"O villain, villain, smiling, damned villain!"  ~ Hamlet.    

Sunrise - Oak Bay Beach, Victoria Canada ~ 10.10.27  

The small anorexic arctic sun rises slowly up into the cold crappy Canadian sky, to start yet another wonderful winter day of death in this godforsaken Arctic hellhole. The dark chilblain waters of the Northern Pacific are lightly lapping over what is left of my fucked up face. Gently rocking my busted-up body in the shallows just off the snowy shore. I hurt so bad I can barely breathe bubbles, let alone move under my own power ...and thus the rocking gently in the shallows shit I am being forced to endure. Even the hoarfrost air is my enemy here in the Gods-be-damned Great White North.  And if I could just pass the hell out and die already, I would gladly go gently into that long dark night in a heartbeat.

But every time I try to slip into Death's dark grip, that devil-be-damned Sentry Lighthouse up on the bluffs above swings it's blazing hellfire beacon around towards me again. Lighting me up in infernal agony, as it gently rakes red scathing hellfire over my busted up body. Searing my skin as it burns my bad blood to brimstone, and shocking the shit out of my nervous system. Infernally keeping me awake, aware, and in unimaginable agony, over and over and over again ...in politely precise intervals. And if you knew me at all, you'd know that I really hate being fully aware of anything ...ever.

And of all the godforsaken forlorn places to die, why did it have to be Canada? This filthy frosty, syrup sucking, Great Gretsky loving, great white ball of big bird turd of an excuse for a country on the top of America's awesome Heroic greatness. And if these are my final moments on this mortal coil, I will spend it wishing this winter wonderland nothing but the gift of global warming. That this poor excuse for a country melts away into the New Northwest Passage, it is my one dying wish that every last one of these arctic assholes drowns in the New North Sea. Hopefully, while getting raped to death by super pissed off polar bears coked out on Southern Cali Cartel crack.

I know you're probably thinking my stance on Canada might be a little bit extreme? Especially after it was voted "The Second Nicest Country in the World, after New Zealand". But you're just going to have to trust that I have my reasons to hate this filthy frosty place, and it's super polite pale people. And after you've stomped a league in my black jackboots, then you can decide for yourself if you loathe them too, like every other right-minded Hero-worshiping 'Merican citizen. 

But for the moment all you really need to know is that I am dying a little more than before. Still stuck in the shallows, just a few feet off the snowy shores of Oak Bay Beach, British Columbia. Unable to move past the NAILS or New Antihero International Lighthouse Sentry. So they say, "good fences make good neighbors", then these frosties must be the best neighbors ever. Because the NAILS system that was specifically designed to keep out the American Superheroes off the snowy shores of sovereign Canada is no joke. What is a joke is that Canadians generally suck at making anacronyms ...as well as Freedom. Personally, I think they threw the "New" in so they could all pronounce NAILS properly, in their effectuated Arctic accents. But hey, that's probably just me.

So while the shitty little Arctic sun slowly rises just a little higher on the horizon and up into the cold crappy Canadian clouds, I am still desperately trying to die. After what seems like an eternity of infernal agony my dying wish is finally interrupted by some very politely moderated bleating just up the beach.

"Over here! I think there's something in the shallows, sir!" Pronounces one of the Redcoats perfectly.

Sure enough, there are a bunch of unhelpful Mounties in blood-red uniforms are running right my way. I hear the pleasant sound of their jodhpur jackboots splashing towards me thru the shallow waters. These friendly frosty folk are so painfully polite they don't even have their guns pulled out like real 'Merican cops in the face of fear.

Soft fingers politely press into the side of my neck, checking for a pulse. "This one's still alive, Leftenant. But barely."

These crimson-colored Canuck fucks are so lame they even over-enunciated the "Left" in Lieutenant. Probably pronounce the "schway" in schedule too, as they continually keep correcting their perfectly pale children away from speaking the "real English", like all good MTV Americans speak. I mean seriously, real people should sound like the TV, right? But not these Arctic idiots, who all sound like when Madonna got that fake English accent, and everyone pretended that was the new normal.

What I assume is the medical corpsman starts checking me over for injuries. He politely peels up my eyelid just in time for the beam of hellfire to sear through my eye and sizzling the shit out of what little was left of my eyesight.

"Pupils non-responsive."

Yeah, no shit Sir Sherlock! Probably because you just fried my eyes with Hellfire!?! You stupid yellow snow sucking arctic asshole!

"Broken jawline, fractured collarbone on the right side." Stupid Sherlock starts happily announcing my injuries to the rest of the Redcoats as he finds them. "I am counting at least five flailed ribs. Compound breaks in all the major bones in both legs, all the way down to his ankles. Shattered pelvis and possibly broken back by the angle of the spine."

Okay yeah, I suppose that would probably explain a lot of the "not moving the legs thing" that's been going on lately?

"He's alive for now, but in very bad shape, Leftenant." The unhelpful medico concludes. "We'll need to move him, very carefully."

"Well, if he is one of the ones we are looking for, then I suggest we start by getting him encased in some lead foil first before we attempt to move him." An older voice of experience commands the crimson corpsman. "That way the NAIL up yonder stops immolating him to death, any more than it already has."

"Smartly so, Sergeant," The youthful voice crisply snaps back.

Some kindly crimson soul drops a shiny thermal blanket over me, reflecting off the hellfire beacon beam from the Lighthouse. I have to remind myself that the next time I plan on dying in this devil-be-damned winter wonderland, I should probably pack some reflective wrap. Or at least bring some tin foil and duct tape. Rule numero uno of foreign travel—never forget the duct tape.

"Careful now, lads! On my mark ...three, two, and one." In professionally coordinated unison, genteel hands raised me off the rough shale shallows. Rolling me on my back to face the crappy sky out of my one good eye, and slid a stiff backboard underneath my broken back. 

"Oh Holy Hell?" One of the helpful Redcoats groans and beings to gag up his breakfast of maple syrup tea and crumpets.

"Good Lord! Is that thing in his hand a severed head?" The effeminate effectuated voice of what I can only assume is the lieutenant gushes like a schoolgirl.

"Aye, Leftenant. Or at least what's left of it." Raspily replies the more manly Sergeant clearing his throat. "Looks like he's kept a death grip on some poor bastard's face thru the eye sockets. Hell of a way to go, if you ask me. Being carried about face first, like a bowling ball."

"Well, remove that... that... unseemly thing at once, sergeant!" The lieutenant whines in his "make the bad thing go away" falsetto little boy voice.

"Sir, I respectfully suggest that it might be best to let the lads from M.I.X. make those determinations." The Sergeant observes wisely. "As we have only been tasked with search and rescue on this operation and not with termination protocols."

Shit, M.I.X. is in the mix on this? Military Intelligence, Section 10, otherwise know as M.I.X. The official hatchet men of the United English Empires Ministry of Extraordinary Persons.

"Yes Sergeant, I suppose you're the right." The lieutenant sniffs hauteur. "Well, does he at least have any identification on him?"

Oh yeah asshole, I always carry my government-issued Hero Hunting license in my back pocket for just such an occasion. It's just inside my retro Pulp Fiction "Badass Muther Fucker" wallet, right next to the super-sized condoms that your slutty sister asked me to pick up on the way to your house for Christmas! You stupid Canuck mutherfuc....

Arrggg!!! Holy Hellfire!!! Thanks so much for the thoughtfully thin tinfoil blanket, you Arctic assholes! 

As yet another politely precise burning beam from the Lighthouse above rakes red hellfire over my busted-up body. Shocking the shit out of my system and scattered my thoughts for a hundred heartbeats. 

"Sir, are you seeing what I am seeing around his neck?" The corpsman's voice brings me back to the current reality.

"Yes, he has some tattoos, like most of those Americans. Your point, corporal?" The lieutenant sniffs in obvious disdain.

"Only that these markings are decidedly dark, sir." Corporal corpsmen stiffly replied back.

"The corporal is absolutely correct, sir. In my experience, the so-called American Heroes don't tend to bare dark markings like these ones. If anything they tend to have expensive stylized skin art done by professional artists who specialize in heroic motifs. Usually very patriotic murals with lots of Stars and Stripes, Screaming Eagles and the such." 

"Whereas, these tattoos are all in blood black, which tends to be the markings of the Other Kind." The clearly more experience sergeant muses down over me. "My educated guess is that we are not dealing with one of their so-called Heroes here. I'd wager that this is one of the Other Ones they're looking for."

One of the "Other Ones", huh? I keep forgetting that these Frosties are too painfully polite to even say the V-word out loud. V for Villain.

"I did not take you for a hero worshiper, Sergeant." I can practically hear the condescending snidely smirk.

"Decidedly not, sir." The sergeant gruffly negates the implied insult. "But I did spend a fair amount of time training with the Audemus Corps early on in the border wars of '22. And like ol' Sun Tzu says ...it pays well to know your opponents."

It strikes me as slightly insane, that these friendly Frosties are even too polite to say "Enemy" out loud. But in all fairness to them, it's really hard to know who your enemies are ...especially when you're supposed best friends are the ones that keep invading your country. To be honest, these guys are pretty much, the enemy of my enemy is my new premium tax-paying immigrant anyways.

"I don't reconnoiter most of these dark marks, sir. Hard to understand these sigil scrawlings are without a translation program. But some of these older markings around his neck look like low elvish, if I am not mistaken?" The sergeant observes wryly. "The one word I do recognize is very rude and very crude way of identifying the most important part of the female anatomy."

"Rightly so, sergeant. So can you decipher the rest of that elven gibberish?" The lieutenant pushes petulantly.

"Maybe some ...if you can give me a second to scan through the cursive."

I feel someone peel back what's left of my battle kutte from my shoulder. Almost immediately the chilblain air stings the shit out of my skin, making even my horripilation hurt just a little more than before. Of course, the Sentry beam scythes along my skin, so some brand new pain blooms on the exposed skin from that devil-be-damned Lighthouse up the bluff. Through the pure pain I can barely feel the frosty fingertip skimming along the scrawling lines of dark elf ink I got back in the day, when I still thought I was funny.

"Sina inka gots amin ikotane sai-kunta..." The sergeant mumbles his way through the low elvish cursive. Then starts to gruffly chuckle as he lets go the battle kutte, which scraps back into place over my scarified skin.  

"Well, Sergeant? What's so funny?" The lieutenant demands.

"Don't know who this kid is, but he's definitely a funny one ...or at least he thinks he is." The sergeant snorts. "The elvish reads: This tattoo gets me so much..." The gruff sergeant coughs, leaving that last bit hanging for misinterpretation of my mojo motto. "That last word is the low elvish word for the most important part of the female anatomy." 

"Smiles?" The lieutenant immediately interjects, pondering the implication of the translation. "Basically, this tattoo gets me so much ...smiles?"

"Very astute Sir, smiles it is." The sergeant drones dryly. "So I would suggest that while the lads and I get this one up the beach into the ambo for transport to the tirage? That perhaps now might be a good time for you to inform HQ that we've possibly recovered one of the survivors from last night's big battle across the bay."

The Big Battle Across the Bay? So that's what they are calling last night's complete clusterfuck of epic proportions? I suppose it could be worse? I mean they could have called it "Fourth of July part Deux". Which I'm pretty sure would have pissed off the Frosties even more than having their night skies lit up by a bunch of superpowered 'Merican morons shooting "Death Lazers" at each other, for no other reason than just because we can.

"Very good, Sergeant, carry on then." The lieutenant runs off, followed by the sound of willy-nilly splish-splashing in the shallows and screaming softly at someone with a cell phone. "Signalman! Signalman! Get on the channel and call HQ! Tell them that we think we have located one of the Americans. He's barely alive and incommunicado, so whether it's one of their Heroes or one of the Other Ones is undetermined at this time. But we do know he likes his smiles quite a bit!"

"Smiles? Are you shitting me?" Corporal corpsman mumbles under his breath. "We're being led to our deaths now by a frigging cyborg clone virgin, who thinks the most important part of a lady is her smile?"

"That's enough of that sort of talk, corporal." The sergeant chastises his minion sharply. "After all, perhaps virginity is the new cool ...wherever the hell they get these new cyborg clone officer models from."

"Sorry Sargn't, bad habit of speaking aloud without thinking again." The corpsmen soldiers up. "I suppose virgin cyborg clones are people too. Different strokes for different folks, as it is."

"Then as you were corporal, and tend to your man there. Let's see if we can stabilize this poor bastard, at least long enough to get him into the Ambo boot for transport." The sergeant snorts. "That way when he dies on route to the hospice it won't be our fault, now will it?"

"Right Sargn't, always ten steps ahead as usual." The corpsmen snaps sharply.

"And that's why they gave me all these lovely stripes on the shoulder and put me in charge of wiping all your little lilly-white asses." The sergeant chortles along paternally. "Now put that stupid smile back on your face and look sharp, son."

"Aye, but I do love a good smile on my face, Sargn't." I can practically hear the sly smirk on the corpsman.

"Don't we all, son. Don't we all." The sergeant snorts in retort.

"Speaking of smiles, Sargn't." Corporal corpsman sighs. "What are your orders in regards to that severed head in this one's hand?"

"For now, leave it exactly where it is. But bag it and tag it properly." The sergeant orders smartly. "This being a search and rescue operation only, for the moment. If the powers that be want to change up our little day out at the beach to something else? Then so they shall, and so shall we do our duty. But until then, ours is not to reason why ...and all that. Otherwise, we let the lovely lads of M.I.X. clean up their own mess, for once in their lives."

"Right'o, Sargn't." It is pretty clear that the corpsman couldn't agree more with this sentiment.

Okay, so I kinda sorta take it back, maybe these bloody Redcoats are my kind of people after all? The pass the buck and cover your own ass kind of pirates.

I feel the sudden sharp stick of the large needle in the dense muscle on the side of my butt, and the hiss of the hypospray stings my ass something good. Which under the circumstances I actually take as a good sign. Because if I can actually feel the sting, it probably means that even if my back is broken, my spine isn't completely severed. So while I might never be able to run right again, at least my winning personality will still work. And after all, when everything's said and done, that's what really matters most.

In three heartbeats the first sweet tingle of those lovely drugs starts to work their old opiate magic on my bad blood. My racing heartbeat slows to dull thudding as the nice numbing bliss of some very high-quality drugs starts to seep its way into my system, thankfully making me feel stupid again. And I almost forgot how much I miss not feeling those thinking things. 

As I slowly start to fade away, the warbly dark visions begin to take hold of my febrile mind, feeding me those old familiar delusions of grandeur once more. So I will be chasing that dark dragon all the way into the welcoming darkness. Which is probably the nicest thing these bloody Redcoats have done for me so far.

Because these are some really...goooooood...drugs.

As the first notes of the sad sweet serenading sounds of "Blame Canada", as sung by the heavenly children's choir of South Park. And I could not agree more ...because I definitely blame Canada all winter wonderland day long.

But just before slipping softly into that long sleep goodnight, a final fleeting thought flashes before my febrile brain.   

How the Holy Hell did I even get here anyway?