Werewolf Radar: Fraud Save The Queen
By Nate Balding
Published Issue 125, May 2024
It’s 3:10 p.m. British Summer Time on September 8, 2022 and her exaltedness, Matriarch of the Reptilian Replacement Race from Space, Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth II is pronounced dead. Ireland has lost their favorite enemy. The actors who played the gang of punk rockers in John Goodman’s 1991 classic, King Ralph, now pensioners, recommit to their characters and mourn a royal death once again. And Canadians, in their benign melancholy, dedicate every other bite of poutine to her memory, chewing solemnly through their grief. Twenty dollar notes are said to weep value one loonie at a time until they bear the $10 purpled visage of John A. Macdonald, the country’s first prime minister, and — get this — the guy who started the residential school programs that murdered all those First Nations’ children, making this the most reviled denomination in all of Canadian currency. Yes, the Queen Mother has left her maple-flavored subjects behind.
Or has she?
At the furthest point from Buckingham Palace, on Victoria Island, British Columbia, in the words of Master Yoda: There is another. The self-proclaimed TRUE Queen of Canada — Romana Didulo.
Perhaps you’ve never heard of Romana Didulo, the woman replacing the crown with a bedazzled toque. Neither have most of the people she asserts sovereignty over, a fairly glaring issue when it comes to administering national decree. But Didulo is a woman born of give’r and obscurity is merely a shadow she must dispel with the glorious light granted her by both birthright and intergalactic entities.
Born in 1974, she was an emigre and orphan from the Philippines raised by her grandparents in Vancouver, BC. Her childhood was, evidently, unremarkable. History has no account of it. And it would be fucking weird if there were. We can assume it bore the usual trappings of a Canadian upbringing: skating, trapping, whittling canoes, sharing a night of untold passions while tripping balls with Sasquatch. Watching Degrassi. Crushing on Drake. The usual.
And then it came time to put away childish things and fulfill the first part of her quest for the throne. Now relocated into a roommate situation on Victoria Island, she was doing her best daytime Dolly from 9 to 5. All the while spending her nights metamorphosed into her best Fox Mulder, she would secretly meet with the mysterious David J Carlson, Commander-In-Chief of the United States Air Force Academy Civilian Command of Military Operations, a definitely not fully fictional person with an equally fictional title. He was also, of course, the secret King of America. See you in hell, Declaration of Independence. Being imaginary didn’t stop Didulo’s Deep State darling from shouldering her with one of the most important Missions with a capital M the world would ever not know about: The excision of the Chinese communist military factions mobilizing in the secret tunnels running from Canada to Mexico, awaiting orders from Beijing to launch a sneak attack on the American people, igniting World War III.
You’d think that’d be reason enough, but guess what.
These tunnels were also being used to sex traffic children, harvest their organs and produce adrenochrome to feed the vampiric Democrats and other globalists, satanists and eugenicists who constitute the New World Order. Never have I wished that I’d invented something whole-cloth more than those last few sentences but, alas, this is the accepted lore following Her Eminence. <ROBERT EVANS’ VOICE> Did she bath those tunnels in blood like she rode in on the elevator from The Shining? You’re goddamn right. </ROBERT EVANS VOICE> She single-handedly eradicated not only the threat beneath our feet but the entire Chinese communist military across the world. So rest easy, world-at-large; Didulo did it! Provided you never investigate anything ever again.
Having plucked Excalibur from the cold, dead corpse of her last Chinese national, she was awarded the title “Queen of Canada.” For her first act in this most prestigious role? Lay low until 2020 and then start a cult, natch. Incredibly, her online presence had garnered millions of followers on Telegram (think Twitter, but Twitter can tell you how to get to Medicine Hat, AB), some of whom left not only entire families behind, but the Parent of the Year trophies awarded by their respective Premiers to make pilgrimage to her Victorian home and lavish her with money, labor and love. Mostly money.
After amassing a small horde of loyal servants and a sizeable war chest the queen found it was time to make herself known to Ottawa. How, though, does True Nobility best reveal itself to capture the devotion of the hoi polloi? Ornate palanquin? Golden escalator? Sliding down a divine fire pole of pure light and smashing into Parliament? Then! A shock of ingenuity: Do exactly what the anti-vaxx Freedom Convoy was already doing and roll in with a fleet of RVs covered in giant decals of her face.
— Where applicable play C. W. McCall’s “Convoy” —
“Wagons east, my children!” I assume she proclaimed as her followers loaded into their vehicles and kick-started their diesel revolution. What followed was a great many difficulties that would test the resolve of every member of Didulo’s army, not the least of which were the matching suits with rows of fake medals pinned to their chests. Breakdowns; overnights in Walmart parking lots; constant surveillance and virtually no sleep; calls from the royal chamber to turn on a coffee maker at 3 a.m.; 24/7 blasting of Boney M’s “Rasputin” on repeat. That one sounds like a punchline. It is emphatically not. At one point they holed up in a hotel for several days waiting for a visit from Vladimir Putin. He never showed, the rascal.
Eventually they reached their destination and, with all due pomp and circumstance, Queen Romana Didulo of Canada, like a debutante at her coming out cotillion, marched between an array of her troops to address the Canadian people en masse, stirring them to action. She unveiled the true Canadian flag, a purple number with a maple leaf bisected by a sword and the words “God Loves You.” She began to burn a current Canadian flag. It went, well, a bit like this:
Horns drowned her out until she slunk back to her recreational imperial sanctuary where she took to Telegram, battling the slings of online rage. Deflecting hundreds of patriotic missives launched by filthy plebs from their sand castles of misguided nationalism, she eventually — and I think you’ll agree — closed the door on any argument one could make against her claim to the rulingest of class.
“The ancient Royal Families, white hats military, global alliance, galactic and intergalactic alliance federation of worlds of light beings have been working for thousands of years to free Planet Earth. And suddenly you say truckers freed the world? Get your head out of the toilet bowl, eh?”
Long live the Queen. Preferably in her padded cell.
Have questions about the paranormal?
Send them to werewolfradarpod@gmail.com or on Twitter: @WerewolfRadar.
It’s a big, weird world. Don’t be scared. Be Prepared.
Nate Balding is a freelance humanoid who occasionally manifests in print and can most likely be seen at Werewolf Radar. Should you wish to hear him manifest audibly you can do so at the aforementioned Werewolf Radar’s associated podcast on Spotify and Apple, and if anything ever becomes humorous again, on a variety of stand up stages around the nation. If you’re truly craving further content there’s always @Exploder on Twitter — even if it is only a form of digital self flagellation at this point. His one thing that he considers actually accomplished was this time he was published in the journal Nature and then later collected into a volume called Futures from Nature, still available in places that have things.
Check out Nate’s April Werewolf Radar install, Tubular Hells, or head to our Explore section to see more of his work.