"Good Afternoon, Sir"

by Speranza

Author's Notes:  For the Naive Fraser challenge on DS_Flashfiction; thanks to Te and cmshaw and Mia for audiencing & beta.

"Is this the Canadian Consulate?

"Good afternoon, sir—yes, it is. How may I help you?"

"Are you a Mountie?"

"Yes, indeed. I am a proud member of the Royal Canadian Mounted—"

"Are you wearing the red uniform? I love the red uniform..."

"It is an attractive garment, I grant you. Few people, however, are familiar with the uniform's rather complicated and elaborate symbolism..."

"You look so hot in it...."

"Well confidentially, sir, it is uncomfortably warm during the summer months."

"Why don't you...just take it off, then?"

"I'm afraid Inspector Thatcher insists upon it. And any deviation from her will tends to result in our being disciplined—well, really rather severely."

"Ooooh, are you a bad Mountie? Are you a bad, bad Mountie?"

"I've—tried to be a good Mountie. Granted, my behavior has been less than optimal upon occasion. But I've always attempted to perform my duties with distinction—"

"And you wear boots, right? Leather... Boots...?"

"Brown leather boots, yes. Well, they're riding boots, actually."


"Very comfortable. Quite sturdy. Um. I assume you actually do have a question, sir?"

"You're a big boy, aren't you. Yes, you are. I know you are."

"Not particularly, no. I'm five eleven, which is only slightly about the male average. Why do you—"

"Uhhh....Uhhh....Who's your daddy?!"

"My father was Sergeant Robert Fraser of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police. You might have heard of his many exploits across the Yukon and the Northwest Territories. His name was a legend up north; it was said he could track a ghost across sheer ice. Unfortunately, he was murdered several years ago in a story that takes precisely two hours to tell, but suffice it to say that I first came to Chicago on the trail of his killers, and here I have remained. Was that your question?"

"You're driving me crazy. Your voice drives me crazy. You know what I want?"

"No, I'm sorry, sir; I'm afraid I haven't the faintest."

"I'm completely naked, lying on my bed, rubbing oil all over my body..."

"Oh really?" Fraser asked with interest. "What kind of oil?"

"My god I'm—I think I'm—oh, fffffuckkkk— I'm coming—I'm —"

"Well, I'm afraid we're only open till six, sir. You'd better hurry," Fraser said, and disconnected the line.  

The End

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