Let us not kid ourselves that the happy future of London, the capital of the Upper Canadians is not without some challenges and obstacles. As the video clip demonstrates, Hollywood knows that fantasy can depict fiction, and the future Feudal London is no exception. Yes, there are those out there that would see London reduced to a vassal state, subservient and ground beneath the sandals of an occupying army. They might not be the Mysterons, but they will have guys like the evil un-dead Captain Black working for them (Captain Black sure does resemble a Republican, does he not?)
The towns of Chatham, Strathroy, Stratford, and Woodstock are all obligated by treaty and custom to send yearly tribute to Mighty London. Wagons of potatoes, carrots, cabbages, and peas find their way into the bursting larders of the citizens of London, clerks, soldiers, smiths, and clerics. Prize horses, champion cattle, and pigs ready for their fate as bacon and ham, will be taken by the subject peoples to their destiny in the Supreme City of the Upper Canadians ... London. Most of these lesser tribes, clans, chieftans, states, and barons, will smile as they hand over their allotment of tribute. But some will grumble, be disaffected, and prefer the sour red wine of unhappiness, to the bran muffin of subjugation to a higher power.
Like the Mysterons, the enemies of London will come in darkness and with cunning. London will be able to defeat any enemy in daylight. The legions of London, spearmen and halberdiers on foot, archers, crossbowmen, and mailed knights on horse, can crush any enemy in a fair fight. But the drinkers of the vinegar of envy of Mighty London will not fight fair. Our forces will be ambushed. Our soldiers will be seduced by busty maids with drink and cheap dope, even while a poisoned dagger or plate of turned chicken is prepared.
Are you prepared to prepare London for its feudal future? Those who support the Kingdom of the Middle Saxons will find a place at the dinner hall to feast. Those that resist will sleep outside the walls, in the snow. And the lesser tribes will send tribute, or London will send its legions to crush their lowly ambitions. Where will you be in twenty years? Happy as you shovel manure in your green future? Smiling as you don your hauberk and heft your battle ax as you go forth to secure the rights of your King, Duke, or Earl? Filled with joy as you wait in line for your fresh baked loaf of bread from the communal kitchens? Indeed, in a world without oil, where the greenies have their way, you will be happy, or you will be compost. And that compost will grow crops to feed the people of London, capital of the Upper Canadians.