Mister Leader II of the USM called into his room one of the rare cartographers that inhabit Mexregiona. He wanted the best of the best that the nation had to offer, but he didn’t really get that. Instead, he acquired an 89-year old man with little image editing skill and an ironically poor sense of direction. In fact, the work you see below is probably his best work, and that’s is due to the big, fluffy rabbit’s foot that inhabits the sock of the geezer. He shambled into the office, oblivious of the general frailness of his body, and half-sat half-fell into the Leader’s newly waxed recliner that accompanied the desk bolted to the floor.
((OOC: I’m not implying or declining that I’m an 89-year man, by the way.))
“Uh, how do you do, Mr. Fletch?” the man questioned.
It took roughly ten moments for the geezer to reply; when he did, however, it was spectacular.
“OH, IT’S GOIN’ QUITE AUHLL RIGHT, MISS’ER LEADER,” Fletch said, producing from the interior of his mouth eight spitballs each separately big enough to penetrate a naval blockade, dousing Mister Leader II all about his face. Let’s just say the security guards were irritated that they didn’t snatch a photo of the scene.
The president proceeded to rotate the old man away from his desk, where instead he could water the leader’s plants instead of wasting all of the saliva on a shower.
And, now that the Leader was out of the Splash Zone, he was ready to listen to the business of the matter.
“Did you tell Beartrot to send that e-mail, Fletch?”
“I SIR DID, MISS’ER LEADER. I MEAN, HE’S REAL BUSY RIGH’ NOW, BUT HE GOT YOU MESSIGE.”
“Good, good. Did he tell you where he was going to send the reply? I need to know, as it’s really important.”
“WELL, I THIN’ BERRTROT SAID HE’D SEND IT BY FIX, WHATEVAH THAT MEAN.”
He must mean ‘fax.’ How original of Beartrot. Apparently the USM Serviceman has some archaic blood in him. “Okay, Fletch, that’s all I need from you right now. Thanks for stopping by.”
Fletch stumbled out the doorway, now oblivious to the president’s thanks and reality in general.
“Let’s see what we got here,” Mister Leader said to himself.
He pulled out his modern fax, which had actually gained some popularity in Governmental Gully; they were easy to use and generally hard to hack into nowadays.
He pushed a couple of buttons, scrolled through a touchscreen interface, inserted a fingerprint, and intercepted a message.
— Begin quote from ____
FROM: BEARTROT, USM SERVICEMAN
TO: MISTER LEADER II, LEADER OF THE USM
SUBJECT: ANN. CAS.
For Climatic Reference:[spoiler]http://imgur.com/a/qUySe[/spoiler]Proposed Annexation:[spoiler]http://imgur.com/a/bewMZ[/spoiler]As you can see, sir, the land that Mexregiona could extend into is immense, and there is no doubt in my mind that Tretrid will be pleased with its border with unclaimed Atlantian territory. As you know, being closed off from unclaimed land can become a major headache for any nation wishing to expand. This proposed claim gives both countries a nice stretch of Cascadian territory, which is full of freshwater lakes and streams caused by the now-receded glaciers of the last ice age. Also, as you’ve probably noticed, there is a strange shape that looks to be neither Mexregionan or Tretridian. This is true; the cartographer and I decided that having an area for current Northwest Cascadian citizens is ideal if we want peace throughout the annexation. And, who knows? Maybe one day the territory will accept us foreigners and join either, or, both, of the two countries. That’d be nice. Anyway, I have to go, Longstorm and all.
–END–
— End quote
Mister Leader II read over and examined the document, along with the file, a couple dozen times. He considered the international aftereffects. How would Atlae react? Or anybody else, for that matter? And what happens if a war breaks out because of the annexation? Bad, all bad.
Then again, the Leader hadn’t had any serious failures in his life yet, and he wasn’t gonna start now. He wasn’t going to be that one Leader who declined an annexation and ended up getting his country bordered by a nation of Pax Proportions.
He began to type up a message to the leader of Tretrid. Things were going to go down.
((OOC: Your turn, Tretrid!))[edit_reason]Fixed Some Conventional Errors That Really Bothered Me[/edit_reason]