Another Dispatch From Beyond The Wall

Conversion on the Road to Damascus

Location: Somewhere in the Annieopsquotch Mountains, Newfoundland and Labrador

     My miniature solar panel enables me to maintain contact via my trusty iPhone with political developments in our fair province. A week of enormous import has flashed by and a number of the Forsaken Posse in Confederation Building have, like the apostle Paul, seen the light on the road to Damascus, or shall we say Muskrat Falls.

     For those who have not been following the story, people power in the Big land has forced the mighty Nalcor and the inept Liberal Government of Newfoundland and Labrador to abandon their abominable scheme to flood massive tracts of the Churchill River Valley without clear-cutting and removing soil. Such a scheme would have resulted in a massive spike in methyl-mercury levels downstream and people would be exposed to the very real horrors of Minimata disease for generations.

     Two weeks ago, Premier Duh-wite dismissed the whole thing, claiming he had inherited the problem. "My hands are tied," he said.

     "If people in the area are told not to eat fish, seabirds, and seal, they will be compensated," said Perry (The Bunny) Trimper, Minister of Environmental Destruction to protesters in Goose Bay in June.

     "Eat less fish," tweeted Nick Whelan, the ham-fisted Liberal M.P. for St. John's East, mocking the people of Labrador.

     The people of the Big Land shut the place down. Not even the courts and the RCMP could stem their outrage. Premier Duh-wite's hands were indeed tied. After an eleven hour meeting with Aboriginal leaders, he cried uncle. The flooding scheme was shelved. His retreat was about one thing, he said, "the health of Labradorians." The Bunny repeated the meme on all the news outlets.

     All the drama and political sincerity was unbearable. I came down with a case of debilitating insomnia--the ideal conditions for a visit from the old hag. As I lay semi-conscious in my lonely bough-whiffen at two in the morning, I suddenly found myself in a state of total paralysis. Not a muscle could I move as my humble shelter filled with the overwhelming fragrance of the evergreen forest and the distant murmur of the pristine waterfalls of the Annieopsquotch.

     Despite my natural instinct to scream in terror as she sat sedatel;y on my chest, I was able to ask in a whimpering whisper what her motives were. "I have come to warn you again," she cackled. "I bring news that Mantracker Walsh and Wimpy Warr are hot on your trail. They are both from the Constabulary."

     Only yesterday, she informed me, they left Dildo heading west towards Virgin Cove. Before I could offer my profuse thanks, she disappeared.

     At least she had offered more in the way of conversation this time. "Come again," I called after her, but the words were lost on the mountain winds.

     My iPhone rang at 3.30 in the morning. It's me, RS from MP," hissed a hysterical voice. The Mantracker is on your tail. Big Eddie now has me under surveillance too. He just hired Dr. Dale's drinking buddy to keep an eye on me. I can't talk any longer." He hung up before I could respond.

     Now that I was fully awake, I could think clearly. The new information would leave me plenty of time for a well-planned exit from my current location, I thought. I would be in no danger until they neared Eastern Tickle.


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