Fenris Badwulf, caring person, part 2

It is not often that I get to help my friends out, using the powers and resources of my elected office, but when these opportunities occur, I just have to seize them. After all, what builds a Global Village better than a spider's web of mutual obligation and grey-area morality?

My friend Rug (not his real name, if I used his real name you might recognize it, and some nosy meddling do-gooder might just start being nosy and meddling around which would interfere with my non-good agenda of total world domination) was, at the time, a middle level bureaucrat, in a tenured government position. When Rug came to me he was upset that his advancement from middle-class government bureaucrat to upper-middle-class government bureaucrat was not going to happen.

Now, conveniently, I happened to have in my desk a copy of Rug's promotion orders, so I knew that his fears were for naught. But as I listened to Rug describe his important job responsibilites in the Landfill Inspectorate of the Federal Government, I realized that it would be better for everyone involved, especially myself, that Rug and I develop a team approach to this problem. I agreed with myself not to tell Rug that his promotion was a done thing, and Rug agreed to allow me to continue my dumping of asbestos construction waste into road construction fill. It was a win-win situation. Rug was getting what he wanted, and I would get what I wanted. Situational ethics at its finest!

The only fly in the vegetarian omelet was two people, which I shall call Xenon-57, and Aztec-443. Rug shared his feelings with me that Xenon-57 and Aztec-443 were opposing his seniority based advancement. Xenon-57 was the desk-jockey using sneaky, underhanded tactics, and Aztec-443 was the employment equity candidate who had all the advantages of being under-represented, lacking ability, and having a criminal record for fraud. Rug could only offer ability, education, military service, competence, loyalty, and a work ethic, which is but a pair of twos in the on-line poker game of politically correct career advancement.

Xenon-57 was dealt with first. An anonymous gift of a weekend of feasting and frolic at The Pleasure Center, Toronto's foremost whorehouse, soon found its way into Xenon-57's grubby paws. Like a Bonobo going to his aunt's tree, he was off to Toronto like a shot. There he was drugged, shaved, and woke up in one of the personality readjustment pods of the Morbid Obesity Clinic of Kensington. The picture here is that of the beautiful Leslie, administrator of this facility. Here, looking rather emo, she is using her boot to push the head of some fatty into a vat of the house specialty, cold dishwater soup. Xenon-57 quickly changed his attitude towards whatever Leslie wanted him to change his attitude about, using traditional eastern medicine * . After that, a few hypnotic suggestions were implanted * , then a cleansing mind wipe * . Five pounds thinner, and prone to nightmares, Xenon-57 returned to work the next Monday.

The file on Aztec-443 that I showed Rug showed that his religious beliefs embraced a life after death, and the utility of suffering to burn off bad karma. He also had a rare blood type, which made him a high value organ donor. Rug and I agreed that, for the greatest good for the greatest number (Rug and I being two, and Aztec-443 being only one, which is less than two) that Aztec-443 should be recycled. I showed Rug the file of little girl who needed a liver transplant. We both cried with happiness: there would be three people helped with a little co-operation from Aztec-443.

Taking advantage of the Pride festival in Toronto (and Maximinus Thrax automotive skills), we disabled the seatbelt and door release mechanisms in Aztec-443 's car. He screamed and pounded on the windshield of his car from the moment we started to hitch it to a tow truck, to the moment we arrived at the abandoned pickle factory I use in Scarborough as a telemarketing call center. After a short ceremony, Aztec-443 was duct taped to a wheel chair and made to walk the plank, a ritual celebrating my Wrecker heritage * . Rug and I both laughed as Aztec-443 made his final AAAAaaaaahhh before he landed gently on the broken concrete five stories below with a squooshy sound like a watermelon being hit by a baseball bat. The assembled telemarketers learnt a good lesson too.

A waiting team from soon had Aztec-443 recycled into steaming fresh transplantable organs. A few weeks later Rug and I cashed the life insurance policy I had thoughfully placed. Over a bottle of Glencoe single malt whiskey, we agreed to donate a hundred dollars each to the Liberal party. Because, we care.

Perhaps, in your busy moments between now and the next election for Mayor of Mitchieville, you will pause to reflect on how I, Fenris Badwulf, have taken a leadership role in helping people. Perhaps I could help you become happier or achieve your goals. Everyone has their price. Would you be Rug, Aztec-443, or Xenon-57 in the weeks to come? Perhaps you just wish that nosy meddling do-gooders would mind their own business and stop using soup out of a can? With your votes and my dystopian vision, we can fill the world with laughter, your laughter. You want what you deserve. Let me help someone else to give it to you.

I, Fenris Badwulf, other-sacrificing devotee of Set, The Snake God, tireless servant of You, The People of Mitchieville, dictated this to my hard-working minion ikthis, who crawls in my presence.