an excerpt from rhino party leader-schmeader brian godzilla salmi's (in-progress but back-burnered) second book - ... and the horse you rode in on: a yukon year, a long distance war and the return of yummy girl - in which zilla explains the fate of the party since the (not so) great rhino civil war of 1993.

add-aflicted word haters be warned - this excerpt contains 12,218 words (but it's a hell of a read, as is zilla's first book - booze up and riot: a free-wheeling, fire-breathing manifesto of funarchy and filth - which can be purchased here):

Yukon ho!

Rhino history, other lies and all that jazz

“Okay, Salmi, let’s go,” said BIG Len, draining his Grasshopper and slamming the empty pint glass down on the bar for emphasis.

“Yukon ho!” I laughed. “Let’s fuckin’ go!”

It was three in the afternoon when we climbed into The Big Yellow Rhino, Cajones’ shit-kicked, gas-guzzling 1982 GMC Vandura. We had 2400 kms to cover. We did not have two bags of grass, 75 pellets of mescaline, five sheets of high-powered blotter acid, a salt-shaker half full of cocaine, a whole galaxy of multi-coloured uppers, downers, screamers and laughers, a quart of tequila, a quart of rum, a case of Budweiser, a pint of raw ether and two dozen amyls (but I sure wish we did!).

We did have a green and black Mexican wrestling mask, a pair of green glitter disco boots, a green and black checkered superhero cape, an eight year old pair of long-johns, five toilet paper rolls, a fine selection of women’s attire, 50 years worth of contempt for everything that’s wrong with politics, a 15 pack of Alberta Genuine Draft and illegally downloaded CD compilations of Frank Zappa, Black Sabbath, Neil Young and Ted Nugent. And we were on a mission. We were on a mission to bring back the legendary Rhino Party.

As the Big Yellow Rhino rolled north across the sun-soaked Canadian prairie we sipped on our AGDs and listened to Neil Young’s seven and a half minute haunter Cortez the Killer over and over again. Recorded on Young’s 1975 Zuma album, the song tells of the genocide that came down on the Aztecs when Spanish conquistador Hernán Cortéz, “came dancin’ across the water with his galleons and guns.” Cajones, who’d recently completed his masters in Native Studies and has done support work for native groups, gave me a quick primer on how the redman continues to get fucked over, concentrating on the 1996 Gustafsen Lake Sundance trial - a fascinating story that Len was personally involved with but is not to be told in this book. 

We skirted around Edmonton and pointed the Big Yellow Rhino northwest. I attempted to alter the reflective mood by firing my whisky-scared Nugent disc into Cajones’ $20 pawn shop ghetto blaster and forwarding it to the Double Live Gonzo version of a blistering tune that offers a little hope for the redman, “But then came the white man, with his thick and empty head, he couldn’t see past the billfold, he wanted all the buffalo dead… above the canyon wall, strong eyes did glow, it was the leader of the land baby, the Great White Buffalo… well he got the battered herd, he led ‘em cross the land, with the Great White Buffalo, they gonna make a final stand.” Well, okay, the “final stand” part doesn’t really offer much hope but….

As we roared across the grasslands of the Peace River region on Highway 43 we discussed baseball (Cajones is a big Red Sox fan), girls, drugs, Buddhism, the New World Order, shape-shifting lizards from the 4^th dimension, reincarnation and all sorts of other gibberish, none of which is in any way consequential to this story. Then, getting to the business to come, Cajones asked me to explain the history of the Rhino Party and the concept of Rhinocerosism.

“Okay, first off, you’re the Leader of the Rhino Party.”

“I’m what?”

“The Leader of the Rhino Party.”

“No, you’re the Leader of the Rhino Party.”

“Exactly.”

“Huh?”

“I’m the leader-schmeader of the Rhino Party. There is no Leader. We tell everyone we  meet that they are the Leader of the Rhino Party.”

“Uh… okay. I understand. I think.”

“Once upon a time, not so very long ago, my friend, the Rhino Party was Canada’s most beloved political party. It was, in fact, at one point, Canada’s fourth largest political party, by popular vote….”

“Fuck off.”

“Seriously. No shit. Fourth largest party in the country in the 1979 election.”

“Come on?”

“Why would I lie to you?”

“Well… ummm…”

“Oh, shut up and listen. A guy named Jacques Ferron, doctor Jacques Ferron, founded the Parti Rhinoceros Party, in 1963, which, coincidentally - or, maybe not - is the year of my birth. Ferron and his co-conspirators chose the rhinoceros as the new party’s symbol because rhinos are dumb, thick-skinned, myopic, love to wallow in mud, yet can move with the speed of a race horse and be as dangerous as a pack of starving wolves when they sense danger making them the perfect political beast”

“That’s impressive.”

“For twenty-five years the Rhinos proudly stuck it to every self-serving, two-faced liar that stood before the people of Canada and promised them anything they wanted, in exchange for their votes. The Rhinos made a mockery of the system by satirizing deMOCKracy.”

“Promising to repeal the law of gravity?”

“Yes. And promising to reverse the damage done to Ontario and Quebec lakes by acid rain by dropping giant Rolaids into them; moving the Rockies to Saskatchewan so Albertans can see the sunset; paving Manitoba and turning it into the world’s largest parking lot; reducing the health budget by making sidewalks out of rubber in Newfoundland so drunks don’t hurt themselves; covering the national debt with a VISA card etc. etc.”

“Brilliant stuff. Promise anything because you have no intention of keeping your promises, just like all the others.”

“Precisely. But be funny. Absurdism. Da-da politics.”

“When did you become a Rhino?”

“Well, I was born a Rhino. Everyone has at least a little Rhino in them. Some of us have more than others and are more comfortable in our thick skins. But the first time I ran as a Rhino was in 1988. And it was in 88 that we pulled a prank that would, eventually, lead to the extermination of the Rhinos.”

“You mean John Turner?”

“Correct. Turner vs Turner.”

“Do tell.”

“The Vancouver Rhinos found a kid named John Turner. John Cameron Turner. John C Turner would appear before Liberal Party Leader John Napier Turner on the ballot. John Napier Turner won Vancouver Quadra by about 3000 votes in the 84 election, not exactly an insurmountable margin in a very well-to-do riding where his Tory opponent had won the four previous elections by comfortable margins. Also consider that Mulroney’s Tories owned two of the bordering ridings and the fact that John Napier was widely considered a bumbling buffoon, with zero charisma, whose best before date had long since passed.”

“Beauty.”

“Fuckin’ eh, beauty. Vancouver Quadra, as you know, is a very affluent riding. Full of old Vancouver money. Blue bloods and blue hairs. Lots of old people. Many of them with failing vision. So, when they step into the ballot booth and look at their ballots, they may well put their X beside the name of the wrong John Turner. If enough of the senile old fucks do so, perhaps as few as a thousand of them, John Napier Turner may lose his seat. The Liberals, of course, freaked. As well as being the Rhino candidate in Vancouver South, I was John C’s campaign manager. As such, it was my responsibility to make sure John C met all the requirements to get on the ballot. At that time, all that was required was a $200 deposit and a nomination form with 25 signatures of eligible voters who lived in the riding. Not even registered voters. Just eligible voters.”

“Sounds simple enough.”

“Yeah. And it was. We went out to UBC, which is in Quadra, on a Friday afternoon, swilled beer, flirted with college girls, made frat boys laugh, signed up a whack of drunks and handed the forms over to the Returning Officer. We had 50 or 60 signatures, so we figured we were fine but the Liberals challenged our papers. We got called on the carpet for a showdown. Some old hag named May Brown was the Liberal bigwig. She’d been a Liberal back-roomer for decades. She was around when Pearson won the Nobel Peace Prize for solving the Suez crisis in 56. She was a seasoned pol when Trudeaumania swept across the country in 68. And in 88 she happened to be the President of the BC chapter of the Liberal Party of Canada. I couldn’t help but smile when I walked into the showdown and saw her sitting in a chair, grinding her teeth.

“She claimed that we had stolen a page from the playbook of the 1960 Kennedy-Chicago camp by ‘voting the dead’. She sat there and told the returning officer we had collected names off tombstones and signed them to the nomination papers. Which, of course, was bullshit. Why the Hell would be go walking through a graveyard when we could wander around on a campus full of beautiful, nubile, young, live girls and get them to sign the nomination papers, while we tried to get their phone numbers? Dead girls don’t have phone numbers. There’s nothing more revolting – or sometimes amusing - than the scent of desperation coming off an old woman and that smell was thick in the office.”

“Beautiful!”

“Wait, it gets better. As it turned out a lot of the kids who signed lived on campus during the school year but were registered in other ridings. And there were a handful of bogus names. And there were a bunch of names that were not on the voters list, which didn’t mean a damned thing but the desperate old one-eye tried to make something of it. The returning officer pointed out that nominators don’t have to be registered voters, something Brown was aware of and she shut her stupid mouth for a minute. In the end we had 25 valid names.

“Brown was pissed. She called a time out and retreated to another room with her posse in tow. John C and I chuckled for about five minutes before Brown and her bumboys returned looking rather pleased with themselves. ‘Mr. Salmi,’ she said, looking very serious… stern even… ‘How many of your nominators are friends of yours?’

‘Excuse me?’

‘How many of these people are personal friends of yours? It’s a simple question.’

”Well, Len, my friend, there’s no such thing as a simple question when you’re playing hardball politics. But, I was pretty sure I knew where she was going, so I flashed a toothy, confident smile and cackled, ‘I don’t know. Maybe a dozen, or so.’

“The old battleship pounced, ‘So, you mean to tell me that you and Mr. Turner know only a dozen of his nominators?’

‘Well, honey, I never said that, did I?’

“I knew, for sure, where she was trying to go. And I knew that, for her, it was a road to nowhere. You see, my Rhino brother, the Election Act had a vaguely worded section regarding eligible nominators and the Liberals were trying to invoke it. The upshot of the section was that every effort should be made to assure that a nominator is fully qualified and the wording was such that, if you did not personally know the potential nominator, you should ask a series of questions to make sure they are legally qualified. Since many of our nominators were, as it turned out, not living in Quadra, and others, who lived in Quadra, were not on the voters’ list, Brown was insinuating that we had failed to do our due diligence and we, therefore, should have to prove that we know at least 25 of our nominators well enough to protect the integrity of the democratic process by guaranteeing that they did, indeed, live in the riding and were qualified to vote. If we only knew a dozen or so of our nominators personally, the returning officer could rule that we did not have the required 25 signatures and our ingenious little ploy would go down the shitter.

“Unfortunately for Brown and the Liberals, I too had taken the time to read the Election Act. Furthermore, I anticipated their move to disqualify our nominators on those grounds. So, as Brown was shrieking at the returning officer that he must, by law, strike John Cameron Turner’s name from the ballot, I silently looked on and smiled.

“When the returning officer interrupted Brown’s caterwauling to ask what I thought, the room went silent. ‘May, honey, you need to get a grip. It’s obvious that you don’t think that scum like us should even be allowed to vote, let alone run, in an election. In fact, judging from your histrionics, I’d be willing to bet that, if you had your way, we’d all be thrown into some kind of Stalinist forced labour camp. And, I don’t mind that, because… well, because I feel the same way about you.’ Brown was fixing a cold stare on me. She’d started grinding her teeth, again. You couldn’t have wiped the smirk off my face with a Louisville Slugger.

‘But, let’s leave all that aside for the moment and concentrate on the matter at hand, instead, shall we? If I’m correct, you’re basing your whole bid on the premise that neither John, nor I, personally know 25 of his nominators. Well, you’re wrong and I’m going to tell you why. I didn’t know you, your companions, or the Returning Officer, before I walked into this office, a short while ago. But, I don’t think you can argue that I still do not know you all now, now can you? Well, we met every one of those nominators, personally. We introduced ourselves and they all did likewise. We explained what we were doing and they all, every single one of them, agreed, of their own volition, to nominate my friend, here. If some of them were having us on about their true names and/or addresses, we are not at fault. But the bottom line, so far as your argument goes, is that, yes, we do, indeed, know every one of our nominators, just as surely as you now know that my name is Brian Godzilla Salmi, my friend here is John Cameron Turner and we are the fuckin’ Rhino Party, baby.’

“There was no arguing the point. The Returning Officer sided with us and declared John Cameron Turner, of the Parti Rhinoceros Party, an official candidate. The Liberals expended a great deal of time, effort and money, changing all their campaign material to clearly indicate that their candidate was named John N Turner, not John C Turner.

“Fuck me,” laughed BIG Len.

“You like that? Huh? You like that? Hahahahaha!”

“And what was John Napier’s margin of victory?”

“’Bout the same as in 84, somewhere around 3000 votes.”

“So, no real damage done.”

“No, but we sure had a fuck of a lot of fun!”

We rolled into Dawson Creek, BC, where the Alaska Highway begins, just after one a.m. We drained the last of our AGDs, which we’d miraculously managed to nurse for ten hours, pulled into the first bar we saw and proceeded to get our drink on in a manner more befitting two Rhinos on a mission. We poured copious quantities of cheap grog down our boozeholes and chortled as a band of almost competent kids strutted and posed through their last set of classic rock covers as a dozen or so hard looking cougars, whose husbands and boyfriends were working the graveyard shift at the local mill, giggled into their girly drinks at the local rock stars.

“Holy fuck, can you ever snore!” BIG Len said, as I opened one eye and then the other.

“’Bout a hundred decibels?”

“’Bout a hundred and twenty fuckin’ decibels. And you smell like a wet buffalo. You’re sleeping on the roof from now on.”

“Yeah. Guess I should have warned you about that, huh? My buddy Mark has joked, for years, that one day he’s going to take me drinking for sixteen hours before putting me on a trans-Atlantic flight. Just let me snore like a sasquatch and foul the air with my rancid alcoholic breath for ten or twelve hours.”

“What a fuckin’ nightmare. Be damned funny, though.”

The clock had just gone noon when we stumbled out of the local Save-On Foods with a fine assortment of breads, cheeses, fruits, nuts and snacks. “Hey,” Cajones said as we climbed into the Big Yellow Rhino, “we didn’t get any water.”

“Yeah, “ I laughed, “as if.”

After loading the cooler with a dozen Kokanees, a half dozen Okanagan apple ciders and a half dozen Okanagan pear ciders, we put the show back on the road.

“So, picking up where we left off last night, you lunatics pissed the Liberals off….

“No. We pissed all of them off. Liberals, Tories, kneedippers, none of the humourless fuckers appreciated the Turner vs Turner prank. We had incurred the wrath of the powers-that-be and, in five years time, Canada’s political oligarchy decided that they were so sick of us that they were willing to violate the most sacred right Canadians have in order to destroy the mighty and proud Rhinos.”

“And that right would be?”

“The right of every citizen to vote and to run in an election. Section 3 of the Charter of Rights and Freedoms guarantees that right. That right is so fundamental that it is the only section of the Charter that is completely immune from the notwithstanding clause. In a decision on a Communist Party Charter challenge, an Ontario judge unequivocally ruled that, without the right enshrined in section 3, get this, democracy does not exist. And that, my friend, is a direct quote from the ruling.”

“And how, exactly, did the fuckers trample all over section 3 and exterminate the Rhinos?”

“Yes. Good question. So now I’m going to tell you just how hypocritical all those fuckers are when they run around praising democracy while practicing deMOCKracy by destroying the right for someone to stand up as a candidate in an election and point out, to any who will listen, that our politicians are thieves, charlatans and hypocrites and that anyone who condones their chicanery and malfeasance by voting for them is a fool.”

“I kinda thought everyone understands that already.”

“Well, you may be right but they keep voting anyway… although the turnout keeps going down every election. All the same, I think the powers that be understand that it’s in their best interests to do whatever they need to do to keep people like you and me from continuously pointing out the obvious to the sheep. And it’s one thing for the Communists or Libertarians, or even the Greens, to rail against the system in their earnest, ‘mad-as-Hell and not gonna take it anymore’ ways but it’s something altogether different to be relentlessly and mercilessly mocked by a bunch of funny anarchists.”

“Funarchists.”

“Yeah. That’s the term. Mark Twain nailed it, as he did so often, when he said, “Against the assault of laughter, nothing can stand.’”

“Smart guy, that Samuel Clemons dude.”

“Rhinos have been around forever, brother Len. But, as I was saying, after the Turner vs. Turner prank, Mulroney’s government started debating changes to the Election Act.”

“And those changes were for the sole purpose of getting rid of the Rhinos?”

“And the Commies and the Libertarians and all the other small parties the entrenched parties deemed nuisances. But yeah, I don’t think there’s any doubt they all had it in for us especially, because, be they communists, fascists, liberals or conservatives, they all understand that anarchists will not even acknowledge their falsely presumed claims of authority.

“So, despite the fact that section 3 of the Charter states… wait a minute, I have a copy of the Constitution… ‘Every citizen of Canada has the right to vote in an election of members of the House of Commons or of a legislative assembly and to be qualified for membership therein,’ they changed the election act to exclude us.”

“They raised the deposit.”

“Yeah. From $200 to $1000. Even the $200 deposit had been illegal since the Charter came into effect in 82….”

“Wait. Why are deposits illegal? Technically speaking.”

“Because section 52 of the constitution, and remember, the Charter is just part of the constitution, states, ‘The Constitution of Canada is the supreme law of Canada, and any law that is inconsistent with the provisions of the Constitution is, to the extent of the inconsistency, of no force or effect.’ So, section 66 of the Election Act, which requires a candidate to pay a $1000 deposit, is inconsistent with section 3 of the Charter because not every citizen of Canada can afford to pay the deposit.”

“It’s an economic means test.”

“Exactly. And it’s illegal.”

“Which is what your Charter challenge a couple years ago was all about.”

“Yes. But we’ll get to that. Let me do this chronologically.”

“You were saying?”

“In addition to upping the deposit in time for the 93 election, the fuckers also amended the Election Act to stipulate that a party must run 50 candidates to be recognized as an official party.”

“So, you had to have 50k to be a political party.”

“Which we obviously didn’t.

“Evil.”

“Oh, it’s worse. They also stipulated that any party unable to field 50 candidates would not only be deregistered, they would have to forfeit all assets to the government.”

“They raped you, murdered you and then robbed your grave.”

“Very good. That’s exactly what the fuckers did. And they got all-party consent on the Bill.”

“The NDP didn’t fight it?”

“Communists hate anarchists. Never trust the NDP. They’re just as bad as the others. In fact, they’re worse because the fuckin’ hypocrites march around wailing about the injustice and tyranny of their supposed political enemies and then adopt the same tactics and strategies when they get in power.”

“Yeah. Gustafsen Lake proved that to me. But the Rhinos didn’t just roll over and take it in the ass, did you?”

“No. We huffed and puffed and stomped around for a while. Well, I did. But the Bill passed and there wasn’t much a bunch of broke-ass Rhinos could do about it.”

“But you fielded candidates anyway.”

“Sort of. But that was when the Party split during…

The Great Rhino Civil War of 1993

“Rhino hindquarters had always been based out of Montreal. But when the fuckers were debating the changes to the Election Act the Montreal Rhinos were strangely silent. The Vancouver Rhinos had been lead, for years, by an acid-damaged old hippie named Rich the Troll.”

“I remember him. I remember seeing interviews with him on the porch of that shack of his on the North Shore. Looked like something out of an Ozark swamp.”

“All that was missing was the shotgun and the hound dog.”

“Seemed like good guy.”

“Yeah. Mostly. But he took his marching orders from Montreal, so he too kept his mouth shut. I’d quit Greenpeace in the spring of 93 after the yuppies and feminists took over and no longer had a vehicle to fuck shit up in. And I was sick to death of all the PC bullshit that was going on in those days, so I desperately wanted to get my freak on in a debauched Rhino campaign.”

“I remember that era. Got caught up in the PC shit myself, for a while.”

“Well, you’ll make amends over the next few weeks, brother Len, amen.”

“You figure?”

“Know so. As the old saying goes, ‘nature and politics abhor a vacuum’ so I stepped up to the plate. I started recruiting candidates, including the then mostly unknown Bif Naked.”

“You had a thing with her, didn’t you? At least, that was the rumour going around.”

“Well, I had a thing for her and we came close to having a thing but I fucked it up. And, no, you’re not getting that story.”

“I’ll get it out of you when you’re liquored.”

“Probably. But you’re not getting it now, so fuck off. The media love the Rhinos, so when I took it upon myself to bring the noise I got a whack of coverage, including Quote of the Day in the Globe and Mail.”

“No shit? What was it?”

“Something about having to rob Tory bagmen to raise the 50k.”

“ Good one. Did you?”

“No. I actually raised my deposit by dressing up as Kim Campbell and letting people kick me in the ass for a buck.”

“That’s dedication.”

“Fuckin’ eh. One drunk asshole in a titty bar actually connected with my balls as I bent over. Fucker was wearing cowboy boots. Got between my legs with the point.”

“Ouch! Literally boot-fucked for a buck. Any serious damage?”

“No but I almost stomped him.”

“You?”

“Used to fight a fair bit when I was a kid. Didn’t lose many. Could’ve kicked the shit out of that drunken cowboy.”

“Funny! Be great to see the look on his face the next day when his buddies told him Kim Campbell stomped him.”

“Yeah. No shit. Anyway, the Montreal Rhinos were pissed that I was carrying the Party banner and getting all the attention so they sent some loser named Barry the Enforcer out to read me the riot act. Enforcer? Fuck me. Should’ve stomped him.”

“Easy, Rhino. What did Barry the Enforcer have to say?”

“I was summoned to a sleazy, skid bar in New West where he handed me an envelope marked, ‘URGENT’. The highlights of the missive were: ‘This is not a T & A party,’ and it went on to state that ‘strippers and dominatrixes were not fit to run with, and especially not for the Rhino Party,’”

“You’re kidding.”

“Oh no. I was planning to run a smart-assed stripper named Blondie Butler against Kim Campbell, in Vancouver Centre.”

“Yeah! I remember her.”

“You should. We had one of her campaign posters up in the Terminal City office for years.”

“She was naked!”

“Yeah. We were mocking the famous ‘saucy’ photo of our bare-shouldered Prime Minister holding her lawyer’s robe on a hanger in front of a torso that nobody but the most perverted political junkie wanted to see.”

“That’s right. Blondie was holding a hanger with nothing on it. The Prime Minister’s new clothes?”

“Exactly.”

“And the dominatrix?”

“Mistress Elle. Party Whip. Was gonna run her in Richmond.”

“Brilliant! All those meek little Chinese guys would have been bowing down.”

“Yeah. But the Montreal Rhinos were not amused. The ‘URGENT’ communiqué stated that ‘any prospective candidates not holding at least a BA in political science will have to pass a political aptitude test.’”

“What the fuck?”

“Near as I can figure is that Charlie McKenzie, Charlie the Janitor, who was the official Leader of the Party, had some ball-busting feminut girlfriend and was bowing to her commands.”

“Sheesh.”

“Yeah. Sick shit and strange days. For a minute, I thought the letter was a joke. But I realized they were totally serious when I read that all monies raised by the Lotusland Rhinos were to be sent directly to Montreal.”

“Ottawa robs Montreal, Montreal robs Vancouver.”

“Yeah. The brain-dead old hippies in Montreal seriously misunderstood the concept of Western alienation. I had no idea what the fuck was going on, so I called up long time Rhino, Ruff Tuff Duff Duff Scott, in Regina. Duff had been my Rhino mentor in 88. We’d smoke speed, drink rum, come up with policies and campaign together. When Duff informed me that there had always been a very strong separatist faction within the Quebec Rhinos I began to understand what the whole farce was really about.

“Lucien Bouchard had recently jilted his old buddy Brian Mulroney to form and lead the Bloc Quebecois, giving separatists someone to vote for in a federal election for the first time. Astute political observers, very astute political observers, will know that the Rhinos, much-loved in Quebec, never ran provincially, thus providing an open field for the Parti Quebecois.

“It was clear to me that the Montreal Rhinos were scuttling the party to aid their separatist cause.”

“What?”

“No shit. It was not uncommon for Rhinos to get more than a thousand votes in Quebec ridings.”

“And the separatist Rhinos figured those votes would go to Bloc candidates?”

“Yes. Thus allowing Liberals to beat out Bloc candidates in close races.”

“Fuck me. They started taking it seriously. Started playing the game. Two legs good, four legs better.”

“That’s funny. That’s exactly what I had Mistress Elle chanting as she spanked her little plastic rhino during the press conference where we announced that we had broken from the Montreal Rhinos and formed the Gnu Democratic Rhino Reform Party.”

“And that was the end of the Rhinos?”

“Well, that was the end of the Parti Rhinoceros Party but I did my part to keep the spirit and philosophy of Rhinocerosism alive.”

“Ronald Fuckin’ McDonald, free-beer-to-run-for-Mayor, Satan 97 DRINK * FUCK * VOTE.”

“Yeah. The Ronald Fuckin’ McDonald campaign was the genus of Black Rhinocerosism. Standing out front of the Kerrisdale McDonalds for three weeks, dressed in my Ronald Fuckin’ McDonald costume chugging cheap wine and handing out smokes to kids was black humour.”

“What made you go Black Rhino?”

“By the time they dropped the writ for the byelection….”

“This was the provincial byelection when Premier Gordo first got elected to the Legislature?”

“Correct. February 94. I’d been campaigning non-stop since the previous April. Trying to fight the changes to the Election Act, fighting the Great Rhino Civil War, running against Prime Minister Kim and then the first 1000 Mayors campaign in the municipal election.”

“No free beer that time.”

“Didn’t have a bar then. Didn’t take over the Mighty Niagara until the fall of 94. Needless to say, I’d become very cynical in those eight months. I knew that the byelection was coming because Gordo had just orchestrated his coup on the provincial Liberal Party and needed a seat but I didn’t know when he’d convince someone to resign a seat and force a byelection. In early December I was down in Seattle covering the APEC Summit for TC, which only added to my cynicism. I got home on a Sunday night to find out that my old man had a jammer and died the day before. I filed the papers to change my name the next day. Spent the Christmas holidays taking care of my mother, ‘til we could stick her in an old folks home, and plotting the Ronald Fuckin’ McDonald circus. I was ready when they dropped the writ. And I was a Black Rhino by the time they did.”

“And the Karla Homolka endorsement leaflets.”

“Doesn’t get any blacker than ‘Karla says - Vote for the clown or I’ll kill you.’”

“What the fuck was the point of that?”

“Publication ban. Karla’s trial was under way. Anyone publishing details from the trial was arrested. I found the gory details of the trial on an American web site, printed them on the back of that leaflet and said ‘fuck you and your publication ban. Let’s see you bust Ronald Fuckin’ McDonald for breaking the ban.’ I’d legally changed my name so the trial would have been Queen vs Ronald Fuckin’ McDonald.”

“But they didn’t bust you.”

“Shocked the fuck out of me.”

“Just didn’t want to fuck with you?”

“That’s when I began to understand that the system has elasticity. Go way out on the  edge and they’re afraid to come and get you. I was the only person in the country who didn’t get busted for breaking the ban.”

“Cops never came?”

“Oh, they came. I gave them a leaflet, chugged my bottle of wine and smiled like a fuckin’ lunatic.”

“You are a fuckin’ lunatic.”

“Yeah. Well… I was bored. But thank you. Strangest thing was that they threatened to bust me for my next leaflet.”

“Which was?”

“A cartoon of Mother Teresa spanking Ronald McDonald while he’s fisting the Pope and the Pope is yelling ‘Spank him again, Mother Teresa. He’s a BAD clown.’”

“Black Rhinocerosism. And they threatened to bust you for that?”

“I laughed my ass off. Said to the cop ‘I’m breaking the Karla Homolka trial publication ban and you’re going to bust me for this? Get the fuck out of here.’”

“Bad clown!”

“Funny. I remember Yummy Girl wagging her finger at me at some point during the Satan 97 campaign and saying ‘Bad Satan!’”

“Now that was Black Rhinocerosism at its… umm… er… finest?”

“Yeah. It was. When you change your name to Sa Tan, stand for office in the buy-bull belt and open your campaign by burning a hundred buy-bulls outside of a church full of 2000 evangelical Christians and roast marshmallows on a pitchfork, it’s black fuckin’ humour, brother Len, amen. But we’re not gonna go anywhere near Black Rhinocerosism in this campaign.”

“Amen to that, Satan. The Yukon is a crazy place but I don’t think they’re ready for that kind of weird shit. And neither am I.”

“Yeah. No worries. This will be a White Rhino campaign all the way. Black is a flavour of Rhinocerosism that, like reality, is not for the squeamish. Not exactly the optimum way to start a populist movement.”

“No. White Rhinocerosism will win far more friends.”

“And girls!”

“I hear that.”

“Now, speaking of girls, I’ve come up with your Rhino name.”

“Rhino name?”

“Have to have a Rhino name. Can’t be a Rhino without a Rhino name. There’ve been some beauties over the years.”

“Like?”

“Well, Ruff Tuff Duff Duff Scott, Richard the Troll Schaller, Alfred the Alien Frinton, Penny Whore, Liar Liar, Marie Chou Chou Chouinard, Wowie Zowie Liz Zubek, Sylvie Legs Legault, Bob Nitestalker Colebrook, Le Fakir Serge Hebert, Lady Be Ann Poulin, Paul Poison Hevey, Real E. Humble, Leapin Liz Johnson, Tony The Weasel Wiezoreck. Then, in the free-beer-to-run-for-Mayor campaign, we had the Trash Terminator, Zippy the Circus Chimp - which was my personal favourite, Zippy the Circus Chimp for Mayor - Lupo the Butcher, Barb E. Doll, the Reverend L. Ron Moonbeam, Frank the Moose, Sage Advice, Sandy Beach and Yummy Girl.”

“Yummy Girl ran for Mayor?”

“She was such a good girl before she went bad. Girls are bad.”

“So you’ve told me.”

“What? You doubt me?”

“No, no. Girls are bad. I know. Even the Perfect One’s are bad.. Okay, so, Ruff Tuff Duff Duff Scott was your Rhino mentor, did he anoint you Brian Godzilla Salmi?”

“No. The Evil Clown Gods who Rule the Universe (ECGs) gave me that name.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Well, back in 88 I was doing a lot of anti-nuke work. Godzilla was, in an odd way, an anti-nuke protest. Godzilla became a hundred and fifty feet tall and had radioactive breath because he was contaminated by the nuclear testing the Mairkans were doing in the South Pacific.”

“Ah-hah. I never knew that.”

“So, the ECGs came to me, at four in the morning one night, as they always had and still do, and told me to run as Brian Godzilla Salmi. My schtick was that, after ‘my’ last film I crossed the Pacific and finally went to sleep on the bottom of Georgia Strait. But all the Mairkan nuclear armed warships and submarines that plied those waters, testing their evil weapon systems, particularly at Nanoose Bay, had, once again, awoken me and incurred my wrath. But, having spent some time in Japan and having been exposed to Buddhism, I’d become more Zen. So I was seeking revenge in a kinder, gentler way by asking the people of Canada for a mandate to do everything in my power to stop the nuclear insanity that threatened the existence of all but cockroaches. In a peaceful way.”

“That’s good. Okay, oh leader-schmeader, what shall my Rhino name be? You said something about girls?”

“Big Len Cajones.”

“That’s pretty lame. How’d you come up with that one, leader-schmeader?”

“The ECG’s sent it to me last night when we were in that bar in Dawson Creek. You don’t remember?”

“Uh… no.”

“We were talking to those cougz?”

“Cougz? I remember them. We were talking to them?”

“Lookin’ for a more comfortable place to spend the night than the Big Yellow Rhino.”

“I’m listening.”

“I was telling them about this mighty important mission of ours and blathered something about having the honour of introducing them to the first Rhino Candidate in 15 years, BIG Len Cajones.”

“Oh, BIG Len Cajones! As in…”

“As in the BIGgest man in the Yukon, ‘if you understand what I’m sayin’, ladies.’”

“Ah! That’s good. But I woke up to the sounds of your growling-bear-with-a-chainsaw snoring.”

“Can’t win ‘em all, brother Len, amen. However, I can tell you that as soon as I insinuated that you have the biggest schlong in the Yukon, the drunkest of the cougarz immediately started trying to scope your package.”

“Beautiful. Should’ve been wearing my cut-off football pants.”

“This one’s a numbers game, Cajones. We run you as BIG Len Cajones and I guarantee you every girl in the Yukon is gonna wanna know if you really are. Plus, we can say that it’s only right that the guy with the biggest schlong be sent to Ottawa to represent the good people of the Yukon and challenge the other candidates to show us what they gots.”

“Makes as much sense as voting for the most believable and likable liar, I guess.”

“Rhino logic.”

“I like it. BIG Len Cajones. Rhino logic. Fun!”

“Atta boy.

With that settled, we tuned in a local radio station’s afternoon talk show and listened to the inane blather for a couple hours until we reached Fort Nelson, where I insisted we stop at the local titty bar to see if the one-armed stripper I met there 14 years earlier was still entertaining the locals Alas, she was not and we moved on.

Three hours later we were soaking in the incredibly hot (up to 52 degrees Celsius – 125 Fahrenheit) and relaxing waters of Liard Hot Springs, which is a must-stop for anyone traveling the Alaska Highway. After soaking and swilling for a couple hours we wisely decided to keep the Big Yellow Rhino right where it was and spend the night amusing fat, old Mairkan Winnebago warriors making the pilgrimage to Alaska, with whom we bonded by consuming mass quantities and swatting various species of blood-thirsty insectoids.

Cajones proved to be worthy of the honour of carrying the Rhino banner when he spontaneously and effortlessly spun his own wonderfully weird history of the Rhino Party for our Mairkan friends. “Canada would not exist, if not for the Rhino Party. The Rhino Party, was, is and forever shall be the secret political arm of the Free Masons in Canada. Ya’ll know who the Free Masons are, don’t ya?” Not wanting to expose themselves for the Mairkan ignoids they were, our drinking companions nodded unconvincingly.

“Good. Good to know Mairkans know what’s going on in the world,” Len replied with just a touch of sarcasm. “Canada was, is and forever shall be a vast, frozen wasteland, unless, of course, the scientists are right about global warming. Rhinos, as I’m sure you can imagine, are not genetically predisposed to acclimating to harsh meteorological conditions, so the idea of getting Rhinos to migrate to Canada was, at best, a dubious prospect. This was a problem because Rhinos are the smartest creatures on this planet and it is impossible to form a country, at least one that is going to be prosperous, without Rhinos.

“Fortunately, a few reluctant Rhinos agreed to come to Canada, which was then still a British colony, to see what could be done. But as those Rhinos made their way west the cold north winds began to blow. By the time they got to Fort William - which is now known as Thunder Bay, which is located on the North Shore of Lake Superior, 200 miles North of Duluth, Minnesota - on July 18, 1863, the ground was covered in six feet of snow and the temperature was -67 Fahrenheit.

“The freezing Rhinos stampeded to the first source of warmth they could find. It was a fire. Unfortunately, Rhinos are afraid of fire. Whenever a Rhino comes across a fire he instinctively stomps it out – ya’ll have seen the film The Gods Must be Crazy, ain’t ya?” The Mairkans looked at each other before again nodding. “Very good. Ya’ll are cultured as well as schooled.

“With the fire extinguished there was no warmth for the freezing Rhinos. The only way they could keep warm was to keep running. And so they did. All the way to the Pacific Ocean. The Rhinos stomped out every fire along the way, often coming back

and stomping them out again the minute the bewildered settlers started them again. This was very problematic. Settlers were needed but would not stay so long as the Rhinos were running around putting out all the fires.

“Rhinos do not like the cold but they are absolutely necessary for a country to prosper. You could have Rhinos and no settlers, or settlers and no Rhinos and therefore no prosperity. What to do? What would ya’ll have done?”

The cleverest and most playful of the Mairkans, a retired truck driver from somewhere in the deep south, Arkansas (or maybe Alabama), said, “I know! Give the Rhinos buffalo skin coats and boots.”

“Very good! Very clever! Unfortunately, your ancestors had killed all the buffaloes, so that wasn’t an option.”

“We killed all the Canajun buffaloes?”

“Yes. And we’re still pissed about it, so leave it alone. When the Rhinos reached the west coast in the spring of 1864 they summoned Sir John A MacDonald for a pow-wow. Now I know ya’ll don’t know who Sir John A McDonald was, so I’ll tell ya. He was our first Prime Minister. MacDonald and the Rhinos met in the saloon of Gassy Jack Deighton, who had just washed up on the south shore of Burrard Inlet, in what is now known as Vancouver, with a barrel of whisky. Gassy Jack, Sir John A and the Rhinos would go through 87 barrels of whisky before they would come up with a plan. Well, actually they came up with the plan after the first barrel but since Vancouver is such a beautiful place in the summer they all decided to hang around and get pissed for a couple months.

“The decision was to build a railroad across the country. With a railroad the Rhinos could keep warm as they traveled across the country and there would be no need to run around stomping out fires.

“As every Canadian knows, Canada would not have become an independent country without the Canadian Pacific Railrway. We’d have been absorbed into that failing social experiment ya’ll are conducting down under. For their wisdom and sage advice, the Rhinos were given permission to graze on the prairie grasses for all eternity. However, when the Rhinos became aware of what whitey had done to their buffalo brothers and sisters, they decided to take a powder.”

“Well, partner, that’s a mighty impressive story,” said the clever, playful Mairkan. “And the two of you are heading to the Yukon to bring the Rhino Party back to life, you say?”

“Indeed, we are, partner,” I answered.

“Well then I guess the big guy here is the Leader of the Rhinos, then, huh?”

“No,” Len smiled, “you’re the leader of the Rhino Party, Bubba.” The clever, playful Mairkan was very pleased by the news.

“I am? I mean, Hell yeah, I am the Leader of the Rhino Party!”

“You see,” I said, picking up the bouncy ball and running with it, “Cornelius told us to embark upon this journey because, somewhere along the way, we would find the next Leader of the Rhino Party. And, just as Cornelius said, we have found him… uh, you.”

“Cornelius the First told you that, huh?”

“He did.”

“And who is this Cornelius the First fella, if ya don’t mind me askin’?.”

“Cornelius the First is the spiritual leader of the Rhino Party. Cornelius was the first Rhino ever born in Canada. He was born in 1977 in the Granby Zoo, which is in Quebec.”

“Where all them separatist trouble-makers are?”

“Yes, where all them separatist trouble-makers are. The Rhino Party adopted Cornelius and proclaimed him Leader for Life. This very much frightened the evil powers-that-be and Cornelius the First was traded to the San Diego zoo for a kangaroo or two and a stack of used Dr. Seuss books.”

“Well now, that just ain’t playin’ fair, it ain’t.”

“No, partner, it ain’t. But it’s better than what the Belgians did.”

“The Belgians? What in Hell did they do?”

“They killed Cornelius the First’s mother.”

“Ya don’t say. Why’d they do that for?”

“Well, to try to prevent the birth of Cornelius the First, of course, silly.”

“I’ll be damned. The Belgians knew that Cornelius the First’s mother was going to give birth to the Leader of the Rhino Party?”

“Correct.”

“Them Belgians are some kinda smart, huh?”

“Yes but they can’t fight. We beat them in a war.”

“Beat them in a war, ya say?”

“Sure did. They sent their secret agent Tintin to the Belgian Congo and he killed Cornelius the First’s mother….”

“Tintin? The comic book kid?”

“Correct. Tintin is a Belgian secret agent. But the Belgians made the mistake of letting the whole world know about their treachery by telling the tale in a Tintin book. When we read the book we declared war on Belgium. Had an official Rhino Party press conference in Ottawa to declare war and everything.”

“You don’t say? What happened then.”

“Well, the waffle-eaters sued for peace before we attacked. We agreed a peace treaty and the Belgian embassy threw a party for the Rhinos where we signed the peace treaty and they handed over cases of Belgian beer, chocolate and mussels as war reparations.”

“Hot damn! That sounds like fun.”

“I imagine it was but that was before I became on official Rhino, so I wasn’t there. But I’ve seen the newspaper clippings.”

“Serious?”

“True story, partner. True story.”

We spent the rest of the night talking Rhino nonsense with our new friends and coming up with new Rhino policies and trying to convince the clever, playful Mairkan to stop in Whitehorse, where we would hold a press conference and officially declare him the new Leader of the Rhino Party.

The next morning Bubba and his wife treated us to a pancake breakfast, pouring on liberal quantities of Kahlua for syrup (and let me tell you, pancakes can soak up a lot of Kahlua). Upon sober second thought, our new Leader decided to politely decline our noble offer, with apologies to Cornelius. So, we made all our Mairkan friends official Rhino Party toilet paper roll horns, (which come with elastics and are worn on the forehead with the word Rhino written on both sides), made them all honourary Rhino Party Leaders and got back on the road after another long soak in the hot springs.

“That was one Hell of a performance you put on last night, brother Len, amen.”

“What? What did I do?”

“The Rhino history lesson. Brilliant stuff. Where’d that one come from?”

“Didn’t you tell me that story.”

“Me? Fuck no.”

“Seriously?”

“Seriously.”

“Well… hmmm… maybe Cornelius was channelling it to me? Is he dead?”

“Think he’s still in the San Diego zoo. We tried to get him back in the 88 campaign. As you’ll remember, the 88 election was fought over the proposed free trade treaty with the States. Everywhere Mulroney went, protestors chanted ‘Free Canada – trade Mulroney!’”

“Chanted that a few times myself, in that election.”

“Well, we didn’t. We’d show up attired in all manner of ridiculous Rhino garb, placards with pics of Cornelius and chanted ‘Free Cornelius- trade Mulroney!’”

“How’d that go over?”

“As always, the majority of protestors were humourless idiots but a few of them got it.”

“And the war on Belgium?”

“What about it?”

“For real?”

“Fuckin’ eh true story, Len. Used to have the press clippings until my grow show got raided and I lost all of it.”

“Lost everything?”

“Fled the country with nothing but the clothes on my back.”

“And a whack of cash.”

“Yeah. Taught me even more about not getting tied to material goods. Only thing I really regret losing was all the footage we shot form the Satan 97 DRINK * FUCK * VOTE campaign.”

“Bummer,”

“Yeah. Had some priceless stuff. Two videographers with us at all times. Would have made a great documentary.”

“And was the most fun campaign you’ve run?”

“Fuck no. That one was pure fuckin’ Hell. That one was so fucked up I still haven’t written about it, nor do I want to.”

“Well, I’ll get that story out of you when you spill the Bif story.”

“Probably. I did manage to save all the press clippings from Satan 97. Gave copies to Atwater and had him mail them to me in London. Got them with me. I’ll let you read over them and tell you the story when this campaign’s over.”

“Think this’ll be the most fun?”

“Betting on it. When you play with Black Rhinocerosism, things can get real ugly. On the other hand, White Rhinocerosism is just fun. The only white Rhino campaign I’ve run was the first, in 88. The first one’s always the most fun. But I almost lost out on the last week of the campaign.”

“How?”

“The summer before the election me and my buddy Slow Buffalo got busted for stopping logging road construction in Clayoquot Sound.”

“In 88? I though Clayoquot was 93.”

“Clayoquot summer was 93 but the battle had been raging for years by then. Me and Slow Buffalo just went up and plopped our asses in the blasting zone and got hauled off. When the cops asked Slow Buffalo for his name he told them it was Zaphod Beeblebrox.”

“Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy?”

“Yeah. I told them my name was Ford Prefect.”

“No respect for authority.”

“Gotta have some fun. And no point trying to save the world if you ain’t havin’ any fun.”

“Yeah. The earnest, angry ones don’t really get that, do they?”

“Not many of them. Anyway, the trial was scheduled for the last week of the campaign. I went over the Nanaimo on first ferry Monday morning and actually got to the courthouse late.”

“Bet that didn’t impress the judge.”

“You’d win that bet if you could find a sucker to take it. The trial was scheduled to last the whole week, meaning I was either going to have to commute back and forth across the Strait every day, or come up with the money to get a hotel for the week, which was a very dubious prospect. Because I was a registered candidate, I asked the judge to sever my trial from that of the others.”

“The others?”

“There were about 30 of us in all and they would not permit us separate trials, even though we all got busted at different times.”

“Not uncommon but Stalinist all the same.”

“Soviet style show trial.”

“I take it the hizzonour turned down your request?”

“Oh yeah. So I told him to kiss my Rhino ass.”

“Fuck off.”

“In a manner of speaking. But I had just cause and a case.”

“I’m listening.”

“The judge asked me what Party I was running for.”

“What the fuck does that matter?”

“Exactly. That’s what I asked the fucker. All candidates are supposed to be treated equally, regardless of what Party, if any, they represent. And remember section 3 of the Charter.”

“Every citizen has the right to vote and run in an election.”

“Very good Grasshopper. You may snatch the pebble from my hand sooner than I thought. I pointed out to the judge that an incumbent Tory MP, a dirtbag named Michel Gravel, had manipulated the system to avoid going on trial for something like 50 corruption charges until after the election. Fucker’d been charged two years earlier for crimes he’d started committing just months after the Tories came to power in 84.

“At one point, in early 88, the Quebec Justice Minister, Herbert Marx, had taken the extraordinary step of sending Gravel to trial by something called ‘preferred indictment’, bypassing the preliminary hearing stage that usually requires a detailed, public examination of evidence. The Quebec government of Robert Bourassa was very supportive of Mulroney’s free trade initiative, which was the single biggest issue in the 88 election. Obviously, Mulroney and Bourassa conspired to thwart justice until after the election.

“At that time, those in-the-know, politically, myself included, were well aware of the rumours that the RCMP were holding off on laying corruption related charges against another dirtbag Quebec Tory MP, Richard Grise. Sure enough, the day after the election the RCMP raided Grise’s office and charged him.

“The judge just didn’t give a fuck about any of that, especially not when he was being lectured on the principals of justice and democracy by a long-haired, nose-thumbing  anarchist freak who had the nerve to giggle his way through the day’s proceedings. Essentially, hizzonour was forcing me to decide between foregoing my constitutional right to stand before the people of Vancouver South and offer them my services and pleading guilty to a charge that I had no intention of pleading guilty to.”

“You’d miss out on all the fun of the last week of the campaign, so you told him to kiss our ass?”

“I told him that he was forcing me to plead guilty to a contempt of court charge - there was a court order to not impede construction of the logging road - and that I did, indeed, have nothing but contempt for him and his stinking court.”

“Beauty. Did he throw your Rhino ass in jail for double contempt?”

“No. He bit his tongue and turned me loose until sentencing. I got 20 days, while all the others got three.”

“Was it worth it?”

“Fuckin’ eh. Do it again any day. I’m not bowing down to those fuckers.””

“You know… sooner or later, they’re gonna lock you up and throw away the key. But as Thoreau said ‘The only place for a just man in an unjust society is jail.’”

“Fuck ‘em. Fuckers.”

“Amen, Satan. Amen.”

“Them your buffaloes kid?”

Cajones and I were surprised that we hadn’t encountered any hitchhikers along the road yet and students of gonzo journalism would be surprised, shocked even, if one didn’t materialize sooner or later. Well, he did. About 20 clicks past Liard Hot Springs we saw the kid on the side of the road. With four or five buffaloes on the hillside no more than a hundred metres behind him. Fuck you! I am not making this up. All along the Alaska Highway you will see billboards tempting the Winnebago warriors off the road with the promise of buffalo burgers and steaks. And all along the highway between Fort Nelson and the Yukon boundary you will see buffaloes contentedly grazing on the public grass on either side of the road.

“Them your buffaloes, kid?” I asked.

“Huh? What?”

“Them there buffaloes. Standin’ behind you boy. They yours?”

“Uh… no. They’re not my buffaloes, dude.”

“Just as well. Don’t think we could fit ‘em all in here. Maybe one. If we butcher it properly. You wanna kill one? Got a couple rifles in the back.” Cajones burst out laughing before interjecting, much to the relief of the kid.

“You’re an asshole Salmi. Don’t pay no attention to him kid. Climb in. We ain’t got no rifles in here.”

“Yeah. I’m just fuckin’ with you kid. We ain’t got no rifles. Got a half dozen handguns, though.”

“Fuck you Salmi. Where you headin’ kid?”

“Uh… uh… Marsh Lake?”

“Get in. We’re goin’ to the North Pole.”

The kid was a scrawny little fucker, ‘bout 5’ 7” and a buck thirty. He’d hitched from the Kootenays, in southeast BC. “You on some kinda hunger strike, kid?” I asked.

“Huh? Hunger strike? No. Why?”

“You look like you’re on the lam from Auschwitz.” I’d ridden my thumb for more than 50,000 kms when I was his age and knew what it was to be a bit on the peckish side, on occasion, as I stood on the shoulder with my thumb in the air, a cardboard sign that read “PLEASE” and a hopeful smile on my face. “When was the last time you ate?”

“Well… uh… ‘early afternoon, yesterday. Ain’t got but ten bucks to my name.”

“Yeah. That’s what I figured. Well, there’s lots of food in that bag, help yourself. No beer left, though. You’re gonna have to wait a while before we can get a couple cold ones in you.”

“Yeah. That’s okay. I don’t drink.”

“Ain’t gonna last long in the Yukon, if you don’t drink,” Cajones opined.

“That’s why I was hesitant to get in with you guys. I don’t care if you do have guns back here. I ain’t afraid of guns, especially if you’re puttin’ me in the back with them. But you smell like you’ve been on a bender for a couple days. Thought maybe you were drunk and I don’t wanna ride with guys who are pissed.”

“A bit ripe, are we? Well, you’re right, we have been on a bit of a rip but we ain’t drunk now. Not yet, anyway. We’ll let you take the wheel when we get drunk.”

The kid was off to see his old man, who, apparently, was dying of cancer. He called himself Ten-strip, a name given to him by his friends for his penchant for gobbling copious quantities of acid. Well, any kid who eats ten hits of acid at a time is a natural born Rhino (although I’d never met a Rhino who didn’t drink), so we told him about our mission to bring back the Rhino Party from extinction.

“What’s the Rhino Party, dude?”

“Fuckin’ kids these days,” I mumbled to Cajones. “You don’t know what the Rhino Party is?” 

“Never heard of it.”

“Well, here. Read this. It’ll explain everything,” I said handing him a copy of the 2001 BC Rhino Party manifesto.

The kid sat in the back, contentedly grazing and reading. Every now and then he’d burst out laughing and comment, “This is some weird shit, dudes.”

“That’s rich, comin’ from a kid who eats ten hits of acid at once,” Cajones chuckled to me the first time the peanut gallery of one pronounced judgement. We ate up the clicks listening to Zappa sing about horny Jewish princesses (“with a couple of sisters who can raise a few blisters”), naughty Catholic girls (“with a tongue like a cow, she could make you go wow!”), a debauched closet case named Bobby Brown (“got a job doing radio promos and none of the jocks can even tell I’m a homo”) and finally asking why it hurts when he pees (“why does it hurt when I pee? Don’t want no doctor to stick no needle in me”).

“Welcome to the Yukon, Salmi,” Cajones said as we crossed the boundary.

“This isn’t right, Len.”

“What? What’s not right? The Yukon? Being in the Yukon?”

“No, no, no. Not having any grog to toast this momentous moment.”

“Don’t be stupid. I stashed a couple last night for this very occasion,” Cajones scoffed as he pulled a surprisingly cold can of Kokanee out of his door panel and handed it to me.

“That, my friend, is why you are the leader of the Rhino Party.”

“Oh no. I’m not the Leader of the Rhino Party. You’re the Leader of the Rhino Party.”

“Hey kid,” I yelled. “Welcome to the Yukon. You’re the new Leader of the Rhino Party, as of this moment. You’re gonna have to drink this beer or we’re kickin’ you out.”

“No way, dude. No beer and I don’t wanna be the Leader of the Rhino Party. I bet you piss a lot of people off with this shit, huh?”

“To Black Rhinocerosism and the Yukon,” I laughed, toasting Cajones.

“To White Rhinocerosim in the Yukon.”

“Okay. What the fuck? I’ll drink to that. I can feel the lawlessness in the air, Len. But there really should be a bar back there at the boundary. A resort. Whorehouse. Casino.”

“You go, Rhino!”

“Seriously. Is the boundary close to a lake or river?”

“Yeah but the river’s in BC. And so are we, again. The road dips in and out of BC a few times.”

“We’ll have to change that.”

“Move the river?”

“Well, I was thinking move the road. Or the boundary. But I like your idea much more. Very good, Rhino. Whatever we move, we’re still gonna have to build a resort. Move and build. Could be the campaign theme.”

“Kinda like the Indians used to do.”

“Yeah! That’s good. And there has to be a giant Y at the boundary.”

“How giant?”

“Ummm… 300 feet tall?”

“I like it.”

“With lights around the edges so you can see it at night.”

“Get a lot of night up here in the winter.”

“Must get a lot of vampires to, yeah?”

“Haven’t seen any. But I know a goth girl in Whitehorse.”

“She’ll know where the vampires hang out. We’ll have to meet her.”

“Sure. But ain’t no vampires here this time of year.”

“Does it get dark at all?”

“A little. For a couple hours. In Whitehorse, anyway. Not in Dawson. Sun just goes around in a circle on the solstice in Dawson.”

“Hard to sleep?”

“Not if you’re passed out.”

“I believe you.”

“We’re gonna see a fair bit of this,” Cajones said, pointing to a flag girl up ahead, commanding us to stop. “There’re always ripping up the road. Takes a Hell of a beating and 10 months of 30 below don’t help.” Len yakked with the girl, who he seemed to know, or knew someone who knew her (and that’s the rule, rather than the exception in the Yukon). I got out of the van and wandered into the woods to add a little more acidity to the soil.

We didn’t get moving again for a full 15 minutes, which, to me, was a ludicrous amount of time. “Do they always stop you that long?”

“It ain’t unusual. You get used to it. And we’re on Yukon time now. Ain’t nobody in much of a hurry in these parts.”

“Yeah… but still. That’s a ridiculous amount of time to have to wait. Those girls should be selling cold beer.”

“Should be free if you have to wait more than 10 minutes.”

“Good one. MADD will love that policy!”

“No such thing as MADD in the Yukon. More like DDAM – Drunk Drivers Against Mothers.”

“I saw a kid at the hot springs wearing one of the shirts, I think. Dead mother and child with tire tracks across their carcasses and a couple broken beer bottles beside them?”

“Thems the ones.”

“You know, if we’re not careful, we just might get you elected.”

“Perish the thought. Do I have to promise to resign if I win?”

“Well, that’s old Rhino schtick. You can use it if you want but I’ve never liked that one myself. Every election I get asked by a reporter ‘What are you gonna do if you win?’ To which I always reply ‘Well, that’s not the question you need to ask, is it? I know exactly what I’m gonna do if I win. The question that needs to be asked is – what are you gonna do if I win?’”

“Beauty.”

“All yours brother Len.”

“So, in the BC Provincial election in 01, you used the Rhino name again for the first time since 88?”

“Correct.”

“Why?”