"Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen," Marianne said, stepping behind the table from which she made her statements.
The assembled press replied, "Good afternoon, Marianne."
"I'm going to make a statement on today's developments, and then I'll take questions, just like usual." An errant hand was already in the air. Lips set, she reiterated, "I will take questions after my statement." The hand sank reluctantly. "Thank you." Setting her papers out, she sat. Lawson placed a glass of water at her right hand. She smiled in thanks and took a drink, then began.
"Our position on the Burnt Church protests is the same: Prime Minister Reynolds supports the Ministry of Fisheries and Oceans, while understanding and sympathising with the First Nations' demands for complete autonomy on the seas. Objective moderators are on the scene, attempting to create a deal. As far as I know, there have been no changes in the gas situation, but I'm sure you'll dissuade me from that." The hand inched upward again, and she added firmly, "When I'm finished." It disappeared. "In foreign news, His Excellency Monsieur Martin Belleveau has resigned from his position as the Dominion of Canada's Ambassador to the United States. The reasons His Excellency gave were family-related and therefore confidential. That's all I know about it, guys, really. Prime Minister Reynolds has not yet named a successor, although I'm certain he has a number of well-qualified, experienced candidates in mind."
She swallowed and repeated it all in French, resisting the urge to add a sarcastic 'Vive le Quebec Libre' during her statement on Belleveau's resignation.
As she finished up, the hands sprouted into a forest, waving pencils at her and shouting her name. "Did I say thank you? Je parle merci?" The hands were swallowed back into the sea of suited reporters, some pencils left to hover behind ears. "There was an incident in Seattle this morning, of which many of you know, I'm sure. A FOLAX Utilities van exploded without warning in front of Seattle City Hall. The Prime Minister is concerned about this incident because FOLAX Utilities is a major investor in Canadian industry and the United States, FOLAX's home country, is our largest trading partner. Six FOLAX employees were killed in the explosion, the cause of which is not yet known. No bystanders were injured, though I am told three City Hall employees were taken to hospital for hysteria. Canada extends her deepest sympathies to the victims' families and to the Republic of the United Sates of America."
As the reporters scribbled frantically, she took another drink of water before repeating the FOLAX statement in French. When she finished with that, she shuffled her papers together and said, "Thank you. Merci."
The hands were suddenly there, the voices were overwhelming, but Marianne had been here before and knew vaguely what she was doing. "Oui, Monsieur Simon?"
The chubby lead writer for Quebec's government-critical magazine Jute asked her a question in rapid French. She smiled and answered immediately. Then she pointed at Geraldine Conroy, from the Edmonton Standard.
"Isn't it true that a left-wing extremist group called the Front of Liberated Anglo Growers has claimed the FOLAX explosion as their own work? Aren't they based in the Okanagan? Does this mean international terrorism is now a part of the Canadian political landscape?"
Marianne, had she been standing, would have been hard-pressed not to stumble backwards, but she knew Geraldine was looking for a transfer to one of the big Toronto papers, and just gritted her teeth and answered. "Ms. Conroy, any claim made by any group is a matter of concern, but until it is validated by the investigatory agencies involved, no claim will be announced to the press by anybody."
*
"An e-mail was sent to the White House at midnight last night attributing this morning's bombing to a Canadian radical organisation called FLAG, which stands for Front of Liberated Anglo Growers. They are based in British Columbia, which, for those of you who were educated in public schools, is the Western-most province of Canada. If you want particulars on their industries, population, or agricultural products, just ask. The e-mail was apparently sent to the Canadian Prime Minister's complaints account as well. The White House was not given prompt notification of the claim, although we did receive a lovely letter of condolences from the Prime Minister--signed with a stamp, mind you. Chief of Staff Leo McGarry--"
"Oh, no, you're not dragging me into that mudfest, CJ," Leo interrupted angrily. "And you're going to change that statement to more accurately reflect our attitude of respect and affection for our neighbours to the north."
CJ looked offended. "Sam wrote it, not me. I don't know why you're getting mad at me."
Leo swung around to glare at Sam, who whipped his hands out of his pockets and prepared to fend off blows. "It wasn't me either, it was Toby!" He pointed at the villain, who rolled his eyes and crossed his arms.
"Did you do it, Toby?" Leo demanded.
"Yes," he replied.
"Why did you do it, Toby?" Leo asked wearily.
"It's true," came the answer.
"No, it's not."
"Yes, it is. We were not notified of the e-mail when they got it. I have a sneaking suspicion they weren't going to notify us of the e-mail for some time. It is only by the terrorists' fortunate foresight that we got the e-mail at all." He would have gone on, but CJ shook her head at him and he took her advice, knowing that Leo was standing where he couldn't see him.
"The letter wasn't signed with a stamp, Toby. It was signed with a Mont Blanc fountain pen filled with royal blue ink. Do you want to see the letter before you doubt its authenticity?" Leo went to his desk and picked up a piece of paper, prepared to shove it under Toby's nose.
"No, thank you, that will not be necessary. I just assumed--"
"We know what you assumed, that they'd treat a letter of condolences the same way we do, but they obviously do not. Don't assume. You know what happens."
Toby muttered, "An ass is made out of you _and_ me." Fortunately for him, Leo was back behind his desk, moving papers around and trying to remember what he wanted to talk about next.
"Re-write the statement," he announced, looking up. "Have it ready in ten minutes."
"Okay," Toby replied, getting up and heading for the door.
"Sam, re-write the statement." Surprised, Toby and Sam looked at each other, then at Leo.
"What?" they asked in unison.
"Sam, re-write the statement. That's what I said. Are you two going deaf? Sam. Re-write the statement. You now have nine minutes." Leo sat down and crossed his arms as Sam dashed out of the room.
"What was that for?" Toby demanded in his subdued way, sitting again.
"It was a stupid statement. I asked Sam to re-write it. That's what we have two writers for."
Momentarily, Sam returned, standing in the door for a second before Leo noticed him. "What do you want? You're supposed to be writing."
"I need a copy of the statement," he said. CJ passed him hers and he ran out again.
"Eight minutes!" Leo called after him.
*
The assembled press replied, "Good afternoon, Marianne."
"I'm going to make a statement on today's developments, and then I'll take questions, just like usual." An errant hand was already in the air. Lips set, she reiterated, "I will take questions after my statement." The hand sank reluctantly. "Thank you." Setting her papers out, she sat. Lawson placed a glass of water at her right hand. She smiled in thanks and took a drink, then began.
"Our position on the Burnt Church protests is the same: Prime Minister Reynolds supports the Ministry of Fisheries and Oceans, while understanding and sympathising with the First Nations' demands for complete autonomy on the seas. Objective moderators are on the scene, attempting to create a deal. As far as I know, there have been no changes in the gas situation, but I'm sure you'll dissuade me from that." The hand inched upward again, and she added firmly, "When I'm finished." It disappeared. "In foreign news, His Excellency Monsieur Martin Belleveau has resigned from his position as the Dominion of Canada's Ambassador to the United States. The reasons His Excellency gave were family-related and therefore confidential. That's all I know about it, guys, really. Prime Minister Reynolds has not yet named a successor, although I'm certain he has a number of well-qualified, experienced candidates in mind."
She swallowed and repeated it all in French, resisting the urge to add a sarcastic 'Vive le Quebec Libre' during her statement on Belleveau's resignation.
As she finished up, the hands sprouted into a forest, waving pencils at her and shouting her name. "Did I say thank you? Je parle merci?" The hands were swallowed back into the sea of suited reporters, some pencils left to hover behind ears. "There was an incident in Seattle this morning, of which many of you know, I'm sure. A FOLAX Utilities van exploded without warning in front of Seattle City Hall. The Prime Minister is concerned about this incident because FOLAX Utilities is a major investor in Canadian industry and the United States, FOLAX's home country, is our largest trading partner. Six FOLAX employees were killed in the explosion, the cause of which is not yet known. No bystanders were injured, though I am told three City Hall employees were taken to hospital for hysteria. Canada extends her deepest sympathies to the victims' families and to the Republic of the United Sates of America."
As the reporters scribbled frantically, she took another drink of water before repeating the FOLAX statement in French. When she finished with that, she shuffled her papers together and said, "Thank you. Merci."
The hands were suddenly there, the voices were overwhelming, but Marianne had been here before and knew vaguely what she was doing. "Oui, Monsieur Simon?"
The chubby lead writer for Quebec's government-critical magazine Jute asked her a question in rapid French. She smiled and answered immediately. Then she pointed at Geraldine Conroy, from the Edmonton Standard.
"Isn't it true that a left-wing extremist group called the Front of Liberated Anglo Growers has claimed the FOLAX explosion as their own work? Aren't they based in the Okanagan? Does this mean international terrorism is now a part of the Canadian political landscape?"
Marianne, had she been standing, would have been hard-pressed not to stumble backwards, but she knew Geraldine was looking for a transfer to one of the big Toronto papers, and just gritted her teeth and answered. "Ms. Conroy, any claim made by any group is a matter of concern, but until it is validated by the investigatory agencies involved, no claim will be announced to the press by anybody."
*
"An e-mail was sent to the White House at midnight last night attributing this morning's bombing to a Canadian radical organisation called FLAG, which stands for Front of Liberated Anglo Growers. They are based in British Columbia, which, for those of you who were educated in public schools, is the Western-most province of Canada. If you want particulars on their industries, population, or agricultural products, just ask. The e-mail was apparently sent to the Canadian Prime Minister's complaints account as well. The White House was not given prompt notification of the claim, although we did receive a lovely letter of condolences from the Prime Minister--signed with a stamp, mind you. Chief of Staff Leo McGarry--"
"Oh, no, you're not dragging me into that mudfest, CJ," Leo interrupted angrily. "And you're going to change that statement to more accurately reflect our attitude of respect and affection for our neighbours to the north."
CJ looked offended. "Sam wrote it, not me. I don't know why you're getting mad at me."
Leo swung around to glare at Sam, who whipped his hands out of his pockets and prepared to fend off blows. "It wasn't me either, it was Toby!" He pointed at the villain, who rolled his eyes and crossed his arms.
"Did you do it, Toby?" Leo demanded.
"Yes," he replied.
"Why did you do it, Toby?" Leo asked wearily.
"It's true," came the answer.
"No, it's not."
"Yes, it is. We were not notified of the e-mail when they got it. I have a sneaking suspicion they weren't going to notify us of the e-mail for some time. It is only by the terrorists' fortunate foresight that we got the e-mail at all." He would have gone on, but CJ shook her head at him and he took her advice, knowing that Leo was standing where he couldn't see him.
"The letter wasn't signed with a stamp, Toby. It was signed with a Mont Blanc fountain pen filled with royal blue ink. Do you want to see the letter before you doubt its authenticity?" Leo went to his desk and picked up a piece of paper, prepared to shove it under Toby's nose.
"No, thank you, that will not be necessary. I just assumed--"
"We know what you assumed, that they'd treat a letter of condolences the same way we do, but they obviously do not. Don't assume. You know what happens."
Toby muttered, "An ass is made out of you _and_ me." Fortunately for him, Leo was back behind his desk, moving papers around and trying to remember what he wanted to talk about next.
"Re-write the statement," he announced, looking up. "Have it ready in ten minutes."
"Okay," Toby replied, getting up and heading for the door.
"Sam, re-write the statement." Surprised, Toby and Sam looked at each other, then at Leo.
"What?" they asked in unison.
"Sam, re-write the statement. That's what I said. Are you two going deaf? Sam. Re-write the statement. You now have nine minutes." Leo sat down and crossed his arms as Sam dashed out of the room.
"What was that for?" Toby demanded in his subdued way, sitting again.
"It was a stupid statement. I asked Sam to re-write it. That's what we have two writers for."
Momentarily, Sam returned, standing in the door for a second before Leo noticed him. "What do you want? You're supposed to be writing."
"I need a copy of the statement," he said. CJ passed him hers and he ran out again.
"Eight minutes!" Leo called after him.
*