A disgruntled Constable William Anderson who was sitting on a wooden chair propped up against a wall, his feet resting on top of the desk wondered, since he was stationed in the most northern RCMP post on some desolate arctic island he couldn’t remember the name of, since it needed about six clicking sounds to pronounce, why things hadn’t turned out the same as it did for his radio-show hero Sergeant Preston and his faithful dog Yukon King.
“I'm an RCMP officer and I have a dog!” he angrily exclaimed. The drunk snoring loudly, still dead to the world in a cell just around the corner never heard a word but the dog curled up in front of the hot pot-bellied stove, which was used to his rants, just opened one eye and gazed up at him for a moment.
“Maybe it’s not the same breed as Sgt. Preston’s but it’s a big dog just the same. I can’t believe its part Husky and part Pomeranian though – how the hell did they manage to pull that off – the Pomeranian must have jumped up on a chair or a table. And the Mountie I replaced, why the hell did he name her Muffy? Like that’s going to scare the bejesus out of a criminal, when I yell sic 'em Muffy!”
While Constable William Anderson sat looking at his scuffed up, almost knee-high black leather boots, one of them missing a spur, he noticed his navy blue pants had one of the wide yellow stripes half ripped off and his crimson red jacket was splattered with crusted food. As he glanced at his wrinkled and caved in wide-brimmed brown hat, which was lying next to his revolver near the edge of the desk, he almost fell off the chair when the door suddenly flew wide open and slammed against the wall; a gust of wind sending a flurry of snow flakes whirling about the small room, blowing his hat to the floor. “What the hell!” he shouted.
A man as large as a small mountain dressed in furs filled the doorway. Trying to shut the door against the persistent wind, while nervously looking out into the blizzard he lisped, “Sorry handsome, the door knob just slipped through my tender fingers – they’re so cold, I can hardly bare it.”
Jeez, Mountie Bill (as the Inuit called him) thought, just what I needed, Chas, the only gay trapper in the north that wears designer outfits – what did I ever do to deserve him? Mink doesn’t even exist this far north and he’s trying to trap them so he can sew his own mink fur coat.
As Chas half swished and limped his way over to the front of Mountie Bill’s desk he puckered his lips making a slight kissing sound and said, “I’m afraid I have some disturbing news. My cabin companion Jackson has finally lost his grip and I just don’t understand it. I mean, I keep our cabin so neat and tidy, feed him gourmet meals, even check our trap lines and most importantly, I always make sure his side of the bed is warm and comfy when he crawls in. Oh dear, what am I to do?
“It just sounds like a lover’s dispute to me,” said Mountie Bill. “Unless he’s made some threats against your life, (I don’t want to go out in the cold) he thought, “There’s really not much I can do.”
“That Jackson; he’s such a brute and look what he’s done.”
Chas turned around until his back was facing Mountie Bill and said, “See the damage he’s done to my new fur coat that just arrived from Bloomingdales in New York City. As I was modeling the coat for him, he suddenly began screaming about how much it cost and chased me out of our little cabin. As I tried to get away from him in the deep snow, he fired his shotgun at me. Fortunately, the coat took most of the blast and only a few reached my delicate bum but he's ruined my new fur coat - just look at it! Could you please pick the pellets out of my tush, they really are most hurtful.”
“I’m not a doctor. I’m a Mountie!” exclaimed Mountie Bill. “Go see the doc’; he’ll fix you up.”
Like I want to touch your ass; I’d rather touch a polar bear’s.
“Oh pleeese Billee; I’ll do anything for you.” Looking over his shoulder, seeing the weird expression on Mountie Bill’s face, he changed his line of thought and quickly continued, “Your uniform is such a mess, I could really make it look nice again; even polish your boots and sew some nice curtains for you – I’ve got some lovely floral material back at the cabin. I really don’t like that doctor touching me; he’s so rough – not that I don’t like it rough at times – oh dear – did I say that? Well you know what I mean! Oh pleeese Billee – pretty pleeese - won't you pleeese remove the shotgun pellets before they start to fester.”
“How many times have I told you; don’t call me Billy! And quit whining – you’re supposed to be a rough and rugged, tough trapper.”
When Chas began weeping uncontrollably, thinking it was the only way possible to get rid of him, Mountie Bill finally caved and said, “Alright! Alright! I’ll do it! Just quit crying!”
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