The Case of the Threats to the CPG

King Leo V here. When Kriegland still existed, I had a regiment called the CPG (Cold Paw Guards), which had the honor of guarding my palace. It consisted of guards and drummers to keep time on a marching patrol duty, and a few buglers to add to the relish when I was to enter or leave the palace. Recall that the white lion drummer that helped clear W.C.’s name, Lionel MacDonald the III, was a CPG, and prior to switching to military drum corps service, Leo the Tiger’s father, Drake, was also a CPG. The reason for the name “Cold Paw Guards” is that the regiment began in cold weather, and those being escorted or kicked out of the palace always felt the cold paws of the guard (either because it was chilling cold winter outside or because the guards traditionally would freeze their hands with ice—but never so as to receive frostbite for it—before doing their duty). The CPG didn’t limit the regiment to lions and tigers by law; it just so happened by coincidence that only those two groups ever joined. The other kinds of cats all belonged to the miscellaneous divisions of combat or musical sections, or they weren’t part of the military.

Though we now live in America, the government and its authorities have told me that since I had the throne at the time of the destruction, they will also acknowledge me as the king and respect those who are Krieglandonians and their point of view, even if it does not agree with Americans’ point of view. They have also told me that for educational and promotional purposes, I have every right to continue to use any of my regiments to serve as those that guard the security and the freedoms of Americans. Thus, the CPG is still active, and Lionel is still a drummer in the CPG. This does lead me to tell you that it is perfectly fine to take risks in some areas, because freedom is not free, and the more you exchange for safety, the less freedom you have. Eventually you will have no freedom at all and your government becomes dictatorial in nature, so to speak. So please, folks, think before you sacrifice; I do not want the CPG as the target of any sort of problems, protests, or propaganda.

While the drummers and buglers wear black drum major’s uniforms with the appropriate hats, the actual guards in the CPG wear dark green guard uniforms patterned after the UK’s red royal guard uniforms, with green hats similar to the hats worn by solders known as the “Green Berets.” Each one carries a rifle and is liable to point it at you if they feel you are an intruder, or fire it into the air if a 21-gun salute is happening. (All of my military were required to learn to fire 21-gun salutes and the drummers had a special cadence to play while that was happening.) Naturally, when I entered or left the palace for a formal reason, the guards and musicians all lined up on either side of the path and saluted me in multiple ways. I could not have ruled as I did without them, and I’m sure they’d return the compliment.

Today, W.C. had drove his motorcycle around on patrol and stopped by Lionel’s house, where I was talking with him about how I brought the CPG back into active status. “Oh, W.C.,” I said. “I didn’t see you.”

“How’ve you been?” the tiger in black returned.

“Fantastic. I was just talking to Lionel here about bringing the CPG back into active status. Now they are extra security to this town of Wildcat City, when you, your fellow G-52s, and the police aren’t enough. I’m not saying that they aren’t, but better to have extra than not.”

“True. Very true.”

“Do I know you?” Lionel asked, indicating he did not do so well keeping up with the news. (We had no such way to do so on Kriegland because we hadn’t the resources Americans had. In addition, our high moral standards led us into stubborn—by Americans’ judgment—habits, and in Lionel’s case, he had no TV, computer, or radio, and no newspaper subscription. He did keep up with the news, but he worried about his own life more than what happened in the news, whether it be sports, politics, or what was happening locally.)

“You helped me get out of jail,” W.C. replied as he shook Lionel’s hand. “I never did thank you for that.”

“You don’t have to thank me for anything. I felt it was my duty to do so.”

“I don’t?”

“No.”

“Hmmm. You Krieglandonians amaze me. Leo the Patriotic Lion would be proud.”

“How’s that?”

“He would have said the same thing.”

“Oh, I see.”

“That’s the Krieglandonian work ethic for you, W.C.,” I said. “We do our duty and do not want anything in return, not even a simple ‘thank-you.’ While we see that it is polite manners on your part to say ‘thank you’ to him, we do not feel that it is necessary.”

“So that’s one thing you and Cripto have in common, then. You both go into this modesty act. The difference is you do it but there is never a case where it is common courtesy to accept the genuine praise, so it is perfectly acceptable from you. Cripto, by contrast, has lots of cases where he should accept genuine praise, but he goes into the modesty act because he’s afraid of getting a big head or ego over it, and he overdoes it.”

“Alas, the warrior of purity must go far to keep his heart pure.”

“Well, sure, but Super C thinks he’s too dead serious about it. He never seems to want to lighten up and just live a little.”

“Could it be that he never gets any time off?”

“It might be. It’s tensing him up. If we don’t come to his aid in some cases, it will get out of control. Don’t get me wrong; he will come through and save the day, but he’ll come back all exhausted from it.”

“I hope that is not the case today.”

“Why? What’s your problem?”

“I can tell you?”

“Yes. I’m also a G-52, and I’m a certified freelance police officer. I do my own detective work sometimes.” W.C. pulled out the badges to show for it.

“Okay. It slipped my mind,” I said. “I don’t see you as much as the others.”

“It’s probably because I’m no superhero. There’s nothing exciting about me but I have been immortalized as they all have.”

“I see. Well, anyways, I have reason to believe that the CPG is under attack. I wouldn’t be surprised if Bendraqi is the culprit because it has become the norm that we are starting to expect folks to be hypnotized if such rude and anti-social behavior is the case.”

“It is indeed the norm.”

“Well, the CPG—and any Krieglandonians that moved to Britain, for that matter—have reported to me that there is threats coming from that country due to plagiarism. There is a British regiment known as the Coldstream Guards, and the man in question sending us these threats has told me that I ripped off that name. Well, I haven’t. Americans and Brits alike had no clue who we were even if we knew everything about you due to that connection gap that existed. As soon as the Quarrelsome Quartet destroyed Kriegland, the gap broke.”

“We are the Cold Paw Guards because we were first organized in wintertime,” Lionel added. “It led to the bizarre tradition of ours of freezing our paws—but never to get frostbite—and ensuring the perpetrator(s) in question felt the freezing cold paws as they were being kicked or escorted out of the palace, or worse, out of Kriegland altogether by means of deportation or death. The latter case was very rare.”

“How has he sent you these threats?” W.C. asked, jotting down everything he heard on a notepad.

“By mail.” Lionel held up a letter he opened and W.C. took a look at it. It promised Leo that the man would ensure America would go back into debt and owe Britain £300 billion if they didn’t get rid of the CPG. The CPG had struck back with arguments of their own, explaining their origins, but it still didn’t stop the man from threatening. Lionel concluded by saying, “And if there is nothing you can do about it, maybe your friends can, I hope.”

“That may be the case,” W.C. replied. “If my tiger instincts are correct, that man is hypnotized, and this is the work of the Glaswegian Devils, the group of Tasmanian devils that want Britain to rule the world so that the sun will never again set on her empire. They’ll do anything, but their hypnosis is not as dangerous as Bendraqi’s. Why hasn’t this been in the news? Or has it?”

“It has, but I don’t do so well keeping up with the news. I have no TV, radio, or computer with internet, and I am working class, I’m afraid. I play my drum as a CPG soldier, but its pay is just as notoriously low as those lions playing in the band Leo the Patriotic Lion used to lead. It’s barely enough to survive. It’s why my wife, Paula, also works, and she works at the nearest hardware store. Yet our work ethic states we should do it because we enjoy doing it, and I do enjoy it. I felt it was a way to serve my country that way.”

“I agree. Do it because you love to do it. That’s why I became a freelance cop. I’m not in it for the money. I will say this, though. If the Glaswegian Devils are behind this, then all your problems are solved; recall that Super C has a British counterpart, and his name is Captain Cripton. He has been battling those devils long before he became a G-52, and he was, of course, immortalized by criptonitroglycerite as we all are. All of us except Super C, that is; his immortalization and strength come from the sun because criptonitroglycerite will kill him off if it gets out of control. Give me a moment and I’ll contact the Captain now.”

“Okay,” we said as W.C. pulled his communicator out and dialed the Captain’s code. In mere seconds, the Captain answered, and W.C., with Lionel’s and my help, mentioned everything we discussed. “Your investigations do you no wrong, sir,” the Captain replied. “This story has been plaguing BBC Radio 2 for weeks. ITV News is all over it as well. The whole British nation is angry at this guy, and he’s in jail right now. If the devils did hypnotize him, he can be left off the hook, but bad conscience will come into play, I’m sure, and he’ll break down into someone that will end up in the asylum the rest of his life. I’m crossing my fingers and hoping that does not happen. Thank you for the tip, in the meantime; I’ll get right on it. Stay on the line, but let me take a moment to alert Firefox and Warwolf. I never do what I do without them.”

“I don’t blame you,” W.C. replied. “How’s Warwolf been since he had the meltdown and fled to Pluto?”

“He’s doing much better. He’s spending more time with Carrie now.”

“That’s good to hear.”

“Indeed.” The Captain forwarded the message to his two best friends, and the thrilling three of the UK soon got right to work. W.C. also contacted Cripto so that the requirement of live interaction would take place. Cripto’s powers, now not limited to a snap or him wearing his uniform, amazingly covered the long distance and were able to examine the man, and confirmed that it was indeed the hypnosis of the devils. As soon as it was safe to break the links off, Super C received word of what was happening from the Captain, as well as the fact that he and his friends were rounding the devils up and putting them back in prison in addition to feeding the news of the hypnosis to the BBC and ITV newsrooms. Super C flew over to where we were and asked for confirmation, and got what he was looking for from us.

When all was said and done, the CPG was free to do its duty once again, the devils were back in jail, and we celebrated as we typically did at Maximum Mighty Melt.

THE END