The Northern Affair

Albert Maplethorpe woke up at 5:30 AM sharp. He got out of bed and slipped into a pair of tighty whities. He walked into his kitchen, where he prepared himself breakfast, which was pancakes and maple syrup and a glass of milk, which he poured out of a bag. He walked into his bathroom, where he brushed his teeth so vigorously that his gums were dripping with blood. He then dropped his briefs and sat down on the toilet, where he plopped out three little pellets of stool from his anus. He then hopped over to the bidet, where he moaned in ecstasy as he let the warm water massage his anus until he was brought to completion. He then showered, wiping himself clean with soap. He then exited the shower and dried himself off while admiring himself in the mirror. He was tall and skinny, with fair skin, blue eyes, and light brown hair which he combed up into a stylish pompadour. Once he finished drying, he put on a new pair of briefs and got dressed. He got into a pair of jeans, a flannel shirt, a pair of boots, a scarf, a beanie, and thick rimmed glasses. After all, he was Canadian, and he had to look fashionable!

Albert was a conservative journalist and op-ed writer for LeDouche, a Toronto based publication dedicated to politics, news, and culture. He had rich family roots in Canada, being descended from John Edward Maplethorpe, one of the earliest British settlers of Canada. He enjoyed his job fine enough, where he wrote op-eds lecturing Americans on why they were irresponsible boorish ingrates. However, he was excited, as today he was going to have an interview with a potential employer who offered him greater prospects than his current job.

Albert left his Toronto apartment, where he made sure to go outside wearing a facemask. He was not sick, and there had been no new reported cases of COVID-19 in the city for months, but Albert felt that taking precautions like this was tantamount to be a responsible citizen. However, he was scared that he was still at risk for being infected, as he recently had to discontinue his nightly bath in hand sanitizer, as some of it got under his foreskin and gave him an inflamed penis for a week.

While Albert was walking to his job, he saw two blue collar men loading boxes into the back of a horrendously unfashionable pickup truck. Albert recognized the two unruly men as his high school bullies. They were Patrick Finnegan and Benoit Bouvier, two disorderly hooligans who were Irish Canadian and Quebecois respectively. Albert could tell they were loading boxes for an unattractive, meaningless service job.

“Good morning, you two,” Albert sneered, looking at the two men with disgust.

“Oh, hey,” Patrick said. “Haven’t seen you in a while, man, how are you?”

“How am I? Well,” Albert snickered. “I’m doing just fantastic, as I have an amazing job, and have an even more amazing job interview lined up.”

“Ah, that’s good to hear, man,” Benoit replied. “Good luck with that.”

“And what are you two up to?” Albert inquired.

“Just moving some stuff to our church,” Patrick explained. “This old lady had a bunch of toys from when her kids were young that she wanted to donate somewhere, so we’re bringing them to the church. Father Murphy said they were gonna put some in the church daycare, and save some for a Christmas toy drive.”

“I see,” Albert sighed. He had been raised in the Anglican faith, and was now an atheist, but in both points in life, he saw Catholicism as a foreign and treacherous religion, both due to his loyalty to the British crown and to Canadian unity, seeing Quebec separatism as spawning from the Catholic Church’s dreaded propensity for rebellion. “Well, now that I’m here, I’m feeling confident enough that…I’d like you two to apologize for how you bullied me in high school.”

“What?” Benoit spat in confusion.

“You heard me.” Albert crossed his arms and looked at the two men sternly. “You two relentlessly mocked me in high school.”

“Okay, we only did that because you started it!” Patrick cried. “Look, we shouldn’t have called you a metrofag, that was rude, but you were always talking about how poor we were, or that we were gonna get raped at our church. That wasn’t cool at all!”

“Forget it,” Albert sighed. “I wouldn’t expect two simpletons like you to know your place.” Albert dramatically tossed his scarf around his neck and stormed off. He didn’t expect two Catholic brutes to know the feeling of remorse.

Albert made his way to the LeDouche office in Scarborough Business Park. The office looked like a typical white collar office, with cubicles, chairs, and desks everywhere. There was also a recording studio in the back, where LeDouche produced trendy informative videos for YouTube, very similar to Buzzfeed.

“Hi, Albert!” a woman greeted enthusiastically. This was Pamela Tinsley, the receptionist of the LeDouche office.

“Move, woman!” Albert roared, making his way towards his desk. Due to his encounter with Patrick and Benoit, the Catholic brutes, he had arrived to work ON TIME, at 9:00 AM, rather than thirty minutes earlier. This was peak op-ed writing time, and he could not waste a second. He sat down on his desk, where he had several miniature flags, including the current Canadian flag, the Red Ensign, and the Union Jack of Great Britain, along with framed photos of Sir John A. Macdonald and Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth II.

Albert pulled out his laptop and got to work. He began with an op-ed on how the United States was a fascist nation because they had 41% church attendance as opposed to Canada’s 15%, another on how NDP leader Jagmeet Singh’s lack of commitment to the British monarchy basically made him a dangerous Thugee terrorist, and another on how First Nations protests against the Coastal GasLink Pipeline was a Russian plot to undermine Canada’s democracy and markets. He giggled at how glorious and pro-Windsor his writing was.

He stopped smiling and sat up straight as his boss, Victoria Wilson, the editor in chief of LeDouche, came by his desk. Though Albert found Victoria to be far too liberal for his liking, he automatically respected her as his superior.

“Good morning, Albert,” Victoria greeted. “How are you doing?”

“Ah, I’m excellent, Victoria,” Albert said. “Just working on some op-eds.”

“Oh, may I read them?” Victoria asked.

“Of course.” Albert handed his laptop over to Victoria, as she put on reading glasses and looked through his writing. She made faces of surprise and satisfaction while reading.

“I think it’s really good!” Victoria cheered, handing the laptop back. “One small thing, though. In your pipeline protest, op-ed, that one activist, Dominique Swift Fox, identifies as two spirit and uses they/them pronouns, so make sure to use the right pronouns when calling them a filthy terrorist.”

“Noted,” Albert sighed. He went to the document and corrected the pronouns. If he were a more irreverent man, he’d keep the references to the Indian savage’s correct gender, and make an apt comparison to George Orwell’s 1984, but to be rebellious is to be a fascist American.

Albert continued writing op-eds until his lunch break. He let Victoria know he would be running late due to an appointment he has, then went outside to pickup his order from Uber Eats, a BLT sandwich from Tim Hortons, and ate it. After this, he began smoking a Camel cigarette, enjoying as the tobacco smoke hit his lungs, and the cigarette’s butt rested between his lips.

“Uh, hey,” a raucous voice called out. Albert jolted his head and looked around to see Marc Nautaaq, a colleague of Albert who was of Inuit descent. Marc was one of the videographers at LeDouche, and someone that Albert found to be an absolute nuisance. He had horrid reddish skin, and black hair that was long and unprofessional.

“What do you want?” Albert spat.

“Well, I wanted to ask you, uh,” Marc stammered in his boorish voice. “You remember how I lent you $100 so you could pay off your parking ticket?”

“Yes, and?” Albert asked.

“Well, I’m kinda short on money right now,” Marc pleaded. “And I was wondering if I could get that back.”

“No,” Albert scoffed.

“Are you serious, dude?” Marc whined. “It’s a bro’s code of honor. I don’t even care about interest or anything.”

“Sorry, I only honor contracts with real Canadians,” Albert explained, crossing his arms.

“I can’t believe this,” Marc cried. “Real Canadians? You know the word Canada is Iroquoian for village? Us First Nations and Inuit are just as real Canadians, if not more so, than your white ass. My people were over here in the Arctic, living in igloos and hunting seals, while your people were in England, sucking Tudor dick!”

Albert began trembling as Marc screeched redskin war cries at him. He was deathly afraid that he would be scalped, or skinned and turned into primitive Eskimo mukluk boots. Looking around for an escape route, he turned to see his saviour. It was a heroic Royal Canadian Mounted Police officer, riding on a gallant horse, and dressed in a valiant red tunic, dapper black pants, and a dashing broad-brimmed felt hat.

“HELP!” Albert screamed, calling to the Mountie. Marc stepped back in shock. “HEEEEELP! THIS MAN IS TRYING TO EXTORT ME OUT OF MONEY!”

“I’ll have no loan sharks in the Queen’s Canada!” the Mountie shouted in a suspiciously British sounding accent. He leaped off his horse and dashed towards Marc, punching him several times in the stomach, before grappling him and snapping his neck. The Mountie tossed the lifeless body of the Eskimo savage into some nearby bushes.

“Thank you so much, sir,” Albert gasped. “I thought I was a goner! Is there any way I can repay you?”

“No need,” the Mountie said. “I’m just doing my duty to the subjects of the British Crown. Now, I hear you have an interview?”

“How do you know?” Albert asked.

“I did my research,” the Mountie explained. “You’re Albert Maplethorpe. The name’s Devereaux. Percy Devereaux. Lieutenant Commander, CMG, SASR. Let me escort you to your interview.”

This man named Percy Devereaux led Albert back into Scarborough Business Park, where they took the elevator to the top floor. Percy pointed Albert into an office, which was empty, apart from a middle aged man wearing a suit. He had a laptop and a briefcase on the desk.

“Hello, Albert,” the suited man began. “I’m glad to see you could make it.”

“I’m glad as well,” Albert said, composing himself. “Who are you, if I may ask?”

“My name is John A. Smith,” the suited man explained. “I am the legal representative of the Rockford Foundation in Canada.”

“I see,” Albert remarked. “I thought this would be a job interview.”

“Oh, it is,” John replied. “But I won’t be conducting the interview. I’m simply here as Lord Rockford’s liaison.”

John opened the laptop and started a Zoom call. The call was answered, and on the other end was the face of an older man with an eyepatch. Though he was wearing Middle Eastern garb, he was clearly a man of British noblesse.

“Lord Rockford,” John said to the gentleman. “The prospective employee is here.”

“Put him on,” the lord ordered. John nodded and turned the laptop towards Albert.

“Hello, Albert,” Lord Rockford said.

"Good day to you, milord,” Albert replied, bowing his head. “It is an honor to be speaking to you.”

“Let me ask a few questions,” Lord Rockford began. “First of all, what are your professional qualifications?”

“Well, I graduated from the University of Toronto with a master’s degree in mass communication, and I’ve worked as an op-ed writer at LeDouche for five years.”

“I see,” Lord Rockford remarked. “Now, your pedigree. Do you have any notable ancestors?”

“I’m descended from John Edward Maplethorpe. I pray you know who he was?”

“But of course,” Lord Rockford nodded. “An honorable man. Now, er, your fashion sense is quite peculiar. You’re not a homosexual, are you?”

“Oh, no,” Albert laughed. “I get asked that a lot, but no, I just so happen to like fashion of this style. But I assure you, I am dedicated to upholding traditions of the British Empire. Of course, if my noble superior ordered me to perform such a sexual deed, I would do so without hesitation, for appeasing my superior is the most important duty of a British subject.”

“Well, that’s good to hear,” Lord Rockford chuckled. “Don’t worry, Albert, I’m not a queer. I won’t order you to commit sodomy.”

“I’m relieved,” Albert smirked. “Now, if I may ask, why are you dressed in the outfit of a terrorist?”

“Ah, no worries,” Lord Rockford said. “I’m currently in hiding in the Kashmir. I’ve got a big plot to get India, Pakistan, and China to all destroy each other. I cannot say anymore. But enough of me, Albert, and more about you. I like what you’ve presented me, so I’ve decided right here on the spot. You will be the new Director of Communications for the Rockford Foundation.”

“Thank you for this opportunity, sir,” Albert cried with joy. “You won’t regret hiring me!”

“I’m sure I won’t. Good day now.” Lord Rockford exited the Zoom call. John closed the laptop, and Percy entered the room.

“Congratulations,” John said, shaking Albert’s hand.

“Welcome to the team,” Percy smiled, patting Albert on the shoulder. “Good to have another fellow loyalist along with us.”

Albert smiled and took it all in. His op-ed writing days were over, and he had received his higher calling. He had a bright white future ahead of him.