Later that week, Rob Ford was sitting in his office chair, fedora slung over his eyes, dreaming of shooting bums and hippies with his .45 Roscoe singing ka-chow! Ka-chow! when a slithering noise partially awoke him and made him fall out of his chair.
He peeked carefully around the leg of his desk, hands on his BlackBerry, and quietly cursed. Another paper lay on the floor, slipped under his office door. He got up, rubbing his knee, and picked it up.
It was, of course, the Toronto Star, but the headline really woke him up fully.
Dri Tomi Says The P.I. of Toronto Pushy, Unprofessional
What?? Rob Ford pushed aside the autographed picture of him with the Toronto Argos and spread the paper out full.
“He approached me in the supermarket,” said Tomi. “I thought we were making small talk, but the next thing I know, he’s scratching out his name on his P.I. of Toronto business card and hinting that if I don’t make a donation to his museum, I might find trouble parking in this town.”
What? Rob’s face turned red. One of his own heroes…! The room began getting smaller and smaller. The Argos in the photo seemed to leer at him. Things got hazy, and then…blackness.
Somewhere, a voice was roaring something, but Rob Ford couldn’t tell what. All around him, lefties and bike couriers danced, juggling tofu, singing, and popping wheelies on their stupid bicycles. Suddenly one of the downtown lefty elite filth threw a block of tofu right at him.
Rob tried to get out of the way, but he was moving way too slowly. The block of tofu spun, closer and closer, throwing off little drops of water as it spun in the air. It was headed right for his face. Rob tried to move, but all he could do was scream silently as the block of vegan poison headed right for his mouth.
Splash! Rob Ford opened his eyes, then blinked them furiously. His brother, Doug, was standing over him with an upside down bucket. Rob’s face and shoulders, and the floor under him, were wet with cold water.
“Bro,” Doug said, “I had to do it. You were crying so loudly…”
“I was not!” Ford replied, and struggled to his feet.
“You were. I thought you were going to start kicking your heels on the ground like you did at camp that one time.”
“Ridiculous!” Ford replied, standing up and brushing himself off. “I was just having a bad dream. You could have just woken me up, you know.”
Doug’s only reply was to grin and put the bucket down on his brother’s desk. Then the grin suddenly vanished.
“Bro,” he said, “you gotta do something. There was enough bad press before, but this is going…”
“I never did anything wrong!!”
“I know, but…”
“They can’t push me around! I’m The Private Eye of Toronto! That means a lot!”
“Bro, I know, but if you’d just listen…”
“I’m not apologizing for anything! I have never abused the powers of this office in any way, shape or form, and if people don’t believe that, they can wait until the next election for The Private Eye of Toronto!”
Doug placed his hand over his brother’s mouth. “This is the best part! You don’t have to apologize! You just say nine simple words!” And he leaned over and whispered in his brother’s ear.
The reporters outside the office of The Private Eye of Toronto whispered among themselves. The P.I., actually requesting a press conference? What was going on? Was he going to resign? Throw a tantrum? They looked over at the seemingly calm reporter from the Star.
Then Rob Ford, flanked by his brother, Doug, appeared on top of the steps of the building. Rob stepped up to the microphone on the podium.
“I am here to say one thing. I was not aware I was guilty of any malfeasance.”
And then, in front of the surprised reporters, he turned around and reentered the building, followed closely by his brother. A clamor of questions rose up and reporters ran after the Fords, but the door was closed and they watched the Fords lock it from the inside.
“There,” said Doug, “now wasn’t that easy?”
“It sure was!” replied Rob. “Now, I can finally get back to my job.” He looked at his watch. “Tomorrow.”