The Battle and the Burning
Pictures taken December 17, 2004

Against the backdrop of the world, the Canadian Plastic Forces thundered across the linoleum plains, driving tirelessly towards their destination. Theirs was a curious fate, a curious mission, and Rear Admiral Spelunker carefully re-read Command's dispatch message as his tank forged ever onwards across the Karpett. Or at least he tried to - damn these non-posable limbs, he cursed silently. Damn them to hell! It wasn't easy spending life with both arms outstretched, grasping grenades that would never be tossed because they were part of his fucking hands. No wonder the G.I. Joes laughed at him and his boys, mockingly rotating their torsos and swapping accessories just to rub it in that they could. God damned Yankees.

But he digressed. The mission - the mission was his focus. Luckily he had committed the troops' orders to memory. And the task ahead was this: "A variety of horrible and infinitely more powerful action figures will murder you and your men for the idle amusement of a bunch of liberal college kids, who probably voted NDP, and their inter-web friends. Head to the centre of the living room and commence operations ASAP!" Spelunker pondered. What could this cryptic dispatch possibly mean? Hopefully there was a fat promotion and a lot of under-the-table drugs waiting for him at the end of all this.

The Canadian Armed Forces in their entirety. Their Canadianness is evident by the Canadian flag (although sometimes this isn't the case, as Americans are prone to posing as Canadians in other countries... hmm, where's that nationalism now? But trust me, these green plastic soldiers are Canadian. Why would I lie?) Their entirety is evident by the fact that there are THREE of them. Plus vehicles!

Rear Admiral Spelunker had just finished supervising Grunt #1 and Grunt #2, both loyal fellows with intricate family lives and backstories, in setting up the defenses when the darkness of night hit. The Canadian flag glowed with an eerie candescence that reeked of photographic manipulation, and the soldiers, awed by the power of their national symbol, gathered around and worshipped it like an idol. The flag was their tiny red God. Sadly, their paganism distracted them from more important tasks... like keeping a lookout for the arrival of monsters.

"And that, Grunt #1, is why you are a private. Because you are holding that gun, and I'm holding this ambiguous grenade-radio thingy which clearly indicates that I'm meant to be the leader, okay? Clearly!" Rear Admiral Spelunker finished his diatribe with a hauty pivot... and came face to face with a beast dredged from the most horrible nightmares a soldier could ever imagine. "Sweet plastic Jesus!"

Reacting with a speed borne from years spent manwhoring the rough and tumble streets of Plasticouver, Grunt # 2 sprang to battle position on top of the tank. "Worry not, fellow servicemen! We shall prevail over this foul denizen -" Rear Admiral Spelunker cut him off. "Actually, #2, there are two foul denizens now. So you should've used the plural noun. Just so you know for next time." Spelunker looked around proudly - correcting grammar was his personal gift to the world.

Grunt #2 continued, somewhat less enthusiastically. "Yes, well, I was about to say that we will prevail by the will of our invincible flag! Mother Canada will never let us -" Spelunker interrupted again. "Mother Canada? Isn't that a little bit, I don't know, Communist? I like to think of Canada as more of an Uncle Herbert, hip to the jive of the street kids but with a secure stock portfolio and maybe a tiny case of hemorrhoids that nobody knows about. You know, just a little discomfort, nothing serious." Spelunker grinned broadly. Correcting personifications was another little talent of his - he had long known exactly which fictional family member Canada would represent and it was his job to spread the word.

This time, Grunt #2 just stared. What the fuck.

Diablo and Random Skeletal Guy watched the proceedings before them with great interest. "You know, I've always thought of Canada as a breakdancing child molester," Diablo remarked. "Just privately, you know."

"Ssssssssssssshhkawch!" Random Skeletal Guy replied in the ancient, evil language of demons.

"Fine, fine. We'll get on with the razing then. But why can't you use English? Language of the new world, you know. Everyone's doing it."

"SCCCCHHKAAAWOWITCHH!"

The razing commenced. It was red in tint.

The plastic warriors battled valiantly from behind their defenses, but the mammoth assailants before them were far more maneuverable and consequentially more vicious. Random Skeletal Guy's scythe arm flashed as he chopped nearby trees into a salad and Diablo roared his approval. Unbeknownst to the embroiled soldiers, the flag behind them had deserted the cause, and this foreboded disaster. No war can be won without the oversight of the Mystical Maple Leaf.

Suddenly, a massive claw reached out and snatched Grunt #1, holding him aloft. "Oh no, Sarge!" cried Grunt #2. "My super hi-tech magnification targeting receptacle reveals that our compatriot has been taken captive! At least, I think it's him - my resolution isn't too good. It sorta looks like him... I mean, he's green at least." Rear Admiral Spelunker corrected the private's excessive use of adjectives, then squinted. It DID look kind of like Grunt #1, but how could they be sure?

Diablo read their plastic minds and knew their uncertainty, because he is the Lord of Destruction and, as such, is generally cleared to use those kind of demonic abilities. "Oh yes, this is indeed your unfortunate companion and I'm about to bite off his motherfucking head! GRRRAWWRRRR!!" Then he posed for the camera, looking all cool and evil and stuff.

KAPLOOOOW-BAMMO! The tank sprang into action, shooting Random Skeletal Guy in the crotch just as he took a hesitant taste of Grunt #2's leg.

"SCROLLOOOOOGAUGH!" he hissed in pain. Even skeletons feel the burn when they take an armor piercing shell in the junk.

Diablo paused in his plastic meal. "I told you, use English you gaylord! We don't want people to think we're Arabs," he chastised.

Rear Admiral Spelunker stood, rooted in shock, staring in horror at the scene of PG carnage unfolding before him. It never occurred to him to call in reinforcements, or to perhaps use the grenade that had been a cursed part of his anatomy since moulding.

Suddenly Rear Admiral Spelunker bolted. Springing into action like a jackrabbit looking to fuck another jackrabbit, he quickly hopped into the bed of the truck which had transported him to this hellish engagement. But it was too late. The devastation around him was incredible - Grunts #1 and #2 were gone, unexpectedly, tragically, without even a chance to tell him about the plastic wives and children they had back at home. Without even a chance to shed a tear.

They'll pay for this, he wept bitterly, as the truck somehow drove itself. They'll all pay. Wait... isn't revenge the wrong emotion to be feeling for someone currently fleeing in cowardice? It felt good to correct his emotions. Correcting was his little hobby, his tiny gift. But correcting was also his downfall, as he was too busy correcting to notice the array of enemies that had surrounded the motionless truck (it ran out of gas). Too busy to see the Xtreme Pumpkinhead Biker who had joined the fray and was about to fuck him up royally. That's a little bit of foreshadowing for ya, right there.

The Xtreme Pumpkinhead Biker was a fellow with a heart of gold, a real trickster who saw the best in people and tried his hardest to bring it out. But he was also an avid murderer and fell eagerly into the employ of Diablo and his band of merry rogues. Angry that he had missed the earlier razing and soldier-tasting portions of the evening, he was looking for retribution: deadly retribution. And so, as he leapt into the sky, propelling his stunt bike upwards, the Xtreme Pumpkinhead Biker carried madness in his gaping yellow grin.

And as he descended, Rear Admiral Spelunker had just one instant to recognize the pumpkin fellow's improper grasp on the bicycle handlebars and open his mouth one last time before he was brutally eviscerated. It was bad. Parents were asked to escort their children from the room for the duration of the movie, or slideshow, or whatever the hell this is.

Let this be a lesson to you, Canadian Armed Forces!

After clearing the wreckage away, Diablo's forces celebrated their victory over Canada with a hearty game of strip poker. Beverages were sipped. Conversation was had.

"Schhhhyllywakka!"

"Shut up, Random Skeletal Guy, this story doesn't have to make sense."

"SCHHHKYLA!"

"Who says? Nobody, that's who. Now show 'em. I've got a pair of Jacks. You? Hah! That's right. Better take off that loincloth... that's right, ALL the loincloth."

Akira was a pretty good movie, but Tetsuo can't speak without subtitles or a translator. Sad fact of life.

Diablo: "You should really learn English, Tetsuo. Wave of the future."

Tetsuo: "#$@#!!!!"

Diablo: "Huh? What'd he say to me? Anyone? Did he just call me Basil?"

Blank stares all around.

"My head appears to be on backwards," Diablo noted at one point during the game. "Not only is this extremely uncomfortable, but I can't see my cards. What the fuck is going on?"

Really, nobody knew what the fuck was going on.

Meanwhile, the Xtreme Pumpkinhead Biker was having issues of moral conscience. His bloodlust had gotten the better of him, again, and now he was regretting killing that Canadian soldier. If he hadn't killed him earlier, he could be killing him now instead of playing this hella-gay game of strip poker.

Suddenly everything paused and a spotlight came up on Random Skeletal Guy. The others waited, static - it was evidently the skeleton monster-thing's turn to have some sort of important revelation, only this one would incredibly huge and meaningful, perhaps philosophically life-altering by all indications. None of them had gotten a spotlight and mandatory freeze, after all.

Random Skeletal Guy mused carefully for an eternity, opened his mouth, paused, closed his eyes and imparted his wisdom:

"Sckarrrrrrrrrrrrrthawkamyr shhhhheeeltak!"

The others nodded sagely. It had been worth the wait.

Typically, a bird's eye shot of the action can mean two things. One: the director wants to encompass everyone and everything in his field of vision for some sort of visual or ideological point, revealing the enormity of the world and his masterful scope in exposing it for the viewer.

Or two: something's coming down out of the sky to fuck shit up. In this case, an extendable boxing glove screams out of the heavens to deliver punishing jabs and roundhouse hooks to Diablo's helpless army, ruining their poker game.

In his moment of death, Diablo feels a vague sense of disappointment: he was only two hands away from getting Xtreme Pumpkinhead Biker's jumpsuit off. The Biker felt an equivocal sense of relief as he was pummeled out of existence.

What could cause such wanton destruction, such disregard for a well organized and conducted strip-poker game between plastic beings? Who could be responsible for the carnage strewn across the Living Room Karpett?

'Tis I, using the mechanical limbs of justice in a show of divine retribution for our fallen troops on the field of battle! This is an insanity not taken lightly, my friends. This is true power in the hands of a madman. This is Canadian Street Justizz.

This is ridiculous. I can't believe you've read this far. Well, the best is yet to come. Tired of figurines and plastikstuffs, me and Chad decided to immolate all my old toys - drenching them in gasoline and setting them ablaze. It was an important growing-up ritual, the death of childhood and a gateway to our newfound maturity. Honest.

Here, Chad demonstrates the proper technique for dousing things in fuel: by pouring it all into a garbage pail. Note the container of machine oil at his feet - that was our second choice.

Hot tip: always wear oversized safety glasses when setting things on fire! Chad didn't, and almost lost his eyebrows in an impressive explosion.

It begins. Funny how two words can be so ominous, isn't it?

I assure you, this image is merely a trick of perspective. In actuality, the fire was much, much larger than this joint.

Really, how many joysticks get a funeral pyre? But this one was special - it helped me guide the original Prince of Persia through a castle of devious death traps when I was a wee lad. Later, when its calibration snapped, it was responsible for running the Prince straight into a razor-sharp grinder. Murderer!

This picture needs a pretentious caption like "Technology Ablaze" or "Computer Gaming a Hot Issue" or maybe "Yo, These Fucking Kids are Setting Bonfires in the Backyard Without a Sanctioned Permit!"

But that would be a lie. Of COURSE we had a permit.

Pyromania is a myth, perpetrated by clinical types looking to make a buck off people who think they need a quick fix. Disease? Pah, what "disease"?

Proof irrefutable that the Nike Swoosh is an unholy rune, bestowing all that it touches with unnatural powers of protection (at the price of the bearer's soul).

And so, as the fire's grave was hastily dug from surrounding snowdrifts, we realized that we had learned a valuable lesson from all of this. Actually Chad learnt two lessons, the first one being that burnt hair smells pretty bad and somehow seeps into its surroundings like a fierce scent invader. But the main point, and one which I hope this gallery has conveyed beyond all shadow of a possible doubt, is this:

Things don't always have to make sense.

Also, if you correct people's grammar on a consistent, annoying basis, you are likely to be killed by a massive (in comparison to you) biker with a pumpkin grimace for a face.