Wartime in Whalley

WARTIME IN WHALLEY

by Laurier Primeau

“Tell me another story about when you were young, Dad.”

“Well, I think it’s your bedtime, Luc.”

“Oh, come on! One more!”

“Well, okay…One night back in the summer of 1996, I was stuck in Whalley with only my sixteen-inch ghutzee knife and a .38 calibre handgun.”

“That’s all you had? How’d you ever survive?”

“It was pure instinct and knowledge of nuclear weapons that kept me alive that evening, son. There I was, walking down the King George Highway past the Dell Hotel Nuclear Base trying to flag down an ultrasonic taxi. As I looked down the sidewalk, I caught a glimpse of someone wearing a kryptonite jacket. Do you know what that means, Luc?’

“Only Hell’s Angels wear kryptonite! That stuff’s so outdated. Well, go on, Dad.”

“I knew that if I walked on I would have been blown apart, probably by an M-60. So I casually crossed the King George Highway and began walking in the other direction. I figured that if I got to the Canadian Taxation Fortress I’d be able to catch a laser bus. But the problem was getting there. The Taxation Fortress was one mile, three heat-seeking missiles and probably five or six nuclear grenades away. Suddenly, out of the corner of my eye…”

“Yeah, yeah!”

“…I saw an old ’85 Ferrari. It was parked at the Rickshaw Ammunition Shed. Not many of those old boats around any more so I knew it had to be my good friend Tom Selleck. I guess he was in Whalley trying to wrap up the Mulroney assassination…anyway, I had to get across the highway and over to his car without being seen. And with all those spotlights from the Space Shuttle Law Enforcers, my chances didn’t look good.

“I bent down, looked left, looked right. A spotlight crossed my path about six feet in front of me. I decided this would have to be a two-phase journey. Goal number one was to make it to the island in the middle of the road where I would be camouflaged underneath an old American missile launcher. As the spotlight made another round, I ran for it. I leapt off the sidewalk, shooting twice to my left with my handgun. Diving for cover under the launcher, I could hear the ten or twelve machine guns I got in return for my two shots. Those guys were psycho!

“While catching my breath under cover, I had to plan phase two. It was vital that these calculations be precise for my life was in danger. Hearing the commotion with their laser receivers, the shuttle squad was now lighting the place like day. I contemplated my actions and knew it was now or never. Jumping to my feet I dashed into the street. As I ran wildly, I felt the shock of a 120-volt electric bullet. But I ran on. Shots flew past my face. I fired three of my own. Then, with outstretched arms, I sprawled toward the handle of the old Ferrari. I opened the door to the sound of ricocheting bullets as they glanced off the windshield. I hopped into the car and closed my eyes, relieved that I was safe.”

“Well, Dad, that’s quite a story. By the way, how did you ever get a name like Rambo?”

I love the action and the dialog in this story, not to mention the irony. The fact that the dad is telling the tale to his son makes the action hero much more human. (For those who don’t know the area – it is a tough part of town, but in reality not quite this tough.    Valerie Adolph