Canadiens’ Story Part One
Montreal, Quebec, a time not long ago
“Good morning, Montreal. It’s 5:45 in the AM and you’re listening to the Morning Crew on Q92 FM. News ahead, but right now the latest from Avril Lavigne. Here’s Girlfriend, on Q92, Montreal’s home of rock!” The radio blared loudly for about a minute, then a hand reached out, savagely smashing down the snooze button. The silence that followed was only disturbed by the rustling of bed sheets and a soft groaning of protest as the slumbering figure began to rise. Albeit, slowly and with a great deal of reluctance. A hand reached out toward the night stand table, lazily turning on the lamp. A small cry of protest and shock echoed in the small room as the reading lamp seemed much brighter than it usually was. A sleepy hand reached up, scratching through the long hair on her head, and slowly she searched the floor with her feet, finally finding her slippers.
As she sat on the edge of the bed, contemplating laying back down, the internal struggle that occurs early every morning, she let out a protesting groan as she heard her mother’s voice.
“Dominique,” came the much more awake sound of her mother’s call. “Come on, honey. You have to be at work at eight. Your papa will drive you.”
“Ngh!” was the only response Dom made as she remained on the edge of her bed, unmoving, not feeling the need to muster the willpower needed to merely move.
“Come on, Dominique,” came her mother’s voice with a much more firm tone. “I don’t hear you movin’ around.”
“I’m movin’, I’m movin’,” she called back as she stomped her feet on the floor. She stopped as her alarm went off again, the lyrics of Girlfriend blaring their explicit material ‘Don’t pretend I think you know I’m damn precious, And Hell Yeah I’m the motherfucking princess’. She stared at the alarm clock for a moment before slamming her hand down on it. “Tink I ‘ate Avril Lavigne now,” she muttered to herself. With a great deal of effort, she rose to her feet and stumbled over to the terry cloth bathrobe that rested on her desk chair. This early in the morning, everything would be done slowly.
“Morning, Dominique,” a voice said behind her. Dom nearly jumped out of her skin, not expecting to hear her father. Her eyes were wide as she turned to look at him with a mix of shock and some anger. All he could do was chuckle. “Sorry, ‘bout that, Dom. I thought you could use the pick me up.”
“Ain’t dat what coffee is for?” she asked with a huff and moved over to her small pile of clothes. Gingerly, she pulled out what looked like a pair of red and white leotards and separated them carefully, adding a pair of red gloves to the mix. “Dese gonna need washin’,” she remarked as she tried to hold her breath. “’Adda chase some little t’ief t’rough de sewers las’ night. Not fun.”
Her father studied her a moment, finally moving to her side as he reached up to her face, tilting her head up just a bit. Dom protested a bit, but let her father take a closer look at the nice, new shiner that she received. “That’s a pretty good one,” he commented as he shook his head. “This guy give you a tough time, eh?”
“’E decide to jump in de sewer,” she said in a matter of fact tone. “I’m not kiddin’, you know. I jump in after ‘im wit’out tinkin’, an’ ‘e blindside me wit’ ‘is fist. Fortunately, ‘e got a terrible left ‘ook.” Her father shook his head and dropped his hand as he sighed. Dom could tell what he was thinking just by his body language. “I roughed ‘im up pretty good, bu’ not ‘nough ta ‘ospitalize ‘im.”
“You just be careful, Dominique,” was all her father said. That was all he said to her. He couldn’t very well tell her he disproved of her gallivanting around in a red and white costume, calling herself Canadiens and hauling in criminals. He’d be playing a double standard, because he did the same thing when he was Dom’s age.
The small conversation was interrupted quickly as Dom’s mother burst into the room. “Come on, come on, Dominique. You have to eat breakfast an’ get dress into your uniform. You’ve only been working at dat Tim Hortons for a month, if you late dey gonna fire you,” she said as she rushed through Dom’s room picking up scattered clothes. When she reached the familiar red and white uniform she stopped, as she sniffed carefully. She furrowed her brow and looked over at her daughter. “What did you do, run through a pig barn las’ night?”
“Sewer, actually, mama,” Dom replied using her matter of fact tone. “It were a sewer.”
Her mother shook her head and stuffed the uniform haphazardly into the laundry duffel, then looked to Dom for a moment. Again, she conducted a sniff test, and again she furrowed her brow. “Shower. Now. Come on, Dominique. You smell worse den a pig. Go.” With a gentle shove from her mother, Dom trudged off to the bathroom. Within a few minutes the sound of water streaming from the shower head could be heard.
Monika Turgeon carried the full laundry duffel downstairs as her husband, Jean Pierre followed close behind. “I respect her want to do dis, JP, really I do,” she said with a mild huff. “But is dangerous. I worry so much about her.”
“I do too,” he replied with a shrug. “But you know how she is. Very strong willed and determined.”
“I call dat pig headed, sometime,” she said with a smirk as she dropped the duffel down a chute before looking to her husband yet again. “She get dat from you, you know.”
“Maybe so,” he replied with a smile. “But she get a lot of things from you too.” He stepped closer to his wife and rested a comforting hand on her shoulder. “You don’t have to get so worked up about this, Monika.”
“I’m not work up, JP,” she replied defensively.
“Yes you are,” he said with a chuckle. “You always call me JP when you are worked up.” With the revelation, he backed up quickly, laughing lightheartedly as he recognized the look in his wife’s eyes.
Seven hours earlier
“I swear,” Canadiens shouted as she ran after the thug. “You make me late for my shift at Tim Hortons tomorrow mornin’, den I come to jail an’ kick you ass again, mon ami!” She’d been running full tilt for six blocks as she chased the perp. Police suspected this was the man responsible for a rash of late night snatch and grabs. Thanks to some friends on the force, Canadiens became a part of the sting operation to draw him out. Sting may be a rather strong term, as it was conducted mostly by two Montreal Metro Police officers and Canadiens. No official channels sanctioned the actions, but they also didn’t condemn them either. Her boots splashed through the puddles from the fresh evening rain as she tried to keep pace with the thug. “Wish I could run a bit faster,” she muttered to herself.
The suspect was desperate, running blindly, hoping that his erratic movements would mean eventually losing his pursuer. He expected the cops, but he didn’t expect the red and white clad figure of Canadiens. A lot of his buddies talked about her, that she’d be a push over. His buddies were wrong. Desperately, he looked around the streets for some kind of escape.
Then he saw it.
An open man hole, probably left open by a forgetful city crew. He had to move quickly, Canadiens was right on his heels. Without thinking he dived in, grabbing onto the ladder to slow his decent. It was dark, but good enough for him. He could try and blindside her if she followed.
She didn’t disappoint.
Canadiens landed with a splash in the muck and mire of the sewers, cursing mildly in Quebecois as she realized the soup she had landed in. “Tabarnack, merde,” came the last curse from her lips. She stood still, allowing her eyes to adjust to the darkness, but she felt something slam into her face. Canadiens stumbled a moment, but caught herself from taking a tumble into the stench. She blinked her eyes and caught sight of the assailant as he wound up for another blow, one which she caught with ease. Canadiens and her assailant stood staring at each other a moment before the red and white clad vigilante finally spoke.
“You know,” she said slowly as she checked her face for blood. “I do myself a disservice when I say dis, but, you really ‘it worse ‘en a girl, you know, mon ami?” To punctuate the statement she slammed a closed fist right square into the assailant’s face, reached over his shoulders and grabbed the back of his jacket. She pulled it up, over his head and drove her knee into his face. The assailant was spun around viciously, he became disoriented, which allowed Canadiens’ arm to wrap around his neck from behind. “So glad my Uncle Danielle is a pro wrestler,” she said as her arms moved into a sleeper hold around the assailant. “’E taught me dis move an’ you de lucky guy for me to practise on, non.”
He struggled for a bit, but eventually slipped into unconsciousness. With little effort, Canadiens flipped the thug over her shoulder. Her size was deceiving. She could lift a lot more than she let on, and move a lot faster than most would think she was capable of. Her only problem was climbing the ladder out of the stench.
It took a few minutes, with the thug slung over her back, but she managed. There to greet her were the two Metro Police officers. They helped her drag the thug up, cuffed him and tossed him into the back of the cruiser. As the thug was put away, Canadiens took a breather on the sidewalk.
“Everything alright, Dom?” Kowalsky asked as he slammed the door closed on the cruiser, his Anglo background betraying him. A good officer, though. Both officers knew who Canadiens was, as she herself admitted it to them.
“Oh, you know,” she replied in a strained voice as she leaned back, letting her muscles relax after the workout. “Runnin’ ten blocks, gettin’ ‘it, an’ dat after jumpin’ into de sewers.”
Frechette chuckled lightly as she joined her partner. “At least you got ‘im, eh. We may ‘ave somet’in’ for you tomorrow to ‘elp wit’, if you willin’, eh.” Canadiens looked up to Officer Frechette, the look in her eyes enough to allow the officer to continue. “Dat serial rapist, we got a bead on ‘is pattern. We tink we know where ‘e gonna ‘it next. An’ wha’ time.”
“What time you need me?” Canadiens asked without stating one way or the other if she’d help. She’d heard about this guy on the news. Often she’d have heated discussions with her parents about tracking him down. And each time, her mother would forbid it. And now, the police were asking for help.
“Seven thirty,” Kowalsky replied. “Meet us in back of Metro.”
“Awww, not in de front?” Canadiens said with a smile.
“Eh, Dom. You know Inspector Manchester’s t’oughts about you,” Frechette reminded her. It was true, the top investigator with Metro would rather see Canadiens behind bars than on the streets. Such is the life of a costumed vigilante. She’d have to get used to it. At least she could ask what her father would do, as he had to endure the same. Canadiens merely nodded and rose to her feet with some help from Kowalsky. “You need a ride ‘ome?” Frechette offered, more to be polite than anything.
“Naw, it’s okay,” Canadiens replied with a shrug. “I got my bike not far from ‘ere. I jus’ ride it back.” The two officers nodded and waved as she began to move off down the street. As she walked, she thought what the officers must be thinking when she mentioned her bike. They probably thought it was some hot street machine that she’d use to race to crime scenes.
Let them think that, they didn’t have to know a thing about her scooter.