“Ladies and gentlemen,” said Thorne’s voice, buttery and bemused, “please welcome our very special halftime entertainment... direct from the OGRE Institute of Interpretive Synergy... the one and only — STOCK SYMPHONY 7!”
The fog returned. The lights dimmed. Somewhere, a chorus of costumed mascots began warming up kazoos. Across Royale City Stadium, hot chocolate cups paused halfway to lips. Cheering fell into a hush. Then — a breathless voice over the loudspeakers:
“Ladies and gentlemen… OGRE proudly presents… a cultural spectacle unlike any ever attempted before — a journey through the heart, soul, and mildly exaggerated history of our great nation…”
Fog machines hissed to life. Blue mist curled across the turf like the inside of a haunted curling rink.
“Prepare… for THE DANCE OF THE PROVINCES!”
A synth trumpet screamed. From the sidelines, a 30-foot rotating disc rolled in, covered in artificial snow, LED trees, and what might’ve been a paper-maché puffin head duct-taped to a lighthouse.
Then came the dancers.
Not professionals. Not even junior agents. Clearly TRONS Robots in costume. Each wore a loose interpretation of a province.
“Is... is that Nova Scotia wearing a shipwreck?” Squire asked, frowning. “And why is Quebec break dancing?”
“I think Manitoba just tripped over the Yukon,” Sandy muttered, sipping from her mug. “Or maybe they merged.”
Next came Saskatchewan — or someone labelled “Saskkatchewan,” with three K’s and a backwards E — wearing a giant foam kangaroo costume. It bounced to centre stage, threw two thumbs up, and began doing the robot.
“Kangaroos?” Redd said, voice cracking. “In the prairies?”
“Well,” Soash mused, “it’s a bold creative choice. I admire the merchandising potential.”
Then Alberta rode in on what looked like a mop bucket with horns, painted gold and sputtering smoke. It veered wildly, ran over “Newfoundland and Labradoor” (spelled with an extra ‘o’), circled twice, and crashed into the VORTEXADE table.
The crowd didn’t know whether to cheer or file a complaint.
Sandy closed her eyes. “I’m trying to remember how to breathe through secondhand shame.”
Then came the finale.
The dancers formed a ring around a glowing OGRE logo, linked arms, and sang — off-key, unaccompanied — what was probably meant to be the national anthem.
“Ohhh Canadaaaa,
Your mountains full of dreams,
From techno-ice to syrup skies,
We ride your laser beams…”
Redd didn’t speak.
He just slowly removed his hat and held it to his chest, staring ahead like a veteran saluting a fallen vending machine.
A firework shaped like a waffle shot sideways from the fog and clipped “P.E.I.” in the shoulder. “P.E.I.” spun and collapsed into the fake snow. No one helped.
In the viewing suite, Banks stared in horrified silence.
Thorne clapped politely. “I think it captures the essence, don’t you?”
“What essence, Thorne?” Banks hissed. “This looks like it was designed by a committee of concussed snowmen.”
“Oh, don’t be petty,” he said. “We cross-checked the costume notes with a map. Mostly.”
“You handed a country’s cultural identity to your malfunctioning robots.”
“Yes,” he nodded. “And now it’s a tax write-off.”
Down on the field, Big Joe emerged from the mist — wearing a velvet cape and proudly dragging the kangaroo’s foam tail in his mouth like a prize.
“Is... he part of this?” Sandy asked.
“No,” Redd whispered, still holding his hat. “But I think he made it better.”
Halftime – Act II: The Mascot Reunion Medley
The fog barely had time to reset before the next disaster queued up.
The lights pulsed. The jumbo tron buzzed like a caffeinated beehive. And then—
“Please welcome,” the announcer bellowed, “Canada’s most beloved—and copyright-expired—icons of yesteryear... in their first-ever halftime reunion spectacular...”
A record scratch.
Then: synth bagpipes.
“It’s... THE MASCOT MEDLEY!”
From a trapdoor beneath the 40-yard line, the mascots emerged. Slowly. Reluctantly. One by one.
They wore faded costumes from promotional campaigns long buried by time—and lawsuits.
First: Timber Tusk, the forestry safety elephant, his once-white gloves now beige with existential dread.
Next: Sir Gritstone, the 1980s mining awareness knight, dragging a paper-maché pickax and limping visibly.
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Then came Recyco-Raccoon, who had not blinked since 1993.
And last—riding a modified Segway with sparklers attached—was Milky the Dairy Marmot, whose catchphrase once traumatized a generation: “Got Bones? Get Milk!”
A collective gasp rose from the crowd.
“Milky’s still allowed in public?” Sandy asked, aghast.
“I thought he was banned after the yogourt cannon incident,” Squire whispered.
On cue, a yogourt cannon wheezed from the tunnel. It fired prematurely, coating the 30-yard line in strawberry swirl. Milky raised both paws in triumph.
The mascots staggered into a choreographed routine. Or tried to. Most of them hadn’t stretched in decades.
Sir Gritstone did the mashed potato. Recyco-Raccoon tried a cartwheel, then sat down mid-attempt. Milky waltzed solo. Timber Tusk just waved sadly at the sky.
And then came the medley.
Each mascot took centre stage to sing a bar of their old theme songs, rewritten slightly to avoid licensing fees:
“Timber says don’t chop too fast!”
“Gritstone digs deep—for discounts!”
“Recyco, Recyco—sort your cans with flair!”
“Milk your marmot! (Wait, no!) Marmot your—wait, stop the song!”
Banks, watching from the suite, visibly twitched.
“You let Milky back onstage,” she growled.
“He’s legacy,” Thorne replied. “There was a petition.”
“In crayon.”
“Democracy takes many forms.”
Back on the field, a poorly timed spark ignited a prop igloo. Timber Tusk panicked and tried to put it out with interpretive dance. Recyco-Raccoon fainted. Milky slipped on the yogourt patch and skidded twenty feet into the end zone, arms raised like he meant to do it.
The crowd roared.
“Is it over?” Sandy asked.
“No,” Redd said grimly. “It’s a medley. There’s always an encore.”
And there was.
The mascots reappeared wearing maple-leaf tuxedos, performing a synchronized can-can to a dub step remix of “The Hockey Song.” Milky twirled. Sir Gritstone’s helmet fell off. A foam hockey puck flew into the stands. Cheers. Chaos. Several pigeons took flight.
Back in the suite, Banks sank into her seat.
“You’ll be explaining this in court.”
Thorne grinned. “Or licensing it for a streaming special.”
A final burst of glitter cannons coated the midfield in sparkles. Milky struck a pose. The screen behind him flashed:
“HALFTIME SPONSORED BY OGRE: BRINGING BACK WHAT YOU NEVER ASKED FOR.”
Squire blinked. “Do we get to play football now?”
Redd, eyes hollow, replied, “I no longer know what football is.”
The stadium lights blazed back on.
A hush fell. Not the respectful kind — the worried kind. The kind that comes just before something explodes or breaks into song.
Then, across the jumbo tron, in flickering gold font:
THIS WINTER... CANADA GETS OGRE’D.
Somewhere, a tuba groaned in dismay.
Back in the viewing suite, Banks froze mid-sip. “Please tell me that’s a trailer. A parody. Anything per-recorded.”
Thorne, already wearing a commemorative branded mitten, grinned. “Better. It’s live.”
Down on the field, the turf began to shift. A runway unfolded from the end zone like a tongue made of disappointment — white, plastic, slightly sticky. It bumped over the collapsed form of “P.E.I.” from Act I and kept rolling.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” came the announcer, now fully in infomercial mode, “prepare yourselves for the future of Canadian outerwear... the OGRE Winter 2025 Lifestyle Collection!”
Music erupted — a synth remix of sleigh bells, EDM air horns, and what might’ve been a dub step snowplow.
Then came the models.
They weren’t professionals. They weren’t even interns. They were clearly OGRE middle managers in oversized winter gear, strutting with the confidence of people whose bonuses depended on it.
Each one held a sign:
“Available Now!”
“Pending Patent Approval!”
“Do Not Microwave!”
Among the featured items:
Thermal Corporate Socks? — “Flame-retardant. Trust-enhancing.”
OGRECoat? — Inflates automatically during conflict, or sudden emotional feedback.
Wi-Fi Snow Pants — The Wi-Fi won’t work, but they come with a free pager and a printed apology.
The Maple Beanie? — “Soaked in ‘For Reelz’ Syrup. For hydration. Or morale.”
Sandy blinked. “Did he just say the beanies are edible?”
“Pre-chewed,” mumbled a passing staffer, eyes vacant, reading from a launch script.
A second wave of performers danced in, flinging free samples into the crowd — tiny squeeze bottles labelled Syrup-Ade?, the new OGRE sports drink made from “maple extract and ambition.”
Soash caught one, sniffed it, sipped, and went very still. “Thick,” he whispered. “I can taste the synergy.”
Then came the finale.
A snow blower the size of a minivan rolled onto the field, piloted by a very small, very worried junior agent. It spun in a circle, misfired into the stands, and finally flipped itself into the foam Nova Scotia set piece like a dying Scooter.
From its cargo bay rolled the pièce de résistance: a 12-foot gold-painted foam winter boot, wrapped in ribbon and emitting faint steam.
The jumbo tron flashed again:
OGRE – WINTER 2025?. STAY WARM. STAY LOYAL. STAY BRANDED.
Two confetti cannons fired. One jammed. The other hit a model in the OGRECoat?, inflating it into a balloon animal with limbs. A saxophone wailed. A reindeer puppet caught fire.
Silence.
Then one confused audience member clapped. Soash joined in immediately. “Bravo. Tasteful. Ambitious. Deeply marketable.”
Redd stood frozen. “You know what I miss, Squire?”
“Hope?” Squire offered.
“No,” Redd said. “Snow. Honest snow. The kind that just... falls. Didn’t advertise anything. Didn’t inflate. Didn’t play jazz when it landed.”
Across the field, Big Joe hrrnked with approval, now wearing two Syrup-Ade? hats and a promotional scarf wrapped around his antlers like a victory sash.