The Adventures of Mark Carney, Prime Minister of Canada

Episode One: Gender-Affirming Care

The office was spacious, Victorian. Its walls were oak with arching bay windows and green-dyed pine inlay. In it stood Mark Carney. His gray suit was of high quality and fit well. Pillowy white, cloudy summer light came in from outside.

He waited beside a Canadian flag hanging from a six-foot brass flagpole. A phone was clutched in his right hand, held loose by his hip. He was expressionless.

It was a shrewd face like that of a successful farmer, a mask of calculating practicality, staring out the window, watching citizens pass the Centennial Flame monument on Wellington Street.

The door swung open behind him with the faint, woody whisper of fine carpentry. Female footsteps approached in soft-soled slippers. Carney recognized the pleasant scent of her perfume, hair care products and skin creme, accompanied by the familiar tinkle of ice.

Chrystia Freeland stood beside him. They didn’t look at each other. Taking a sip from her gin soda with lemon, she waited, also eyeing the people outside.

Her knowing smile was comfortable and assuring. A blonde in her fifties, her dress and light blazer was tasteful over a body growing stocky in comparison to the lean Prime Minister. They could have been siblings or a long-married couple, even sharing a hungry aura that nearly outshone their civil energy.

Something shimmered beneath. Momentarily, she closed her eyes and shivered with pleasure, grinning with even teeth. Without looking, he nodded in silent acknowledgement.

On closer inspection, they appeared like flattened video impressions of themselves, projected into the room.

She gave him the crystal highball glass she was drinking from. He gulped its contents all down, still not having glanced at her.

Carney then turned her way, regarding her profile as she trained her gaze at the outdoor monument. “How’s the boy?” he asked.

“Distracted,” she replied. “His handlers report no disruptions. He’s probably waiting for the same call we are.”

Carney’s cell rang. He and she made eye contact, his expression asking her to stay. She nodded. He lifted the phone and accepted the call.

“Yes?”

“Prime Minister Carney,” said an elderly, deep German male voice. “We need a win.”

“Of course.”

“Your housing crisis is an embarrassment.”

“Our resource industries will carry us.”

“Useless!” huffed the old European “A conservative Old Stock Canadian enclave. We need a show of force, the resurgence of a progressive idea losing favor.”

“What do you suggest?”

“Follow the white rabbit.” The call went dead.

Lighting in the room flickered. So did the pair. During that second that the room dimmed, their forms glowed differently.

They became momentarily red and naked. Their bodies were hairless and scaley. Both had wide mouths full of sharp protruding teeth, huge glowing eyes, and giant hands.

Then the lights and their features became normal again. Looking at each other, she said,

“Let’s get a drink. A real one.” They walked out, winding their way through the majestic parliamentary buildings, she while texting. Waiting at the bottom of the wide stone steps was a new black Escalade. Inside it was a large, unpleasant-looking driver in a baby blue tracksuit with face tattoos and a military haircut.

He drove them down the main walkway onto Wellington Street, Ukrainian death metal roaring softly in the front speakers. While driving, he growled instructions into his phone in his native language.

On Sparks Street they stopped outside the Rabbit Hole, a posh bar in a Heritage Site stone building. Walking in, a sunny-faced young hostess greeted them. She spoke to the driver confidentially as they crossed the almost-noiseless main pub area in which the staff and clientele were patient and preoccupied.

Following the driver and hostess, Chrystia closed her eyes again, smiled and shivered again, stroking Mark’s arm. He nodded appreciatively but otherwise didn’t respond.

They arrived at a discrete door held open for them by a lightly bearded bartender with Mediterranean features. He whispered to the driver on his way in, lowering his eyes respectfully for the Prime Minister and his companion.

They descended two flights of stairs and stood in a foyer resembling an upscale bomb shelter as other customers were being herded out of a separate room.

These politicians being expelled glared at the new arrivals, whose aura was completely different from theirs. These were Conservative Party members, offended and guileless and frustrated by their own outmaneuvered powerlessness.

As these rabble were corralled out a back exit, the lethal-looking Ukrainian driver told Mark and Chrystia, “Ripple cocktails are available.”

The liberals smirked. They already knew. Freeland’s little smiles and shivers were reactions to abortions taking place at a nearby clinic. Whenever a helpless spirit departed from the murdered unborn, Liberal Party skinsuits felt the ripple of its wings in the spiritual aether. This sensation brought with it an almost overwhelming sensual pleasure.

It also meant the availability of adrenochrome. Abortion doctors in Ottawa knew what was expected of them. They were all connected to downtown’s liquor-elixir underground, where absolute discretion was the only option.

Cleared of conservative human nerds, Carney and Freeland were admitted into a historic underground glamour bar, seated in a wide, sumptuous booth made nearly two centuries ago, carved from five hundred year old maple. The embroidered cushioned seating was carefully maintained, spectacularly comfortable and older than Confederation.

The space was about a third full. Its remaining patrons looked good in their suits and spoke quietly at their tables with almost ghastly intensity. Brown sound was piped in so no words carried far enough to be overheard.

Men like the track suited driver stood along the dark paneled walls, out of earshot, watching.

Two ripple gin tonics awaited the prestigious new arrivals, icy perfect with lemon and droplets of oxidized adrenaline. The seated pair drank them greedily as the standing hostess and bartender watched fondly. Mark’s driver observed the employees watching them, feeling the handgrip of a Glock tucked in the elastic waistband of his track pants.

As the esteemed pair finished their drinks, their demon skins shone through again. She touched his hand with relief. He smiled at her for the first time as their digital personas then resurfaced.

A young server brought their second round as a thin man with slicked-back black hair wearing an excellent suit approached their table. “Downstairs,” he hissed at them. Walking away, other patrons were beginning to file out through a single black panel door hidden among the walls.

Carney and Freeland gulped down their drinks and stood. They joined the others going into the concealed exit. Behind them followed the bodyguards, all armed and tattoo’d, softing singing a low gnostic hymn that was sacred to the Azov Battalion.

When the last liberal went inside, the portal closed behind them as Ukrainian warriors waited, ready to defend.

Descending narrow obsidian stairs, the lightless space was made visible only by the projected bodily glow of the walkers. They came into catacombes lit by torches in brackets embedded in stone walls covered with Hebrew and Ancient Egyptian markings, illustrations of Baphomet and Kabbalistic esoterica.

Granite tombs of Canada’s masonic forefathers stood in silence.

The arrivals formed a circle on the marble flooring, their members representing CSIS, Mossad, MI6, Pfizer, AbbVie, Novartis, Blood Gates, Atomwaffen Division, and the Order of Nine Angles. Before them, standing between two torches flickering on poles that rose from the ground was their CIA leader, larger and handsomer than the rest.

Everyone was a man in a bespoke suit except Freeland. The CIA rep said:

“The World Economic Forum is a disgrace and so are you all for letting the transgender movement’s momentum die. Millions of medicated children made more vulnerable by divorce are currently ripe for transition. Those young goyim would be lifetime customers.

“Fortunately, we may have a solution.” The spook snapped his fingers and two well dressed men dragged out a former Canadian Prime Minister, wearing only a bloody hospital gown, struggling and confused, his hands tied behind him.

“The boy,” muttered Carney. Standing next to him, Freeland grasped the cuff of his jacket in surprise and erotic excitement. He pulled his wrist away as his predecessor was forced to his knees, sweating and breathing heavily, facing the congregation.

“As a father and former national leader,” said the American agent, “he will now become an effective voice for reviving transgenderism, filling our coffers.

“Now is our chance to correct history. Reassign him. Dine on him, brothers. Remove his prostate. Make him a transwoman.”

The collective pounced on the screaming former Prime Minister, gleefully chomping on his genitals. They did so as his CIA handler held him by his head, digitally flickering back and forth from human to grinning demon.

In seconds, the space between helpless Trudeau’s legs was a gaping maw of bloody gore. Weeping, wailing, he complained that mutilating him had been completely unnecessary. His blood-stained audience blinked, stunned, wobbly with satisfaction, woozy with pleasure.

*

CBC Television was first to broadcast the anti-transphobia ad. Its production had been fraught with turmoil. The mechanics of telling this progressive tale created division among Canada’s top advertising executives.

Eventually, they had all settled on a layered presentation style that satisfied no one. Hipster art directors had scored by getting split-second references to the 1953 vintage trans propaganda film Glen or Glenda by having Trudeau appear in shot-for-shot recreations of that movie as Justin and then Justine.

LGBT leaders campaigned successfully to include footage of him at Pride parades, touching trans people, hugging them, radiating happiness to audience cheers. These images were contrasted with darker soundscapes accompanying still pictures of him in blackface, implying pre-transition sadness and confusion, which the ad’s BLM advisor said was satisfactory.

Anti-family advocates were placated by showing stills of the former Prime Minister being with his ex-wife and children in a collage integrated with the blackface montage, suggesting his male identity had been a painful burden. This mood was reinforced by additional footage of him weeping in parliament.

Big Pharma was represented by cinematography of attractive people wearing lab coats in a clean laboratory, looking into microscopes and handling syringes. In the ad’s final shot, they gazed toward the viewer collectively as a voice actor said pharmaceutical companies would always be there for them. That their compassion and product lines could never be exhausted.

Unfortunately, this ad went mostly unnoticed. Media outlets in Canada gave it heavy rotation but there was no corporate interest outside those companies directly affected. The timing was off. Society had moved on. New wars and racial conflicts were sexier.

Also, the final product was strangely flawed. Trudeau was clearly wounded. His crotch was bleeding on camera. He fell into comas while filming. His handlers kept injecting him with estrogen and testosterone and adrenaline and steroids and methamphetamines to keep him functioning during production.

Carney publicly doubled down. He refused to let the goyim forget that they were indebted to him and the World Economic Forum. He jailed hundreds of online trolls for pointing out how disgustingly damaged their former leader’s eyes looked while staring into the camera, how they radiated pain and emptiness and betrayal.

Furthermore, neither the WEF nor the CIA together could convince the Catholic Church of the soundness of their message. Pope Leo was horrified by the disfiguration of that man. This was clearly an act of destroying a creation in God’s image.

In spite of Canadian society’s passive secular inclinations, most of the nation leaned away from the ad. Those miserable and highly-medicated eyes couldn’t sell.

When Trudeau died of infection and heart failure, his body doubles proved unconvincing. The Liberal Party kept trying to push the ad even after the CIA told Carney the campaign was over. Eventually, he took the L as the World Economic Forum became more excited about resettling Africans in Europe, which was generating real media traction and monetizable controversy.

Mark and Chrystia’s Ottawa lives resumed a bland but satisfying drinks-based tempo, awaiting their next feed.