Well, dear Emrys, there was a meeting.
A meeting in a dimly lit room (you know the type, big soft leather chairs sat upon by men at least big and leathery, but by no means soft, more light coming from their fast-burning cigar ends than the low quality incandescent bulbs behind light fixtures from the 40s.) was held, and the greatest, most baritone of the hulking leathery men held his cigar out of his mouth too harshly, squishing in its middle, while flecks of tobacco and ash flitted in the light as they came off his fat, cracked, purple lips. "Now, gentlemen," and his yellowed teeth grinned the grin of the happily soulless, "It has come to my attention that there is a weaseling in Saskatchewan. As you know, this cannot come to be."
Silence penetrated the meeting, and the newest member of this dark crowd tried not to let the burning feeling in his nostrils make him sneeze.
"I don't care how, or what, or by whom, but if this isn't stopped, if the entire force of the Illuminati is not arrayed against the happiness and success of this one Saskatchewanian..."
The ellipsis hung there, like the ellipses on any given page of a Dan Brown novel, or a post by @Li3n-ohmygod is @Li3n Dan Brown?!- but everyone knew what dark times were coming.
"For the Doomening is at hand," he lit a new cigar, "And I will not be weasel'd."
Annnnnnd
That's why.
