By Chantal Bechervaise
Once upon a recent yesterday, in the faraway kingdom of Ontario, two weary travelers—Henko the Brave and Chantal the Overprepared—set forth upon a noble quest: to exchange their enchanted Dutch scrolls of Driving for the sacred Ontario Licenses of Motion.
Their journey led them not to a castle nor a shimmering tower, but to a mysterious strip mall upon the desolate plains of Walkley. This building, draped in shadows and soot, resembled something plucked from a forgotten distant, neglected land. Inside, the air was thick with grunge and despair. The floor tiles sighed with fatigue, and the walls carried the scars of many a disappointed soul.
Before them stood two realms of seating: A harsh row of metal thrones of discomfort, forged surely in the fires of bureaucracy. And a cushioned row of black velvet seats, soft as clouds but only for those deemed worthy—those with holy appointments.
Having booked their pilgrimage moons in advance, our travelers claimed two cushy thrones, awaiting their summons.
From behind a counter, a High Priestess of Paperwork emerged. She beckoned Henko forth. Chantal unfurled her arsenal of proof: the Royal Dutch Vehicle Record, the Quebec Driver’s Scroll, and even proof that, long ago, they had once borne Ontario licenses themselves.
But lo! The Priestess frowned upon Henko’s foreign talisman.
“This relic must be translated!” she declared.
Chantal, aghast, pointed to the sacred inscription already etched upon it: “Driver’s License” in English and “Permis de conduire” in French. The artifact, glowing with obvious meaning, needed no sorcerer’s tongue.
The Priestess retreated to consult with her Supervisor in the Tower of Back Offices. When she returned, she reluctantly admitted, “Very well, it is acceptable.”
Thus began the paperwork rites. Quills scratched. Scrolls shuffled. Then, without warning, the Priestess asked:
“Wilt thou attempt thy Written Trial now?”
Henko and Chantal exchanged panicked glances.
“Trial? What trial?”
For the kingdom had long forgotten them—ten years was too long to be remembered—and the Netherlands had no pact of reciprocity. They must face a Trial by Multiple Choice.
Henko, ever gallant, strode forth first. The test was riddled with riddles of learners’ permits, demerit curses, and regulations unknown to mortals of thirty-one years past. By some miracle (or sheer Dutch luck), Henko passed. Chantal, despite her scrolls and wisdom, fell victim to the trickery of demerit spells and failed.
Thus, fate twisted cruelly:
Henko, who passed, was stripped of his Dutch license and given only a G1 scroll, weaker than a farmer’s donkey permit. With it, he could not drive without a guardian knight beside him. He could not rent a carriage. He could not journey alone.
Chantal, who failed, remained in possession of her mighty Dutch license and could still command carriages.
“WTF sorcery is this?” cried Henko.
As they pondered this irony, a stranger appeared, his aura glowing Amsterdam Orange. He too was exchanging his Dutch scroll. To him, the clerics bestowed a G2, far stronger—he could drive without a guardian knight.
“Why dost he receive more power than I?” asked Henko. But when they questioned the cleric, she bristled with rage: “Thou shalt not share personal quests with strangers!”
The inconsistencies brewed like rotten mead.
Time dragged on. Hours passed—four in total, as tickets were drawn and thrones reclaimed. Eventually, Henko declared, “We shall abandon this cursed Ontario quest and seek salvation in Quebec, where reciprocity reigns and no such foolish trials await!”
They approached the clerics once more to cancel Henko’s fate. His cleric, merciful and kind, unraveled his application with ease. But Chantal’s cleric had vanished, her shift ended, her soul absorbed into the ether of Timekeeping.
“No one else may undo thy fate,” they said. “Return tomorrow with this Priority Scroll, and thou shalt be served first.”
Chantal protested, “So thou canst undo Henko’s fate now, yet not mine? And yet tomorrow, anyone may undo mine?”
“Aye,” said the cleric.
The logic was darker than the grungy walls themselves.
So, at the break of dawn, Chantal returned to the temple with her Priority Scroll. “Refund me,” she declared.
The new cleric frowned. “Nay, the transaction hath been posted. Seek the other temple of Service Ontario.”
But then—behold!—her original cleric reappeared, recognizing her plight. With great remorse, she confessed:
“It should have been undone yesterday. Thy suffering was needless. The one who refused thee shall now face the Supervisor’s Wrath.”
She promised Chantal a cheque, to arrive by enchanted post.
And thus, though battered, the travelers emerged victorious… sort of.
Oh! But remember the thrones? For the thrones told their own tale. When Chantal, no longer blessed with an appointment, dared to rest upon the cushioned seats, she was scolded!
“The Cushioned Thrones are for the Chosen only! Sit thou in the Metal Seats of Agony!”
And so, weary but wiser, our heroes departed. Their tale would echo across the land as the Great License Fiasco of Walkley.
(The above is based on a true story)
