Ellen Fanshaw (dame_ellen) wrote in utr_logs, @ 2009-08-16 11:52:00 |
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Entry tags: | constable benton fraser, ellen fanshaw, inspector meg thatcher |
And waxen in their mirth and neeze and swear
Who: Ellen Fanshaw and Constable Benton Fraser, RCMP
Where: Consulate General of Canada in Chicago/Consulat général du Canada à Chicago
What: Ellen's less than grand entrance to this world
Warnings: Language from Ellen, and other ego-driven explosions.
As a rule, the Canadian Consulate in Chicago is a quiet place, the nation's business in the tri-state area being conducted in a low murmur accompanied by the gentle tap-tapping of keys, punctuated by the occasional telephone ring. But rules are meant to be broken, and now it is a young constable's responsibility to try and mend them again.
"Ma'am," Constable Hourani says in her most patient voice, "I do understand that this is very distressing for you--"
"Distressing?" repeats Ellen Fanshaw. "Yes, I suppose you could call it distressing if you had a limited vocabulary. Maybe I didn't make myself clear. I've been kidnapped. I'm supposed to be in New Burbage. I'm not the only one who's gone missing lately either. You should call them. Or check whatever it is you people check for reports of serial kidnappings. Go on. There's bound to be something about it. It's not as if much happens in New Burbage besides the festival."
Constable Hourani frowns. This is the first time the woman has mentioned a city. "And where is that, ma'am?"
Ellen answers the question with an incredulous look. "Oh, please. Admittedly I don't expect a Mountie to enjoy Shakespeare, but were you sleeping through all your geography lessons? It's near Toronto. Where were you raised--the prairies? God, I'm talking to Annette from Winkler, aren't I?"
Hourani ignores the purely rhetorical questions. "Ma'am, I'm beginning to get a picture of what happened to you--"
"Oh, finally!" Ellen looks heavenward, spreading her arms in a gesture of thanksgiving. "I've only told you half a dozen times now. Jesus! I. Was. Kidnapped." She searches her jacket pockets and thrusts a pink leather wallet at Constable Hourani. "But when I woke up, I found this. It must belong to one of the kidnappers, because ... honestly." She gestures with the wallet at herself. "Do I look like a cosmetologist?"
Constable Hourani manages to take the wallet and flips through the contents, studying them intently. "No, ma'am, no more than you sound like an American, much less a Chicagoan. But what seems to have happened is that you've been transplanted here from your world of origin, and if you'd like we can begin repatriation proceedings here at the Consulate--"
"What? Repatriated--God, what, now you can't even get kidnapped into the United States without losing your citizenship?" Again Ellen casts her gaze heavenward, then lowers her head, closing her eyes and taking a deep breath. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry." Her eyes open, a more vulnerable cast coming over her mien. "Look, just call the festival. A woman named Anna Covey will be answering the phone, unless it's an intern, in which case you want to ask for Anna, because you won't get anything useful out of the kids, and then have Anna put you through to Richard Smith-Jones. Spelled just like it sounds." She leans forward, hands outstretched. "Just ... just call, please."