Posts Tagged ‘Rob Ford P.I.’

Rob Ford, P.I. and The Long Goodbye

January 3rd, 2014 No comments

Rob Ford, P.I., woke up in his office. He rubbed his eyes and blinked.

“What a strange dream,” he said out loud.

He looked around his office. Paint was peeling off at the top of the walls. A framed high school graduation photo of him was tilted a bit counterclockwise, and the glass over it was dusty.

Why this weird dream? Rob Ford thought to himself. The old Rob Ford, the dirty P.I. that Rob Ford had been, might have had a dream this weird.

The old Rob Ford had done things that he had been ashamed of, or almost ashamed of, or at least he’d claimed publicly he was ashamed of. Crack cocaine, public drunkenness, public urination, hanging out with suspected criminals, overweight. All things he was not proud of being made public. All things that had caused a bad dream more than once.

But now he was the new Rob Ford, P.I. He was working out to lose weight, and probably everything else would follow after that. Five days a week, working out. One hour to drive to the gym, fifteen minutes to find a parking space, two hours of exercise, then an hour and a half to shower and get home, if he was lucky. He didn’t have much time left for detecting lately, what with all the time being spent in arranging working out.

But this weird dream. Where he was some kind of clueless buffoon having misadventures across the city. That wasn’t him. Rob Ford, P.I., was a different sort of animal.

He got up from his desk, slipped his brass knuckles into his right jacket pocket, put his M1911 pistol in his shoulder holster, and perched his fedora on his head. It was time to meet some constituents, and then go home for some dinner.

“Oh shit!” he said, and rushed out the door. Today was the first day you could file to run for P.I. of Toronto for another four years. And Rob Ford, P.I., was never planning to say goodbye to this job.

Categories: Writing Tags: ,

Rob Ford, P.I. and the Undercover Brother

June 13th, 2013 No comments

Rob Ford, P.I., gazed contentedly on the scene before him. A crowd of police were herding a bunch of drug dealing scum and weapons selling filth out the door of an Etobicoke apartment building.

“My streets, my rules,” Ford muttered to himself.

Suddenly, one of the criminals broke free from the pack! The police ran after him.

“Ford!” the figure in the dark hoodie yelled. “You’re as guilty as anyone!” And then the police caught him and dragged him off.

“Take him to the chief’s car, boys,” Ford said. The chief, standing beside Rob Ford, nodded.

“Good work cracking this case, Rob, * Chief Brent Blatz said. “You going undercover that one night was one ballsy move.” And the chief raised two fingers to the brim of his cap and brushed them over it, in a small salute.

“It was nothing, Chief,” Ford said over the shouts and chatter of the police radios. “Sometimes you have to think like the enemy to defeat them.”

“Nice,” the chief said. “Shakespeare?”

Ford shook his head. “Theismann.” Then he looked at his watch. “Well, Chief, a policeman works from sun to sun, but a P. I.’s work is never done.”

“Yeah,  yeah. Get outta here.”

Ford walked three steps, then turned around. “Say, Chief, that guy in your car…”


“I’d like to question him personally, if you catch my drift.”

Blatz looked at Ford, then smiled. “Sure. Just deliver him in one piece, if you can.”

“Chief, there’s no bout adoubt it.” And the two men shared a brief, hearty laugh before parting.

With the help of two policemen, they transferred the struggling prisoner to Ford’s Esplanade.

“Yeah,” Ford said. “Leave the handcuffs on.” And he pulled away from the scene of the raid, into the soft greys of an early Etobicoke morning.

They drove in silence on the 427 for a while. Then, Ford said, “Scum.” Another moment of only the hum of the Esplanade’s engine, then both men started laughing. So hard, in fact, that Ford pulled off the 427 to wipe tears from his eyes.

Then he reached over and pulled down the hood of the hoodie. Doug Ford smiled back at him.



Rob looked at his older brother for a moment. “Bro,” he said, “sweet undercover work here.”

“Bro,” Doug replied, “you started it.”

“The Fords rule!”

“Others drool!” And Rob Ford started up his Esplanade and headed back onto the 427, giving Doug a high five when they were in the middle of traffic.

“This’ll show some of those never work lefties that they were wrong about you,” Doug said.

Rob looked at his brother while cars veered around the Esplanade. Then he said, “I have no comment. Bro.”

And then they high fived each other again and kept going down the road, laughing on the way to their next exciting adventure.

Rob Ford, P.I. and the Invisible Graft (part 4 of 4)

April 4th, 2013 No comments

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.”

Categories: Writing Tags: , ,

Rob Ford, P.I. and the Invisible Graft (part 3 of 4)

April 1st, 2013 No comments

Rob Ford, P.I., left Doug Holiday’s house with his fedora jammed low over his forehead.

So, that’s what influence peddling is, he thought. Nothing to do with bicycles at all.

Just then his stomach rumbled. He had been so upset over this whole mysterious headline shover, he had barely ate all day. Rob Ford got into his black Esplanade and drove off to the nearest No Frills.

Rob did his shopping, remembering to buy some salad greens and place them right on top of his frozen pizzas and TV dinners, in case any smart aleck monkeyshiners with cell phones started snapping photos. He got in the express lane (1-8 items) because 20 pizzas counted as one item, as everyone knew.

Rob reached for his Blackberry to see if any clues had been phoned in, when he paused and looked at the person in front of him. Could it be…? Was it…? It was!

“Dri Tomi,” Rob said, moving around and extending his hand, “howza boy?”

“Hey Robbo!” replied the famous enforcer for the Maple Leafs. “How’s things?” And he crushed Rob’s hand slightly, while Rob smiled and pretended he felt no pain.

‘What are you doing shopping here, Dri?” he asked.

“Aw, you know. The woman wants some essentials, you get some essentials.”

“Ain’t that the truth.” And they both chuckled their man of the world chuckles. Then an idea hit Rob.

“Say, Dri. You like a good knock em down private eye story, don’t you?”

“I guess. Why? You trying to sell me your life story?”

“Naw, nothing like that.” Rob reached into his jacket pocket, pulled out his business card holder, removed a card, put the holder back in his pocket, pulled out his pen, and leaned over his grocery cart.

“Listen, I run a little museum,” he explained as he crossed out the words P.I. of Toronto on it. “Museum of Mickey Spillane. Ever heard of him?”

“The name kinda sounds familiar.”

“He wrote the Mike Hammer stories. Real tough muscle private eye stuff. Anyhow,” he said, handing the card to Dri, “I’m always looking for he-men who want to support a real good kind of book, not these hobo Green Party fairy tales about energy and wizards and all that guff.”

Dri looked at the card and put it in his jacket pocket. “Thanks, Robbo, I’ll think about it.”

“Say, Dri, isn’t the renewal on your private parking lot coming up soon?” When no response was forthcoming, Ford continued, “I know how paperwork can sometimes drag out. If you run into any problems, just call that number.” And he pointed at Dri’s jacket pocket.

Dri nodded slowly. “Sure, Robbo. I’ll certainly keep that in mind.” And nothing more was said between them after Dri turned around.

Rob Ford wheeled the No Frills shopping cart out to his Esplanade. Mighty nice fellow, that Dri, he thought. Wish we had more guys like that in town and fewer downtown people and parasites.

Rob Ford, P.I. and the Invisible Graft (part 2 of 4)

March 10th, 2013 No comments

Later, in Etobicoke, on The West Mall, Rob Ford sat alone at a table, staring at a French cruller on the table in front of him.

His very soul was bleeding. Him, a public servant sworn to fighting criminals and hoboes, and yet his name was being dragged through the mud by the newspapers.

Well, newspaper. Only The Star had come out against him. The Sun and the National Post were much more favourable to him. A P.I. And An MBA! was The Sun’s headline, while the National Post had gone with a more classically themed Heavy Hangs the Jacket That Wears the P.I. Badge.

Rob had no appetite. Why didn’t people realise he was the P.I. of Toronto? That everything he did was for the good of the people of this city he lived in and loved? Was it his fault none of them understood the intricate job that a P.I. did, and the media in this city (except for The Sun and The Sun Network and The National Post) were all against him?

Rob Ford stood up, picked up the cruller, and approached the counter. “Can you rewrap this to go?” he asked.

“Certainly, sir!” said the smiling woman behind the counter. When she handed it back, she also handed back a small double double. “Hope this cheers you up!”

“Thanks, Lucrezia,” Ford replied, taking the complimentary coffee and the rewrapped cruller. Lucrezia understands me, Ford thought as he pushed open the door of the store.

Ford got in his black Esplanade and started driving. No destination in mind, just trying to clear his mind. An hour later, the cruller devoured, the coffee drunk, he pulled into the parking lot of SanRemo Bakery.

As he walked in, he was greeted by all the staff. He forced a smile and sat down. An apple fritter and a coffee appeared at his table almost instantaneously.

“You having a hard time, huh boss?” said John, one of the servers there. “Listen, the boss here says no charge. We support law and order.”

A tear welled up in Ford’s right eye. The people understood what he was trying to do. It was just those downtown hoboes and leftist hippies and smarty pants lawyers that were trying to drag him down.

He left a half hour later feeling much better. There is almost no bad mood a SanRemo apple fritter cannot pull you out of. Plus, he had made up his mind what he had to do. He got back in his black Esplanade and drove with a destination in mind.

Half an hour later, he parked in the driveway of Deputy P.I. Doug Holiday. He got out, locked the doors with his remote, and walked up to the front door and rang the doorbell.

Doug opened the door. “Fordie!” he said. “What a surprise. What are you doing here?”

Ford stepped inside. “Listen, Doug. I have to know something. Why am I being accused of influence peddling when I hate cyclists?”

Categories: Writing Tags: , ,

Rob Ford, P.I. and the Invisible Graft (part 1 of 4)

March 9th, 2013 No comments

Rob Ford, P.I., leaned back in the chair of the Private Eye of Toronto. His feet were resting on the desk, and he was twirling his fedora on one finger while talking on his Blackberry (Israel Idonije edition).

“No, that’s right. I did apologise. If they’d asked me to apologise before all this happened…what’s that? No, ma’am, that’s right. It is a clear attempt by the scum and criminals of this town to try and bring down the finest P.I. this town had ever had. Nope. Nope. Ok, I love you too, mom. Bye.”

Rob began singing softly to himself. “Driver’s seat, yeaah. Driver’s seat. Oo-ooo.” Well, the scum and criminals had tried to take him down, just like scum and criminals tried to take Mike Hammer down. And who was down now? The scum and criminals, because Rob Ford was back and no one was going to get rid of him that easily!

His thoughts were suddenly interrupted by a slithering sound. What was it? He looked around, then saw a movement. Someone was slipping something under his office door!

He took his feet off the desk, spun around in his chair, and silently dialed 911 on his phone. Like a bull moose, he tip toed across the office to his door, then listened carefully to it when he got there.

No sounds of movement or breathing. He stood there for another two minutes to be sure, then opened the door. The hallway was empty. Shaking his head, he closed and locked his door, then bent down to see what was there.

The Toronto Star! The worst raker of muck in all the city! The paper that had such low journalistic standards, it employed people who didn’t glorify Rob Ford in every column!

He was about to toss the paper into the wastebasket. But his keen deductive skills kicked in. This paper was a clue to something. A case. But what kind of case?

Ford opened the paper and scanned through it. After ten minutes, he found the clue. A section circled in red and highlighted with yellow. Title: Rob Ford, P.I.: Influence Peddler.

Ford turned red and began to snort through his nostrils. These Toronto Star types have gone too far this time, he thought. He skimmed the article, certain sentences standing out.

“…the office of P.I. holds a lot of power in Toronto.” “…pushing his personal goals.” “‘I never did anything wrong,’ said Ford.”

Ford crumpled the paper and tossed it into his metal wastebasket, which fell over with a loud clang. Then he strode behind his desk and picked up the receiver of his phone, then hit the speed dial for 3.

He waited. Finally, the other person picked up. “Doug. Did you see the Star today? Ignore it?? Did you read the article? Well, neither did I, but the sentences I did see didn’t look…don’t Bro me, Douglas, this is serious…oh, it’s not serious? Well, fine, because you’re not the P.I. of Toronto, so of course it’s not serious!” And Ford slammed the receiver down.

He got up, strode across the floor, flung his door open, and closed and locked it behind him. Rob Ford, P.I. had decided it was time to take matters into his own hands.

Categories: Writing Tags: , ,

Rob Ford, P.I. and the Found Apology

November 28th, 2012 No comments

Rob Ford exited Toronto Courthouse 8, his fedora held in his left hand, mopping his brow with a handkerchief held in his right. Fourteen days, he had been told. Fourteen days, and then he would no longer be P.I. of Toronto. What would he do? He had a whole filing cabinet full of cases he needed to solve!

Suddenly, as if out of nowhere, a horde of reporters descended. “Rob Ford, P.I., what are your thoughts on…” “Rob Ford, P.I., what do you have to say about…” “Rob Ford, P.I., why did you..” “Rob Ford, P.I., who was it that…”

Rob Ford looked over the yammering crowd of so-called journalists and jammed his fedora back on his head.

“Boys, boys,” he said, waving his hands, standing on the courtroom steps, the wind blowing his jacket around his hips, “you want a statement? I’ll give you a statement.”

He cleared his throat.

“This comes down to left-wing politics. The left wing wants me out of here and they’ll do anything in their power to,” he said.

“And I’m going to fight tooth and nail to hold on to my job. If they do for some reason get me out I’ll be running again.” Then, as the reporters started asking more questions, he held up his hands and walked towards the parking garage where his Esplanade was parked.

His brother appeared from behind a tree. “Bro,” he said, “we have to talk now.”

“About what? About how dad always loved you more?”

Doug sighed and grabbed his brother by the arm.


Deputy P.I. of Toronto, Doug Holiday, was speaking with reporters in a different part of the courtroom lawn.

“Yes, boys, Fordie was on the right track. Mopping up the gravy, clipping the ears of those lefties. I just wish he showed more common P.I. sense and not lead with his chin so much. P.I.s are supposed to be discreet, you know. Say! There he is now! Hiya, Fordie!” And the reporters, seeing a protesting Rob being led by the arm by his brother, quickly broke away from Holiday.


Doug Daily, reporter for the reviled (by the Fords) Toronto Star pulled up at the entrance to the parking garage. “Well, he must be here somewhere. He can’t have vanished into thin air. We spread out, and the first one to find him sings out, ok, boys?” A chorus of assent came from the assembled mob of journalists and they spread out.

Across the street, through the window of a Tim Hortons, Rob and Doug watched the goings on.

“I told you they’d never look for us here!” Rob said, taking a bite out of his Boston Creme doughnut.

“Bro,” Doug replied, taking a sip of his extra large double double with espresso shot, “you have to change your tack.”

“Do what now?”

“You have to change your attitude.”

“My attitude?” Rob carefully set down his Boston Creme doughnut and leaned across the table. “What’s wrong with my attitude?”

“Well, sometimes, it rubs people the wrong way.”

“People? Like what people? Not one of my friends, or the kids I coach, or anyone in the family until now has said anything about rubbing people the wrong way!”

“Yeah, but in public, bro. Look at what happened. You got turfed as P.I. of Toronto in part because that judge said you were dismissive and confrontational.”

“Oh really?” Ford pulled out his BlackBerry (Israel Idonije version) and started thrusting it at his brother after eachyou. “Do you know what it’s like to be fighting the crime started by welfare bums and streetcars? Do you know what it’s like to comfort a crying mom who will never have a subway stop in her neighbourhood? Do you have any idea how many people thank me every day for what I’m doing? Do you…” but he was stopped by Doug putting a hand on the BlackBerry.

“All I’m saying is, in public, pretend to be more sorry sometimes.”

Rob pulled his BlackBerry away and stood up.



Doug Daily fanned himself with his notepad. “Boys, he’s pulled a Houdini, and no doubt about it. His Esplanade is gone. We might as well…”

“Look!” cried a cub reporter for theToronto Sun. And, sure enough, if you followed the pointing finger of the cub reporter, you would be looking through the glass window of the Tim Hortons across the street, seeing two yelling Fords, one with his finger in the face of the other, one with a BlackBerry poking the other in the chest.

“Let’s motor, boys!” Daily said, and they rushed toward the coffee shop. Further down the courthouse block, Doug Holiday stopped at his door and looked.

“Well, Fordie. You don’t like the reporters, but they sure seem to like you.” And then he got into his car and drove off.



“Never once have I backed down from a fight, and if you think I’m doing it now…”


“The people of this town chose their P.I. fair and square, and no Commie NDP judge is going to…”

“Bro! We gotta move now! Look!”

“You—” Then Rob Ford looked where his brother was pointing and saw the crowd of reporters trying to break through the traffic coursing down Adelaide Street. “Yikes!” And both Fords made a beeline for the back door.


The mob of journalists got to the front door just in time to see Ford driving away in his Esplanade, saluting them with his middle finger. The camera boys were too slow to get a photo of that as Ford peeled away, running a yellow light.

A puffing Daily, bent over, hands on his knees, said, “We’ll get him, boys. We’ll get him.”


Doug was twisted in his seat, facing left.

“I’m not saying you have to be sorry. I’m saying you have to look sorry.”

Ford, driving, was uncharacteristically silent.


Doug Daily and the other reporters were there early for the press conference scheduled outside of Rob Ford’s office. (At least for the next fourteen days.) As Ford stepped out on the building steps, they began shouting out questions and jostling to get to the front, by the line of police standing there.

Doug stood behind his brother. When silence finally took over, Rob began to speak, pulling out a sheet of paper from his jacket pocket first.

“Looking back, maybe I could have expressed myself in a different way,” Ford said. “To everyone who believes I should have done this differently, I sincerely apologize.”

Then, refusing to answer any more questions, he vanished back into his office building.

From across the street, Deputy P.I. Holiday nodded. “Well, Fordie, that’s a start. Let’s see if you can keep it up. Because if you can’t…” And he got in his car and drove away.

THE END of Rob Ford, P.I. and The Found Apology

Rob Ford, P.I. and The Missing Apology, part 5 of 5

November 26th, 2012 No comments

A vision came to Rob Ford. He strode out of his office building, a roscoe in his hand, a heater, a gat, a convincer, 45 ways to a man’s heart, like Mike Hammer, savage, unstoppable.

No one stood in his way as he waved his 45 Colt around. Whining lefties vanished or converted to the right, streetcars drove out of town in fear (never to return), and no one gave him any guff when he told them he needed to coach a football team.

All of the riff raff at city hall and the police followed him around like puppies, panting for one kind word and nearly killing themselves with joy chasing their tail after they got it. The subway to Scarborough got built in a month. The NHL got back together after he held talks with both the players and the owners in a special meeting.

Rob Ford blinked. He was still in his office building lobby, hiding behind a pillar. Face it, Ford, he thought to himself. You’re not a muscle P.I., no matter how wonderful Mike Hammer is. What you are is more of a thinking P.I., like Sherlock Holmes.

What would Sherlock Holmes do now? he asked himself. WWSHDN.

Then, suddenly, inspiration struck. Disguise. Not something Mike Hammer would have done, but Mike was a man from a different age, a different time. A happier time, in many ways.

The crowd outside fell silent in a disordered fashion, one or three voices dying out at a time, when they saw Rob Ford, P.I., come out with his fedora held over the lower part of his face.

Rob looked at the crowd. The crowd looked at Rob. Then, one woman stepped forward from the crowd and spoke.

“Why won’t you take cases from the LGBT community?” she shouted.

“Ah do not know wha’ you mean,” replied Ford in an outrageous French accent. “I am, ‘ow you say, zee ‘orse docteur. I only treat ze ‘orses.”

There was a moment of silence. Then, the crowd roared, but Ford was already running, a football evasion pattern he had learned as a youth guiding his feet, propelling him towards his Esplanade, while he cried out as he ran.

“‘Alp!” he cried out. “Zese people wiz zair colourfool clothings are trying to assassinate me!”

Ford made it to his Esplanade and locked all the doors from the inside with moments to spare. The crowd surrounded it, shouting. He honked his horn while inching the beast of an SUV forward. Slowly, reluctantly, the crowd parted to let him go.

Inside, Ford raised his hand up and put the fedora back on his head. Victory, he thought. The master detective triumphs again!

His next stop was city hall. Vile place full of bureaucrats and whining left wingers who didn’t understand how a P.I. had to work. The red tape and gravy there made Rob feel like he was swimming in cement. He made his way to the help desk, keen eyes darting left and right, looking for anyone who would interfere with him.

No one did. He asked for, and received, directions to the P.I. Ombudsman’s office. Then he went across the street for a Tim Hortons coffee, because it wasn’t two p.m. yet.

Two coffees, one grilled ham and cheese panini, and seven unanswered phone calls later, he made his way back to city hall and to the Ombudsman’s office. Two p.m. on the nose.

“Mr. Ford,” the Ombudsman said as she stood up, “thank you for…”

“Rob Ford, P.I.,” he replied, ignoring her outstretched hand, sitting down in the chair opposite her desk, putting his feet on her desk, and placing the fedora at tough P.I. guy angle #3 (eyes just peeking out from under the brim, pencil dangling from mouth), “what’s this all about, sweetheart? I’m a busy man and don’t have time for crazy dames taking me off the mean streets of Toronto.”

She looked at him, then, still standing, spoke.

“Rob Ford, P.I.,” she said, “you have an impressive list of complaints about your behaviour.” She opened a file folder on her desk. “Nine right now that have been verified. Three that are pending further investigation. What do you have to say for yourself?”

“Look doll,” Ford said, shifting the pencil from the right hand side of his mouth to the left, “being a P.I. in this town is like making an omelette, you have to break a few yeggs.” And he laughed heartily. She did not. Finally, laughter dying down, wiping his eyes and reaching down for the pencil that had fallen on the ground, then giving up, continued.

“I can’t be some kind of gentleman P.I. out there, toots. If you’d seen half the things I’ve seen on this job, your hair would turn white. I’m not at liberty to discuss any of it, because these are ongoing cases, but I can’t be pussyfooting around holding hands with some of these criminal types. They are bloodsuckers and leeches draining the life force of this town, and right now, there’s only one man standing between you and total chaos.”

Rob tried to elegantly stand up in one swift motion, but had to settle for getting one foot down at a time and then standing, then putting his fedora back on properly so he could see.

“You see, sugar,” he continued, his voice muffled because his head was under his chair now, looking for his pencil, “there’s the type that sits in offices, and the type that goes out and gets things done, and,” his voice clearing as he emerged from under the chair, holding his pencil triumphantly, “I guess we know which one of us is which.” And he replaced the pencil in his shirt pocket.

“Rob Ford, P.I.,” she said. “All these complainants want from you is an apology for your rudeness and your behaviour. That’s all I want you to give them. Will you–”

The closing of her office door was her only answer. Rob Ford, P.I. was on the road again. After a brief pit stop to the men’s room to relieve himself of some of those Tim Hortons coffees.

The final stop on Rob’s itinerary for the day was Toronto Courthouse 8. He strode in and went to the third floor, whistling as he did. Two down, one to go, he thought. A piece of cake. Judges in town respected the P.I., not like some made up title like P.I. Ombudsman.

He was ushered into the judge’s office almost immediately, the judge’s secretary closing the door behind him.

Rob advanced across the office, hand held out. “Hiya judgie wudgie. How’s tricks?”

“Sit down and shut up!” Rob’s senses reeled, but when he came to, he was sitting down. The judge was leaning forward on his desk, an odd light of satisfaction in his eyes.

“Ford,” the judge said, “this is the end for you.”


Is this the end of Rob Ford, P.I.? Or is judgie wudgie just toying with Rob Ford’s emotions? Stay tuned for the next exciting adventure, unless the series gets cancelled.

Rob Ford, P.I. and The Missing Apology, part 4

November 25th, 2012 No comments

Next morning, refreshed after an extra large Tim Hortons double double, Rob Ford put his feet up on his office desk and opened the Toronto Sun. Then, his phone rang.

He sighed and looked at it. Someone named J. Leaper was showing up on the call display. He pondered his options.

First, he was a busy man and had many cases on the go, each of which he needed to devote 100% of his focus to. He needed to finish his double double and head out in his Esplanade, out on the mean streets, the dirty streets packed with trade unionists and cyclist and incense burning hippies and other vermin, see what was what, who was who, where was where, and why was he.

But, there was the other principle he operated from. Rob Ford returned all calls. No matter who. Maybe not immediately, but still.

He sighed again. The cream and sugar and caffeine coursing through his veins made his mind up for him. He answered.

“Rob Ford, P.I. of Toronto here. Who are you?”

“Mr. Ford…”

“Rob Ford, P.I.”

“Mr. Ford…”

“Rob Ford, P.I.”

“Yes, I know you are Rob Ford, P.I. Mr. Ford, I wanted…”

“Rob Ford, P.I.”

There was a moment of silence. “You want me to address you as Rob Ford P.I.?”

“Only when you want to say my name.”

There was a long breath in on the other side, then they continued.

“Rob Ford, P.I., I am the P.I. Ombudsman for Toronto. I have a matter I’d like to discuss with you today. Can you come in right now?”

Rob Ford, P.I., looked at his office clock. Eleven-twenty.

“It’s kind of early. I have a lot of case work to go through. Can we say two p.m.?”

“Yes, fine, two p.m. Do you have a pen and paper for my address?”

“Sure.” Rob Ford didn’t move, beyond taking another sip from his takeout coffee cup. “Go ahead.”

She gave him the address, which he did not write down. He prided himself on his photographic memory. Also, there was a big help desk at City Hall, and that’s where she was.

“Two p.m., Mr–Rob Ford, P.I. Please make an effort to be there on time.”

“When Rob Ford, P.I. makes an appointment, it’s solid. I will see you there.”

He hung up, put the BlackBerry on his desk, and picked up his office calendar. No football practices today, so he would be at this 2 p.m. appointment with no problem.

He put his calendar down and was about to take another sip from his takeout cup, when his BlackBerry rang again. Sighing, he picked it up. His brother.

He grabbed his phone. “Dewey, Squeezem, and Howe.”

“Bro, this is no time for joking. When are you going to see that judge?”

“Hey, I am just finishing up some vital paperwork here! I can’t be running off to see every judge who phones up to chat! I will head over there right now!”

“Bro, you’d better! This is serious!”

“When Rob Ford, P.I. makes an appointment, it’s solid. I will head over there right now.” He hung his phone up, sighed, slipped it into his shoulder holster, and stood up. He picked his fedora up off his desk and adjusted it on his head. Looked in the mirror beside his office door. Made a forefinger and thumb pistol and pointed it at his reflection.

“Who loves ya, baby?” Then he opened his office door, walked out, closed and locked it behind him. Whistling, he walked down the hall to the elevator, his steps echoing off the drywall.

He punched the down button. Waited. The doors opened, and he stepped in. Smiled at the man and woman already on there. Pressed the already lit main floor button.

The elevator descended. Rob hummed quietly to himself. The doors opened, and a sound of some kind of chanting.

Rob Ford slowed as he approached the front doors to his office building, then stopped. Through the glass doors, he could see a mob dressed in brightly-coloured clothing, holding placards up. The man and woman from the elevator passed him, and went out.

When they opened the doors, Ford could hear the chant clearly. “Our P.I. is anti-Bi.” Repeated. And repeated. As the doors glided slowly to a close, Rob Ford blinked. It was the people that hated putting their wangdoodles in the other person’s yoo-hoos, like God had intended! They were outside his building! What to do?

To be concluded in Rob Ford and The Missing Apology, part 5

Rob Ford, P. I., and The Missing Apology, part 3

November 16th, 2012 No comments

Rob Ford took a thoughtful bite out of his turkey chipotle panini. Who should he call back first? His brother? His personal assistant? This weirdo Ombudsman?

He decided to call his admin assistant first. Fortunately, he also had the home number for the City Manager. The other answered on the first ring.

“Rob, where have you been? There’s been a big development in the city today, and…”

“Been on a case, buddy,” Rob said. “You know how it is with us P.I.s. We have to be out there on the mean streets looking for clues, talking to the scumbags and the saints. Keeping ourselves current with what is happening now.”

“Are you in Toronto right now?”

Rob pursed his lips. “Almost. My investigations took me out to a new place today. Now, what’s up?”

“There was a visit from a group complaining about how you refuse to take any cases from the LGBT community. They said if they don’t hear from you by the morning, they are going to protest outside your office and invite the media.”

LGBT? LGBT…Let’s Get Blasted Together. No, that wasn’t it. Rob took his fedora off with his free hand and scratched his head deeply. The cabin of his Esplanade was filled with a sound like sandpaper on a piece of paper. Then he remembered!

“Oh! Those people! The ones who don’t like to put their wangdoodles in the other person’s yoo-hoos!”

There was a silence on the other end of the line, then the City Manager said, “Yes. Those people.”

Rob Ford smiled. “Listen, they can protest all they want. I’m not going to budge an inch. In fact, I hope they call every T.V. and radio station and newspaper in town. Except for the Star,” he finished, putting his fedora back on.

“Rob, I don’t think you know how serious this is,” the City Manager said.

“Relax! That’s an order! I appreciate your concerns, but I don’t think I need to act on them at this time! I will see you tomorrow!” Rob immediately hung up before the City Manager could say anything else.

Well, if these calls are all that unimportant, I’m sitting pretty, he thought.

Next on the call list was his brother.

“Bro!” Doug cried. “Where the hell have you been all day?”

“On a case. A pretty complex one, at that. Had to head out of town a short ways away to really work on it.”

“Did this case involve football?” When the resulting silence became deafening, Doug continued. “Bro, that pub owner you accused of being in the pocket of the last P.I. in town wants to sue you!”

“What? I never said anything like that! I may have called him a guttersnipe weasel head who took more bribes than an NDP  trade union leader, but I don’t recall saying anything about how his crappy pub was being shored up by illicit grants from the former P.I. in this town.”

Doug sighed. “Anyway, he’s suing you, and it’s not being thrown out of court. You need to get your butt in town tomorrow and appear before the judge.”

“Is that all? No problem. I will be there bright and early. Talk to you then!” And he hung up before Doug could say anything else.

“This is a piece of cake!” he exclaimed out loud in the cab of his Esplanade. Then he finished off the turkey chipotle sandwich, humming “When A Man Loves A Woman”. He took a big sip from his coffee before dialling the number of the P.I. Ombudsman.

It went straight to voicemail. “Ford here,” he said. “I don’t know what kind of scam you’re trying to pull in my town, but from the way I see things, we don’t need any kind of P.I. Ombudsman, if that’s what you really are. Have a nice day.” And he hung up.

Whistling a nameless tune, he backed out his Esplanade and turned its nose towards the eastward 401. A great day, he thought. A great day.

To be continued