By its absence of parks and its low temperatures, Winnipeg has corrupted our sweet, kind, winsome Mathieu Perreault into something dark and cold. His eyes, which once relayed a love for all things verdant and true, now chill the very marrow in your bones. He’s become indifferent to the joys of life. He seeks neither companionship nor romance. Perreault lives only to smote the ruin of his foes upon the park-less wasteland that is Winnipeg, Manitoba.

On off days, you might find Perreault at Dottie’s Saloon, a biker bar located just off route 42 outside the city limits. There Perreault sits alone in the dimmest corner of that dismal shack, which reeks of stale beer and just the slightest whiff of dried blood.

Usually his eyes are fixed in the middle distance, unmoving, but OH GOD HE SEES YOU.

Matthieu Perreault locks eyes with you. You are trapped in his gaze. Like a fawn in the crosshairs you are frozen.

Is this how it ends for you, beaten to death with a pool cue in the calloused, whiteknuckled hands of 40-point-scorer Matthieu Perreault?

No.

Perreault returns to his drink. His eyes sink. Whatever glimpse of life you thought you saw in his eyes, be it bloodlust or simple malice, vanishes like the setting of the sun on the arctic tundra.

You leave Dottie’s Saloon, sad but relieved. Relieved you are alive and not beaten to death by 5’4″ Winnipeg forward Mathieu Perreault, but sad that the good man he once was has been erased.

You hurry back to your car, crossing through shadows where the parking lot lights cannot reach.

Ah, there’s your car. Grab your keys from your pocket and reach for the lock. Oh, you’ve dropped your keys. You laugh at yourself and reach down.

MATHIEU PERREAULT IS UNDER THE CAR AND HE GRABS YOUR HAND.

[Cut to black. End scene.]