The Mysterious and Bizarre Mayoralty of Frank Redman

A Story by Chris

This story is based on the outrageousness of Toronto's infamous mayor Rob Ford

It was in the fall that year when the election posters went up, and all around town you saw the name Frank Redman in blue and red lettering. He vowed to end the reckless spending at city hall and built his platform on a promise of driving out the flagrant squanderers of the city’s vast coffers. “Subways, folks. I will bring justice to the honest taxpaying citizens of this city and bring them the subways the need. There’s doubt about it. You can mark my words. When you go to the polls tomorrow night, I don’t want you to vote for me. I want you to vote for the taxpayer. Make the right choice, and together we can make this the great city is should be. Thank you.”

Those were his words at his final campaign rally, a lavish exposition with hundreds of supporters at the Princess Anne Ballroom. Glittering chandeliers hung in the air diffusing their white light over the swanky affair with all its $1500 plate dinners and patrons in their finest attire. They all cheered and stood up showering him with applause. Frank Redman stood tall and waved a presidential wave, his voluminous belly threatening to pop a button on his shirt and his black tie looking like a thin strap on his chest. The stage lights flooded down on his ruddy face making him sweat, and his short, blonde hair glowed with its receding hairline. “Frank! Frank! Frank!” They all began to cheer, and his wife was by his side in her stunning red dress. Then his brother Dave joined him and put an arm around his shoulder, assuring him with a smile. “We’ve got this,” he said out of the side of his mouth.

The next day Frank was seated in a leather armchair in his campaign office waiting for a call to come in with the results. His campaign team was with him, all on edge and trying to assuage any of his doubts and fears. Frank bit his nails and rocked in his chair. He paced back and forth and began to sweat and wipe his forehead with a kerchief. “Any word yet? Did the call come in?”

“No, Frank, not yet. My phone should be ringing any second,” said Chance, his campaign manager. Then, a second latter, his ringer sounded out. It was a midi version of Michael Jackson’s hit classic Bad. “Yes?... Oh, good..... I see. Okay. Great. Thanks!” he hung up and said, “The results are in.”

Frank let forth a howling call so loud and raucous the entire floor heard. There was applause, a popped cork, a bubbling fizz of champagne and a round of drinks. “Hear! Hear! To the new Mayor!” his brother announced.

“Cheers!” they all shouted and relished the sweet taste and Frank Redman laughed a hearty belly laugh then finished the bottle himself.

Mayor Frank Redman descended upon city hall like a clumsy whirlwind, throwing his prodigious weight around from the day one. In council chambers his first order of business was to eliminate a detailed plan for creating a comprehensive network of cycling lanes in the city. Cycle Baskerville, the name of the study, was the culmination of three years of consultations, studies, appraisals, and designs, and the plan had already been allocated funding from the provincial government. “The war on the car is over,” he announced triumphantly as he stood up to make his statement. “The last thing this city needs is more cyclists cluttering up our roadways, making a mess, getting into accidents or causing them. The road is meant for drivers, and when these cyclists get out there they’re taking their own lives in their hands. My heart goes out to them, but when they get run over by a car it’s their own fault for swimming with the sharks. The money being put into these lanes is not what the city needs. We should be putting this funding into subways, plain and simple. I say we eliminate the Cycle Baskerville plan, and re-evaluate our transit strategy immediately.”

This declaration was meant with stern derision from Councillors Morrison, LaSalle, and Burkowitz, all of whom were staunch cyclists and often rode their bikes into work every day. “Does the mayor understand that the plan entail adding separated lanes to out cycling infrastructure?” Morrison spat. “These lanes will make biking much safer, and more attractive option for everyone. An effective transit plan can’t just focus on one method. This plan has been years in the making.”

But the opposition was swiftly dashed and crushed under the size 12 polished boot heels of Mayor Redman. The bike plan was scraped, and before long the Mayor’s office was flooded with phone calls from angry residents demanding justice and understanding. The messages piled up, and before long there was a protest outside city hall. Hordes of disgruntled cyclists with their mountain bikes, and cruisers amassed with bullhorns and placards, shouting and chanting, standing on soapboxes and calling out to the Mayor taunting him and beckoning him to come out. Mayor Redman watched the commotion from his office window, his hands clasped behind his back. “We’re going to stick to our guns on this one,” he said to his assistant. “Let them shout until their throats are sore.” Eventually the crowd dispersed, but the calls and angry letters didn’t stop coming in. Mayor Redman ignored all of them.

The next day a story was published in the Baskerville Chronicle dredging up sordid details from his past. The article reported that twelve years ago, when Frank was vacationing in Florida, he was pulled over on a DUI charge and a half ounce of marijuana was found in his glove compartment. The police booked him, made him stay a night in jail, but released him the next day. How he was able to get away with marijuana possession in the United States, a country with draconian pot laws, was a mystery still, but it was largely suspected that he used his families vast fortune as means of paying off the police force detaining him. That little incidence was just a memory to him, but when the story bedecked the front page of the paper the public worked up into a frenzy demanding answers.

Frank waded through a throng of media people at City Hall, cameras and mics being shoved into his face proding him for explanations. “I have no comment on this,” he said. He never did address the issue, but it became the source of suspicion. “I do not smoke marijuana. These allegations are ridiculous,” was the most he gave them, and he casually entered his office and shut the door behind him. The media circus waited outside, determined to get a word. An hour later he came out to meet a group of business partners from HMI Consulting and as he walked down the hall the cameras were rolling and lights were flashing. “No comment. No comment,” he repeated. He pushed his way through and there was a camera man from Metro TV News standing before him and Mayor Redman, dazed and flustered from the attention, barrelled face first into the camera lens. “Ow. Watch it man! Right in the face.” He reeled and recovered himself. His escort contained their grins with effort, and helped him continue on. Before the day was through, the incident became an internet phenomenon attaining over a million views on YouTube and exploding across the blogosphere.

Mayor Frank Redman loved to play football, but even more than playing it he loved coaching it. He coached a high school team, the Bob Denison Falcons, to three division titles over his five year tenure and wanted badly to make it a fourth. He would often slip out of city hall early to make time for his coaching duties, feeling he was somewhat of a hero to the underprivileged kids he was lifting the height of athletic stardom with his dedicated guidance. In the council chamber his seat was empty and the councillors looked upon it with curiosity. “Where is the Mayor?” Councillor Baxter, Ward 32, asked. They all shrugged, or nodded or looked down at their papers, either out of ignorance, or out of wanting to protect the reputation of the mayor.

He was out on the gridiron, barking orders and encouragements to his players, offering skillful tutelage in the ways of the pigskin. This became the hallmark of his time as mayor and many people came to think of him as being only a part time governor, more concerned with sports than running the city. At one point, he used office letterhead to raise funds for an event associated with his team. They needed money for new equipment, and the school was in a poor neighbourhood so they could not afford it. Although the players had heart, skill, and speed, their equipment was ragged and old. Frank thought he was doing a noble task, completely selfless in this act and believing that any sensible human being and upstanding citizen of Baskerville would see the humanity of it and respect him for supporting kids who had so little means of their own. Frank took letterhead from his office and typed a convincing proposal which he sent out to wealthy members of society like doctors, lawyers, industrialists and venture capitalists to raise the funds. Soon the money came in and his team outfitted themselves in the finest athletic regalia. Shining helmets and rock solid armour plating befitting of the hardiest football warriors. In the locker room, Frank wore his green and yellow jacket with the team logo on it, a daring falcon swooping in for a kill, and with great pride announced his successful fundraising efforts. The new gear came in large cardboard boxes and the team tore into them like a pack of hungry hyenas, their faces glowing and smiles beaming. Their thanks was so ebullient they hoisted Frank up onto their shoulders (it took six of them to do this for he weighed 300 pounds) and carried him out to the field and dumped a vat of cold, orange Gatorade over him as though they just won another championship.

The football antics didn’t end there. Confident and brave in their new gear, the Bob Denison Falcons played harder than ever before, and with the city’s Mayor barking commands at them they were filled with new vigour and strength which led them to their fourth championship game. Frank was sure they would arise victorious and he gave them a heartfelt pep talk in the locker room before the game. They all knelt down helmet in hand, clad in their green and yellow jerseys and white spandex shorts. “We’ve come a long way, and I’ve seen all of you grow. I know you all have what it takes. Now get out there and let’s win this!” he said to them. And which a great tumultuous cheer the team psyched themselves into a frenzy and took to the field. What ensued was an intense four quarters of football that ended with the Falcons taking home the much coveted division title, and hoisting the trophy into the air.

Frank Redman decided he had to show his team a worthy victory party, but there were no vehicles around that could ferry an entire sports team across the city. But he was unperturbed by this difficulty and realized that, as mayor, he was afforded certain power and abilities that most mortal men were without. “Don’t worry. I know what to do about this. Just hold on,” he said with a fat smile and he whipped out his cell phone and dialed the number for the BTU, the city’s transportation authority. He demanded that one city bus be sent to the stadium to pick up his team tout suite and shuttle them across town to Denny’s for a well deserved victory meal. He also called the restaurant to warn them of their impending arrival and the colossal amount of burgers, fries, and shakes they would no doubt consume.

What happened next made news headlines the next day and launched a flurry of controversy about the mayor abusing his privileges. The BTU, instead of sending an off duty driver with a fresh bus, diverted a bus from a nearby route to the stadium. The driver of that bus stopped and asked all passengers to exit the vehicle due to an “emergency situation.” One woman was hoping mad, claiming that she was already running late for work and she would get an earful from her boss about this. A man was on his way to visit his sick grandmother in the hospital and protested with earnest saying that this was the only time when he could see her. Their protestations were wasted breathe, however, as the bus shut its doors leaving them all standing at the curb waiting for the next bus to come by.

When the story broke, it erupted in City Hall and a hailstorm of questions was launched at Frank Redman accusing him of abusing his powers as mayor. Frank defended himself, claiming he never told them to send an on duty bus. Over and over again the mayor denied any responsibility in the bus diversion fiasco and how it inconvenienced dozen of tax-paying citizens, the very people he had built a platform on fostering respect for. Instead, he painted himself as the as the champion of football playing underprivileged youth who deserved a night out for a season of hard training and dedication. Eventually, the fracas settled down, and within a day or two everyone had forgotten about the event.

It wasn’t long until the illustrious Mayor made headlines again. Driving down the Granville Expressway in his SUV, traffic was slow as it so often is on that highway so he took the pace as an opportunity to catch up on some reading before the city council meeting that morning. A number of transit related items where on the agenda that day including a debate regarding the much contested subway expansion plan, an issue very dear to Mayor Redman. He held a sheaf of papers in his right hand outlining the day’s agenda and his main talking points for holding his end of what would be an argument waged with heavy fervor on both sides. This all would have been well and good had the city not passed a law against doing things like reading and checking your cell phone while driving a year ago. It was called the Distracted Driving Act and was initiated with the noble intention of making driving safer by ensuring motorists stay aware.

As Frank crawled along the expressway, a mother drove alongside him with her six year old daughter in the passenger seat, and in the snail pace traffic the little girl looked over and saw what he was doing. “Mommy, that man’s reading something in his car,” she said. “Who is, dear?” the mother said, and looked over. “Is that the Mayor? I think that’s the Mayor.” She looked over and squinted. Recognition set in as the truth came into focus. She honked her horn twice to get his attention but he didn’t look over. Then she honked several more times. “He’s doing a bad thing right now. He shouldn’t be reading when driving. It’s dangerous,” she explained to her daughter who looked up at her. After honking a few more times and waving a hand at him, she finally got his attention.

But Frank didn’t look at her. Instead, he extended his middle finger and faced it towards the honking mother and continued reading his papers without concern. The mother, appalled, snapped a photo of the Mayor with her cell phone in the spirit of vindictiveness. That photo appeared in the newspapers and several television news stations the next morning. The headline: “Mayor Redman Gives the Finger to a Mother and Her Child.”

When this bombshell landed, Frank’s brother admonished him saying, “You need to get a driver, how many times have I said it? Just get a driver, and these kinds of things won’t happen. A mayor should have a damn driver. Jesus Christ, Frank!”

“No no no,” Frank denied. “It’s a waste of taxpayer money. How much should I pay a driver? Fifty thousand, sixty thousand a year? That’s coming out of taxpayer pockets. You can forget about it. I can drive myself.”

“Well, you have to issue an apology today. The press wants a statement, and that mother is really upset,” his PR manager told him.

“I can handle this,” he assured them. And he did. In a press junket that afternoon he addressed a rabid throng of reporters and columnists looking for an explanation. His heartfelt words uttered from behind the podium as dozens of camera flashes went off soothed their curiosity, but didn’t assuage their suspicions that the mayor was a self righteous lout who felt he was above the law. He gave the apology, and made a hasty retreat without taking any questions. The media scrum gave chase, but Frank’s security personnel held them back allowing him to escape like a fugitive seeking refuge in a foreign country.

The more these outrageous events took place, the more attention Frank gained from local and national media sources. Until he took the title of chief magistrate, most people had scarcely even thought of Baskerville, let alone seen daily news stories on their television sets about it. Who was this outlandish fat man who had somehow managed to rise to the highest position of this city? Frank even became an internet sensation when a short video of him tripping and falling on a football field leaked.

The way it happened, a television news crew was interviewing him at his high school team’s football stadium and he was pushing his primary agenda of subways, subways, subways for all and everyone. After the round of questions ended, the reporter asked Frank to throw him a hail mary pass as though it were the closing seconds of the super bowl. “All right, go long,” Frank chuckled, and the reporter went to the end zone. Frank hefted the pigskin in his hand, and backpedalled a few steps as quarterbacks do, but when he did this he twisted his ankle slightly and tripped, falling flat on his a*s. His brother was there to help him stand back up and put his hand in front of the camera which was still rolling. The hilarious sight of the rotund mayor losing his footing and tumbling like humpty dumpty was too much for the internet to ignore and in less than 12 hours a gif of that one moment went viral and millions of people across the world enjoyed Frank’s folly.

But the Mayor was unperturbed and maintained his dignity as best he could, which wasn’t much. All he could do was laugh it off, and pray for the whole thing to be soon forgotten. The thing is, when something like that arrive on the internet it never goes away. “Ten years from now people will still be watching that clip,” he brother said to him. “It’s out there forever now. That’s the thing.”

“All right, well, it could be worse. Am I right?”

“It isn’t helping your image right now, especially after that fingering incident.”

“Heh...”

Mayor Frank Redman liked to drink. That was no secret, however, as it came to light under a number of occasions where he showed up under the influence of beer and spirits to certain gala events. In his second year he attended a military reception with top army commanders and officials. It was a night of exquisite dinners, boring speeches, and firm glad-handing to which the mayor and his councillors were invited. The members of city hall made timely and respectable appearances in their sharpest attire. Councillor Maebeck was enjoying a pleasant conversation with General Caruthers concerning the state of transit development in the city, a hot button issue as council and the citizenry were still divided on what to do.

“He keeps harping about subways all the time, but won’t listen to reason. The city just can’t afford it, and there still isn’t a solid plan on how to fund these new subways lines. We can design new maps until out fingers fall off, but it’s all a pipe dream. The fact is, light rail lines are the way to go,” Maebeck said.

Caruthers glanced over the councillor’s shoulder and said, “Well, speak of the devil and he shall appear.” They both looked across the ballroom to see a red-faced Mayor Redman waddle into the room flanked by his advisors. His face gleamed with sweat and they could hear him loud and clear from across the room as his slurred voice bellowed.

“Just let me at ‘em. I’ve got something to say.” The entire room watched him, and many people whispered secret judgements regarding the mayor’s obvious inebriation. His brother Dave managed to convince him not to be so hasty. “You should make the rounds first. Shake a few hands. Let everyone know your here.”

And that’s exactly what Frank did. Making the rounds through the gala event, he thought he was making nice with the military officials and council members in attendance, but his loud mouthed and boisterous verbal assaults were ill-received. Perhaps getting a little too comfortable with his station of power and authority, he draped his arm over Colonel McDonald’s uniformed shoulder and mussed his epaulets slightly. “You’re a real stand up guy. I like you,” he slurred. The Colonel maintained his stern composure and wouldn’t let on how affronted he was being the career officer that he was. 35 years in the service had made him about as soft as a cast iron cooking pan, and he replied with a stiff, “Thank you, Mr. Mayor.” And that was all. Frank patted him on the pack with hearty laugh and continued his rounds.

Approaching a throng of city councillors and delegates he spreads his thick arms wide and announced his approach, but they already saw him galumphing towards them from across the room and were trying to avoid eye contact. But surly Mayor Redman bellowed as he approached, “My dear associates, how’s everyone doing tonight.” To which the group of five or six city hall suits replied with perfunctory smiles and replies of “Just great,” and “We’re good.” Then Frank started talking over them, launching into a diatribe about his deep passion for subways and how the private sector could fill the budget gap. Kip Peterson, the city’s treasurer rolled his eyes and Sarah Lonsdale, councillor for Ward 23, crossed her arms and sniffed. The others of the group watched with their mouths hanging open, hands in pockets, afraid to interrupt or perhaps too bemused by the Mayor’s inane plans.

Eventually, he left their prescience and went to the buffet table to get a plate of cocktail shrimps and sausages. On his way over he ran into a table by accident and sent it screeching across the floor, the utensils and dinnerware clattering. “Bah! Who put this table here?” he laughed and pulled it back to where it was. As he continued on towards the buffet he kicked a chair by accident, then caught it and replaced it, hoping no one saw. At the buffet table, he elbowed his way into the line up. “I’m the Mayor, c’mon. Lemme in here. Mayor gets first dibs,” he chuckled at his own joke.

He spotted Councillor Lonsdale standing by herself and decided to have a chat with her, only this time he didn’t want to talk business. Sidling up beside her he rested a hand on the curve of her waist and drawled, “Ya know, you’ve got a butt that just won’t quit. If I wasn’t married I would love to take you to dinner.”

She was taken aback and said, “Are you feeling okay, Frank?”

“Hey, you know what,” he continued, “My wife is actually away in Florida for the weekend. What d’ ya say ya come over for a drink after this is all over, hm?” and his hand slid down to her buttock and his grip tightened ever so slightly on her pliable flesh.

She gasped and squeaked and laughed a nervous laugh. “I don’t know if that’s such a good idea.”

“You don’t mix business with pleasure?”

Then, stricken with fear and revulsion, Councillor Lonsdale tore herself away from the ham fisted grip of Mayor Redman and sought security who immediately came to her aid. The head of security came out and politely asked the Mayor to leave.

“What? What did I do wrong? I’m just trying to have a little fun here. No harm done. No big deal.”

“What I’m hearing is you just committed sexual assault, Mr. Mayor. Now, I know who you are and I don’t want this to blow up. So please, I’m asking you kindly, please leave the premises. Go home, and we’ll forget this ever happened.”

Frank’s brother came to his side and talked him down, and eventually after a failed bargain to stay, the mayor did leave as asked. What he didn’t know, however, is that someone had taken a photo of him making his unwelcome advance on Lonsdale. In the morning the picture of him, ostensibly intoxicated and with a stain on his white shirt, was splashed across social media and the news.

A month or so later, another infamous gaffe occurred. Mayor Redman was resting in his home on a Sunday afternoon watching an NFL football game with frosty can of beer, and a heaping bowl of ketchup potato chips which is just what he always loved to do to unwind after a tough week of pushing for subways, and squelching the cyclist lobby at city hall. He went to the kitchen during halftime to refresh his drink and refill his bowl of chips when he peered out that window and noticed someone creeping around in the empty lot next to his house with a camera.

“Hey, hunny,” he said to his wife who was sitting at the kitchen table solving a crossword puzzle. “It looks like someone’s outside spying on us. Look at this. These damn media people don’t know when to leave me alone. And on a Sunday too!”

His wife sighed and went to the window to see, “Can’t we have any peace?”

“I’m going to handle this,” and he marched outside to confront the devious reporter.

He approached the man with aggression and force, stomping across the grass of the vacant lot next to his large home. The reporter wasn’t on his property, but Mayor Redman was planning on buying that lot to expand his property and build a few add-ons to his manor. The reporter was photographing the area for a story he was working on the for The Baskerville Chronicle, a left wing daily paper with a long standing record of delivering harsh criticisms and commentary on the mayors right wing agenda. “You! What are you doing here?” Frank barked.

The hapless reporter, Douglas Drake, was so focused on documenting the scene that he didn’t notice the Mayor bearing down on him until that moment. He snapped to attention and started to sweat because the mayor got right in his face and stood almost a foot taller and weighed twice as much.

“This is private property. This is an invasion of my space. What are you taking pictures of? Give me that camera.”

Drake edged away and pulled the camera back when the Mayor tried to reach for it, “Mr. Mayor I’m doing a story here, and this lot isn’t owned by anyone just yet.”

“I saw you from my window. You were taking pictures of my house. Give me that camera right now.”

“I can’t do that.” He was backed up against a fence and had nowhere to run. Poor Douglas Drake was in genuine fear of his own health at that point. The Mayor was worked up into such a lather over this intrusion that he felt he was on the brink of a volatile explosion. The mayor demanded to see his press card, which Drake showed him, and the Mayor scoffed upon finding out what publication he worked for.

“Go figure,” he said. “Can’t you people just stay the hell out of my business? I’m trying to enjoy a nice afternoon at home and here you come snapping photos.” He paused and stared down at the cowering reporter. “All right, you know what, just get the hell out of here. I don’t ever want to see you around here again. If I do, I’ll call the cops and then we’ll see what happens. Go on. Get!”

And the reporter scampered off. He felt like he might soil himself during the altercation, but was thankful he managed to keep a grip, although tenuous, on his bowels. The headline the next day read; “Mayor Redman Assaults Chronicle Reporter.”

Although Mayor Redman maintained a firm contingent of supporters affectionately known as “Frank Nation”, the bulk of citizens in the metropolis were opposed to the Mayor and every one of these gaffes only solidified their opposition even further. One of these citizens, Adam Krautmauer, decided to take matters in his own hands. He wasn’t the violent type. He was an intellectual, and with his lawyer Rodney Pinbacker, unearthed grounds for a conflict of interest lawsuit stemming from Mayor Redman’s dedication to his football team.

Because the Mayor used city hall stationary to write letters soliciting funds for his football team’s new gear, and did so during times when he should have been attending to city business, that activity could easily be construed as a conflict of interest. It wasn’t at all uncommon for people to accuse Mayor Redman of being a part-time mayor more concerned with winning another gridiron championship that seeing to the affluence and growth of the city he led, and this lawsuit was the tipping point. If he lost the case it would mean being deposed.

The thing was, even if he did lose the case, there was still the possibility that he could appeal the judge’s decision and delay his expulsion from city hall. After the first round of hearings he left the courthouse with his security entourage and walking down the steps was bombarded with a media assault. Camera, microphones, and questions protruded from all sides. He raised his fat hand in front of his face and declined comment as his contingent of security men in suits and sunglasses shoved people of the way to clear a hole for the mayor. This is what happened every time he went to court for proceedings regarding the case.

Of course, he had to address the issue publicly and he did so on his weekly radio talk show on 660AM Radio. Frank painted himself as the target of propaganda, media bigotry, and all manner of injustice against his regime from the left wing nuts who couldn’t stand his agenda and would stop at nothing to see him dethroned no matter the cost. If not for this, it would be something else or another thing and another thing and they would never stop until he was deeply shamed and framed as a coward or lunatic or drunkard, which he may well have been, but he was rightfully elected as chief magistrate of Baskerville and was going to finish his term and run for a second no matter what it took.

Krautmauer made a statement in the Chronicle concerning his agenda, which was already perfectly clear. The city needed a mayor who was truly dedicated to the city and not to running some football organization. It might seem a trivial thing what he was basing his case in but it was indicative of a larger underlying problem and he insisted that the city was going down the toilet when really it should be stepping up to the international stage. If Baskerville wanted to be recognized on that level, it needed a leader who could do it. For sake of justice and upholding the rules of political office which Mayor Redman was obliged to adhere. “We have a mayor who goes past the rules. He just does whatever he wants, misses council meetings, shows up wasted to public events, and does things that would otherwise have you ejected from polite society. Is this the man we want running our city? I don’t think so.” He wrote.

In court, Mayor Redman declared ignorance stating that he was not aware that he was committing a conflict of interest, and that he had never read the documents he was given explaining what it was, and how to avoid it. “People give me documents all the time. Right now my desk has a stack of things a mile high that I’m working through. I’m sure it’s in there somewhere. I’ll get to it soon enough, but as of right now, no, I have not read it.”

Ignore was a weak defense, however, even if it was the best one he could muster and the judge convicted him of conflict of interest and decreed that he step down as mayor of the city. The Krautmauer and Pinbacker were elated and hugged each other when the gavel fell, and the left wing media erupted in joyous cries claiming that a new day was upon us and the city could be saved after all from the Redman rampage.

For a day or two the city had no leader, but Mayor Redman appealed the verdict and it went back to court and he hired a crack squad of the finest lawyers he could afford, (and he could afford a lot since he came from a rich family and being the mayor comes with a hefty salary), and had the decision overturned, maintaining his seat as Mayor. The media deflated in the defeat, and everything returned to as it was before the trial began.

It was only two months until an enormous scandal erupted that would throw Mayor Redman into the spotlight and make him an international celebrity, for better or worse. The gossip website, The Spyglass, a site which focused on political and cultural issues of our time, reported that it had been shown a video of Mayor Redman shooting heroin with a group of Ugandan gang members. When the story broke on the website, the editor in chief, James Hook, told a bizarre story about being contacted online by one of the drug dealers telling him about the video, and if he took a plane down to Baskerville they would show it to him and for the low price of $200,000 they would sell it to him for publication. He followed up on their request and spent a weekend travelling all the way there for the secret rendez-vous to view the video in the back of a van in a Costco parking lot. The event was indeed shady and he brought a bodyguard with him for protection, although they wouldn’t let the large gentlemen in the van to see the video as well. It was for Hook’s eyes only.

The story ran with a picture of Redman which quickly became infamous. It showed him in a hoodie and sweatpants, the same hoodie the he often wore on the gridiron on Sunday morning coaching sessions with his high school team. He appeared to have his arms slung over the Ugandans as though they were old pals, and his face was red and smiling a devilish smile. Hook asked if he had any idea that he was being videotaped at the time, to which they answered no. He had no idea of the existence of this video. Hook was appalled by what he saw. In the video, the Mayor made racial and homophobic slurs, calling the Prime Minister’s son a fairy and saying that Asian people work like dogs and if we aren’t careful they will eventually take over the world. Hook did not have $200,000 laying around, nor did his publication have coffers that deep, so he went back to New York with the memory of what he saw and could barely sleep that night so he stayed up late frantically writing it all down on his Macbook before it should begin to fade from his memory.

The Chronicle picked it up as soon as the story went viral and sent their two most seasoned investigative reporters to contact the Ugandans and see the video themselves. They confirmed what Hook reported; that the video did indeed show the mayor shooting heroin with a needle into his arm, tourniquet and all, and he did indeed make racial and homophobic remarks unbefitting for a man of his station. Everything they saw verified The Spyglass story. The mayor of Baskerville, Frank Redman, was a junkie. It appeared to explain so much to the dubious citizens of the metropolitan city. His outlandish behaviour. His insane policy making. His bullying remarks in the media. The idea of him being a drug addict seemed to make sense, and yet appeared so unbelievable that questions as to the videos authenticity naturally came up from many people, and every media outlet in the country treated the smack video story as A1 news, giving it top level play and Mayor Redman became the source of many jokes and japes in late night talk shows and internet memes.

“I do not use heroin, nor have I ever used heroin, nor am I an addict of heroin. This video is completely, utterly false,” he declared in a live news conference.

Both the Chronicle and Spyglass were determined to acquire the coveted video, but neither had the means to do it. Spyglass launched an online fundraising campaign, while the Chronicle, refusing to engage in checkbook journalism, decided to undergo its own investigation. They began with looking into the history of the three Ugandan gentlemen the Mayor was pictured with and figuring out they were related to the mayor. A week later, one of those three was killed in a drive-by shooting while leaving an east end pizzeria with another one of the men from the photo who was wounded with a bullet in his right quadriceps during the event. The third Ugandan was arrested on drug trafficking charges unrelated to the smack video the following week and sentenced to five years in a federal prison where he was later shanked in the lunch line up of the cafeteria by a rival gang member whose brother he killed the previous year.

The media investigation approached the story from whatever angle they could. They tried to locate the house in the infamous picture, and did indeed find it. It was in a neighbourhood well known for violent crime and drug abusers, and when the Chronicle reporters found it they were shocked to discover the appalling state of disrepair that it was in. Rusted gutters hung from the roof on loose hinges. The garage door was pocked marked with dents. The screen door was torn and flapping in the breeze. The front porch was littered with dead leaves and trash. The two reporters knocked on the door terrified about who might answer and imagining what horrors they might behold upon seeing the interior of the house, but a small 9 year old boy named Kanard answered the door and asked them “What y’all want? We aint talkin’ no papers.”

They looked at each other and one of them said, “We need to talk to your mother or father. Are they around?” They peered beyond the kids shoulder and saw a house in a state of utter squalor and disarray.

“Man, they been got already, ya heard? Now get that f**k outta here snowflake before sumpin gon pop off.”

Then a man of 21 years came to the door, shirtless with a white towel over his shoulder and baggy jeans hanging down below his waist line so you could see his Ralph Lauren boxers. “Easy now little man,” he laid a hand on the boy and addressed the reporters. “What’s this about?”They told him and he said, “I maybe seen the mayor around here once or twice. Don’t know what he been doing. Seen him roll up in that Escalade. All quiet like. Easy on the downlow. Yih,” he nodded.

They didn’t get much more than that and were hard pressed to meet their 7:00 deadline. Meanwhile, the Observer, a national paper, was doing their own investigation which lead them to an apartment on the 17^th floor of a highrise in the same seedy end of town. The apartment was said to have been occupied by the Ugandan who was killed in the drive by, and was then the dwelling of a Jamaican family that had been living there for almost a year. They cooperated with the reporter, but offered little information that could further incriminate the mayor. “People come around here at all hours of the night. I hear them making a fuss out in the hall about this and that,” the mother said. The most they could gather was that the men that the Mayor was pictured with were indeed unsavoury characters with their fingers in various types of dirty business.

Stories like these ran for weeks and Mayor Redman insisted, “No one has seen this video because no such video exists.” He ducked and dodged questions on the matter as well he could in the hopes that if he ignored it long enough, the story would dissipate like so much vapour into the atmosphere and one day he would wake up and the infamous smack video scandal would be just a memory. There was no escaping the endless torment of it, however. Everywhere he turned there was another journalist looking for answers. Amidst this torrid controversy half of his staff members resigned from their posts, and Mayor Redman was forced to hire new people. His decision in this matter was unusual as many of the replacements he hired were college graduates and untested newbies with little or no political experience. His budget chief approached him in his office one day and told Mayor Redman to seek professional help, and he took extreme offense to this and exploded into a vitriolic tirade culminating into one final burst of fury where he cast the budget chief out on his a*s without a job. That event caused a major uproar in the media and all outlets across the country jumped on it like a pack of wolves.

It seemed things couldn’t get worse for Mayor Redman. Controversy after controversy, he tried hard to maintain his composure though the typhoon that swelled and rocked around him. The Spyglass crowdfunding campaign eventually did reach its milestone, but by that time it was too late. The video had mysteriously vanished.

The last lead was the Ugandan who was laid up in the hospital following a drive by shooting. Reporters from The Chronicle called him at home and asked him about where to find the video, if it was still possible. He assured them it was in safe keeping somewhere, and he could tell them more but not over the phone. They agreed to meet him in a city park, so they went for the rendez-vous at the proscribed time and place. The Ugandan was about to tell the reporters exactly who had the video, but just before he gave them location a man dressed in black with a mask over his face appeared from behind a bush and shot him between the eyes killing him instantly and ran away before the reporter could get a good look at him.

City Police were not asleep on this. They had assigned a special investigations unit to the smack video case two days after the story broke. The commissioner had no love in his heart for Mayor Redman so he assigned some of his finest detectives to get to the bottom of things, and they looked into every aspect and turn up every lead until they could find the coveted video. The lead detective on the case interviewed the one surviving Ugandan when he was recovering in the hospital but wasn’t able to turn up much useful information as these drug dealer types often are not inclined to cooperate with the law. Police Chief Bob Blaine was mum with the media. No matter how many times reporters asked him for details on how the case was progressing, he would only say that the state of their investigation was a matter of utter secrecy and until they had an arrest warrant ready he would not be willing to say anything other than that they were still looking into it, and had the best of his best men on the job 24/7. The Mayor himself was interrogated at by the lead detective several times, but Redman insisted that it was another attempt by the media to slander him and get him kicked out of office. “Ever since I took office they’ve been out to get me. These liberal nutjobs just don’t know when to quit,” he said.

The investigations went on for two months as the drug scandal swirled around him. He became sweaty and tremulous, wracked with fear and trepidation each day at city hall. Whenever he left his office a cabal of media vultures where there waiting for him with cameras and tape recorders peppering him with questions to which he mostly raised a heavy hand in front of his face to block the flashes as he repeated, “No comment,” and hurried off to whatever meeting he was expected to attend. Many people were calling for him to resign and labelled him a world class humiliation to the city.

Even still, Frank Nation remained steadfast and even became more passionate than ever before. They staged a protest in front of The Chronicle’s head office waving placards and shouting angry chants until things became heated, bottles were thrown, doors kicked in, and the police arrived to break things up and send everyone home. No arrests were made, but the turmoil was like ambrosia to international news outlets. Mayor Redman had launched Baskerville into the global spotlight, although completely by accident. The longer this went on, the more the media seemed to devour itself with its own scandalous reporting and Mayor Redman’s strategy of abeyance and avoidance seemed to be working.

The police investigation culminated in one final raid on a co-op in an east end ghetto. Operation Communion it was called, and a squad of tough cops in body armor, battering rams, and shotguns stormed a housing complex which was a confirmed hideout for the street gang that the Ugandan’s were a part of. It was believed that the video would be found there. They locked dozens of residents in handcuffs, overturned mattresses, tore through closets, and rifled through cupboards but never found it. The operation took hours and bordered on human rights violations but in the end no video was ever found. The police than abandoned the case as the trail ran cold, and no one was ever able to confirm that the video was real.

Mayor Redman met with his brother that evening and they discussed the end result of the investigation. “So you did it then,” his brother said. “It’s done?”

“My guy came through. No one knows about it. I destroyed it this morning. Erased the whole thing.”

Eventually the scandal faded away as the media had nothing left to report on, and the police had no leads to follow. It seemed Mayor Redman was invincible.

During the following summer, Mayor Redman threw a massive party at one of Baskerville’s largest parks. The event featured a band stand, vendors, barbeques, horseshoes, touch football, and one free burger and pop combo for everyone who attended. He dubbed the event Frank Fest and said that it was to show his appreciation of the great citizens who put him into office and stuck with him through it all. Over 60,000 people showed up and the park overflowed with cars. Naturally, reporters from every local media outlet, both print and digital, were there as the event was so ostentatious it was impossible to ignore. Set for a hot Sunday in July, if anything people attended for the free food and the off chance that their mayor would say or do something outrageous once more. The media reps stood around holding their steno pads with dour faces, but when Mayor Redman took the stage they lit up and came to attention with pens at the ready.

Mayor Redman stood on the stage flanked by his brother and some of his most fervent supporters at City Hall. The sea of citizens gathered before him as though they had come to see a famous rock star deliver a stellar performance and when the music was cut, they all fell silent as the Mayor prepared to give his speech. This is what he said:

“Thank you everyone for coming out today. It’s so good to see you all here, and it makes me feel good to know that Frank Nation is still alive and strong. We’ve taken a lot of crap over this past year, but we have stayed strong and we have not backed down at all because we are tough, and we are not going away. I came in with a mission, and I will do whatever it takes to stick to my guns and do what I said I would do. It’s you people that I am here for, and it’s for all of you that I continue to fight for the good taxpayers, to give them the subways that this city needs and end the reckless spending that has been going on,” he paused and surveyed the crowd before him. “But I don’t want to talk about any of that. We’re here to have fun. So let’s all just have a burger, toss a few horseshoes and have a good time.”

And the crowd erupted into ecstatic cheers. As Frank came down from the stage he was greeted by the smiling eyes of his Nation and they all chanted, “Frank! Frank! Frank!” and Mayor Redman knew that no matter what mud they threw at him, nothing would ever stick.

THE END