CHAPTER: AELIK BALDWYNNE & THE FAYK-TULIP SMUGGLE AT THE CANADIAN PORK-LOIN DISPENSARY
The Canadian TP Probation Order had barely been printed before another scandal detonated across the northern territories—loud, sticky, and politically humiliating.
It began at The Royal Canadian Pork-Loin & Emergency Protein Dispensary, an unimpressive brick building on the frontier whose slogan was:
“If it’s glazed, we’ve praised.”
Staff expected the usual morning chaos:
hungry moose, anxious auditors, and the occasional contraband syrup enthusiast.
They did not expect Aelik Baldwynne.
The Arrival of the Baldwynne Vessel
At 9:14 a.m., a long, sleek, overdecorated river boat slid into the dispensary’s loading dock. The hull was painted with Baldwynne’s face in seventeen expressions ranging from “smoldering confusion” to “smug catastrophe.”
A panicked worker ran inside shouting:
“THE CUCKHOLDER OF THE RIFT IS DOCKING! EVERYONE ACT LIKE YOU HAVE PERMITS!”
Inside, chaos erupted.
Maple glaze buckets spilled.
Pork-loins rolled like meaty bowling balls.
A fayk-tulip bouquet exploded into fragrant, suspicious petals.
And then Aelik himself descended the gangplank, cape fluttering like an offended tablecloth.
“I HAVE ARRIVED,” he declared,
“WITH A CARGO OF TRUTH, TRANSCENDENCE, AND—”
A crate behind him burst open.
FAYK TULIPS POURED OUT.
HUNDREDS.
PINK.
PUCKERING.
TREMBLING.
The staff screamed.
The Inspection
Within minutes, the Canadian Fart Auditors arrived—responding to what they classified as a “Level 4 Suspicious Floral Overflow.” Their vizors blinked red.
Auditor Plopowski walked up, clipboard shaking.
“Sir… you can’t import that many fayk tulips into a pork-loin facility. It violates at least four treaties.”
Aelik placed one hand dramatically over his chest.
“These tulips,” he said in a tragic whisper,
“are for healing.”
Auditor Sphincterly glared.
“For laundering, you mean.”
Gasps erupted.
Aelik gasped louder.
“How DARE you accuse me, a man of unblemished theatricality, of such economic trickery?”
A second crate split open—
revealing tulips wrapped in suspiciously crisp, detergent-bright TP sheets.
Plopowski fainted on impact.
The Pork-Loin Factor
Inspector Greebly approached one of the crates, sniffing.
“…Why do these tulips smell like syrup-glazed pork?”
Aelik struck a pose.
“They are INFUSED,” he explained,
“with the sweet, meaty essence of forbidden diplomacy.
A gift for the Tribunal.
To smooth over the… misunderstandings regarding your bleached Crack.”
Sphincterly seized the nearest tulip.
“This is contraband.
Grade-A laundering flora.
Hybridized with pork aerosols!”
Aelik raised his chin, trembling with wounded pride.
“I am not a smuggler.
I am a visionary.
These tulips will restore exergy balance to your nation.
They will mend your Crack.
They will bring glory to your glorious holes.”
Every auditor in the room dropped their clipboard.
The Arrest
The Tribunal’s emergency hotline was activated.
Within minutes, four Inquisitors stormed the dispensary in their ceremonial burlap robes.
Lady Flapworth entered last, nostrils flaring.
“Aelik Baldwynne,” she intoned,
“you stand accused of:
-
Smuggling agricultural abominations across the border.
-
Attempting to fuse pork aerosols with economic tulip derivatives.
-
Interfering with a nation’s fissural dignity.
-
And possessing more fayk tulips than any sane being should.”
Aelik blinked.
“Is… is that illegal?”
“IT IS NOW.”
Aelik raised his hands, cape fluttering.
“I submit myself to the Tribunal,” he declared,
“but I warn you—
your Crack will not hold without me.”
Auditors gasped.
Tulips quivered.
A pork loin rolled dramatically out of a crate like a fat, glossy omen.
The Inquisitors dragged Aelik away as he shouted:
“YOU NEED MY TULIPS!
YOUR ECONOMY IS DOOMED WITHOUT MY FLESH-INFUSED PETALS!
I AM THE SAVIOR OF THE CRACK!”
Flapworth turned to her officers.
“Seize the pork loins.
Burn the tulips.
And someone mop this syrup before it hardens—
we do NOT need another incident.”