holy Omelettes.
"It’s hard to believe it’s finally over," Wayland said.
"I know," Brendan replied. "We’ve been fighting Chretien since the Oligarchy began. I can barely fathom the idea of him being dead. Do you think we’ll ever have another enemy like him?"
"No one could be as evil as Jean Chretien," Cronan said with certainty.
"That’s true," Wayland said. "But, you never know. We could find ourselves in another conflict someday."
"Let’s hope not," Brendan said. "But, then again, there will always be more stories to write. Who knows what else will happen to The World Oligarchy?"
A thoughtful expression spread across Cronan’s face. "Well, we should know. We’re gods, remember?"
"Well, yeah, but that would make the stories pretty boring."
"Oh. Right."
The three Prophets thought for a moment, and returned to their omelettes.