Werewolf London

London Ontario, agricultural capital of the province. The natives live in the center of a rich plain of fields of corn, wheat, and barley; the cattle grow fat, and the milk is creamy and copious. At the center of this is Downtown London.

Werewolves, if they existed, and they do not, would be drawn to downtown London. This is the place of those soaring buildings, underpasses of concrete below the flying bridges that carry the weight of freight trains. Weeds grow everywhere ... which is good for it shows that the land is fertile, but it is bad because it shows that the people in charge aren't. The natives, when they are not sharing vegetables and spices from their garden, complain about the derelict city. Between sips of single malt whiskey, as you sit beside buttery-gold wood paneling, the natives are filled with woe. And such things make werewolves, if they existed, pay attention.

Something is rotten in London, and it is not the hard working compost pile. Take the trees, for example. The real city of London is filled with trees. Mature oaks I have seen. Fine for furniture, fine for construction, fine for firewood too. But Star Fleet - London has seen fit to spend money on steel trees, painted in bright, primary colours. It is so goth. It does not match the city, it is a waste of money, and the money could be used more effectively elsewhere. But who cares? How do I get my hands on some of that cash?

Goths always make me think of graveyards. And London has a great one, called Forest Lawn. It is big, like a theme park. When you walk to the second tier of themed gardens, you cannot hear the traffic on the street. Now this place is well designed. And the same dead people who made such a powerful and beautiful cemetary are the same ones who handed over the city of London to the dead steel tree faction.

The Masonic Garden is amoung the second tier of resting places. There are three large chairs, one for Hiram Abiff, and two for his friends. There is a large altar, with the bible open to some page or the other. If you sit in the chair of Hiram Abiff, you can see, on your right, the highway, the Royal Lancaster strip joint, a motel, and a library. To your left, you can see a circular garden where the four evangelists hang out, overlooking creation. The place is breathtakingly beautiful. You do not have to believe me, go there yourself.

The people who built the Masonic Garden for their final rest also built London. They must have loved their city, but they would not have loved its current crop of pot holes. And beggars with fleas? Not. And the boarded up cinema, which promises to open up soon as it has done for nearly a decade, would put a scowl on the face of any man, any Town father, in his afterlife in that sublime resting place. The Patricians of London would give a flea bath to a beggar with fleas, and instead of steel trees, plant real ones. And the flea bag beggar might just experience a season of picking Tobacco outside of Tillsonberg.

In London, trees are for furniture, not for worship. Wood is made to serve man, to make things of beauty and utility. These things could be a fine table, kitchen cupboards, or a scratching post for the cat. Food grows in abundance around London. Food is made to serve man, to nourish and to delight. Steel trees are blasphemy, like painting an oak table lime green, or putting chocolate ice creme in your pilsener, or using Tahiti treat as mix for your bourbon.

London is in the grip of false prophets. They are not the people who made the city. They are a blight, like Tomato scab, or some insect that bites your apples on the tree. They worship false images of steel trees. They take the wine money of the connaisseur and buy vinegar for drunkards. Anyone who values quality of life does not value this leadership. And as for the dead, whose city is getting grubby, I hope that I did not wake them when I walked around their beautiful graves.

I, Fenris Badwulf, wrote this at Mitchieville, DustMyBroom, Stormy Days of March