Urban Legends At Work

There's a new series on Canadian television, Intelligence, by writer/creator Chris Haddock, a force in Canadian tv. (Haddock had a failed outing on CBS with his show The Handler, which starred Joey Pantoliano as an FBI handler -- the agent responsible for keeping tabs on and even coaching undercover agents infiltrating criminal organizations. Excellent series but hard to sell, and it was missing something. Hard to explain what. Haddock's Canadian shows work seamlessly and are all substance. Something was lost in the translation.)

Intelligence sticks with the behind-the-scenes approach Haddock uses in all the crime shows and civil dramas he creates. This is the inner workings of the Canadian intelligence industry as well as the well-greased drug industry here on the coast.

Some former friends of friends of my extended family were players in the industry. The dude of which I speak died rather ceremoniously in South America. Finagling another large deal of cocaine, I'm sure. He was just a friend of someone I knew, and I'd met the guy maybe three or four times. Big ol' beer gut, pretty low-rent guy, if you know what I'm saying. You'd never have him pegged as some drug kingpin. A fisherman, maybe, but a drug kingpin? Ha. Right. I've heard stories, though.

The funny thing about the guy is, when he died -- in his 50s, in bad shape -- his stuff was just doled out among friends and family, as he had no heirs or exes. There was a $3,000 mountain bike given to a cousin of mine.

Turns out the guy was another urban myth maker -- hated banks, didn't like to leave a papertrail, and didn't trust home security. He apparently made quarterly trips to Stanley Park... Once the largest urban park in the world. (1,000 acres; it seems to have been dethroned, but the reports are conflicting.) The difference between Stanley Park and others, though, is this is nature untouched, largely. Rainforests, marshes, cliff walls, and all. It's a stunning park and I cycle around it often. Just beautiful.

Anyhow. Our friend of a friend, the only place he ever rode his bike was into Stanley Park. Apparently, he chose to bank with Nature. He buried his sums, never wrote anything down, and now he has apparently joined ranks with all the others who banked with Nature. Our legend has it that he himself buried more than $100,000 in that park. Tsk.

Stanley Park's a hell of a place. Some will tell you that it lies on an intersection of spiritual laylines -- a spot that's a hotbed of spiritual activity. (Other famous places on laylines are Stonehenge and Giza, for example. Apparently.)

There's a legend about a boy found wandering the forests in Stanley Park in the midst of the war, a very spooky little ghost story that I'm having trouble remembering in full. (Do you remember it, Whipped Boy? I remember telling you that night we stole the mugs and saw the pyrotechnics. Ha! Damn, you're old now. Married people... pft.)

But there ain't no place in this city that spooks the shit out of me like Stanley Park. Oh, HEY now. I just thought of a great tale I can recount for a Halloween story. Woo. Cool. :) Well. Workiework beckons. (Blah. It's an ugly day out. A better day for jammies and mugs of warm bevvies.)

But, yes. A ghastly story for you all... later. Next time, more Mrs. Potschka. (And yes, they were all short, Shamus. Goodness. I loved Mrs. Castro and her stories of growing up in Trinidad -- stealing mangoes off the trees and all. Sigh. She was so cool.)