-The following is an excerpt from the log of Captain Robinson, recovered from the wreckage of a metal taun-taun people mover in the Canadian Arctic. 

Captains log: Day one – 8:30am. I awoke to find my trekking partners encased inside a strange, metal taun-taun. Feeling the urge to stand in solidarity, I sat down and joined them inside for 12 hours.

Captain’s log: Day two – 11pm. I set out on a glorious make-for-great-of-motherland-and-grand-leader-trek to Canada. America Jr. The world’s largest exporter of perfectly packaged pop stars. Judging by the frozen crystals that hang in the air when I exhale, I’d venture to say that it is cold as balls – upon exposure to the Quebeckian atmosphere, my face spontaneously sprouted a full beard, which assumed a mountain-man-type formation. I fear it is only going to get worse as this expedition continues, as Quebeckian general stores hold no signs of razor sales.

Over the past day and a half, I have spent hours tracking up and down the Quebeckian landscape and have gathered that these Quebeckians must be borne into baths of ice water and spend their summers sunbathing in meat freezers. Even their Quiver (the Quebeckian River) changes directions at their will, it seems. I attempted to soldier through the endless trails of slush in my trusty hush puppies, but eventually quickly stubbornly capitulated to a sturdy pair of boots once I realized that my feet, made of mere flesh and not stainless steel, could not stand up to the refrigeration.

There are many attractive features to be found dotting the Quebeckian landscape, which reminds me of an amalgamation of all the rurality I have experienced until now. Rolling hills of mountain lights like your Salty Lakes or your Pittsburghers, walls of snow like the Yukiguni, intricate light systems designed to distract tourists like your Tokamachis or New Yorkes, Steamy, smoky, fiery clouds of cloud from a Bob Ross painting. None of this impresses me. Did not look.

The Quebeckians speak a strange tongue, part baby, and part B-movie villain. This seems to stimulate hunger.

Exhausted from the trek, I managed to procure a tasty meal of ale and mutton flesh which restored manliness. Ale seems only to come in your choice of very hoppy or very f*BEEPS*-ing hoppy. Am confident acquired manliness will last until the town cryer shares word of the forthcoming weather on the picture box. Cautious of poutine geysers.

I retire to my chambers for the evening, hoping to claim some relief from the exposure of the harsh Frenchlands. Pushing forward to Mount Reals shortly. Will be on the lookout for pockets of truth.

-Namakemono