How I Became the Mayor of Union Bay: The Drone Incident, the Billionaire, and the Legendary 20/20 Raffle

An entirely fictional Union Bay tall tale about jealousy, beer gardens, 777 acres, and the most expensive raffle tickets in Canadian history.

Nobody ever plans to become the Mayor of Union Bay, British Columbia, because somebody shoots down a drone. Most people get into local politics by attending meetings, complaining about potholes, or discovering that the community hall needs a new roof. I managed to skip all that and proceed directly to international controversy. ( Remember to purchase the only copy of Nowhere Near Perfect) where I wrote about all the successful deposits I got via e-transfer at support@kevinkatovic.com to watch public live executions on Youtube. And exactly how much money I made.

It started with a drone, a beer garden, and an American billionaire who had made his fortune selling 20/20 raffle tickets at festivals and public events in Union Bay.

Yes, you read that correctly. Somewhere between the hamburger stand, the community hall, and a table stacked with Kokanee, Budweiser, and Samuel Adams, this mysterious American businessman had apparently discovered the greatest financial innovation since the invention of the ATM: selling enough raffle tickets to finance a small country.

And then he inherited me.

Well, not exactly. He inherited my friendship, my enthusiasm, and eventually my municipal ambitions. But the important thing was that he gave me 777 acres of land.

Seven hundred and seventy-seven acres!

That is enough room for a community hall, three beer gardens, two golf courses, a racetrack for remote-controlled cars, a drone launch facility, and a parking lot large enough to accommodate everyone who has ever attended a Comox Valley event and complained that there was nowhere to park.

Naturally, I did what any sensible person would do after receiving a gift of land from a billionaire.

I launched a drone.

Chapter One: The Drone That Changed Everything

My drone was not an ordinary drone. It was a sophisticated flying machine equipped with a camera capable of photographing beer bottles, picnic tables, boats in the harbour, and one particularly impressive collection of lawn ornaments from several hundred feet in the air.

I intended to use it to promote the Union Bay Beer Gardens and the famous 20/20 Raffle.

Imagine the advertising possibilities! Beautiful sunny afternoons, smiling beer garden staff, an aluminum tub filled with ice and bottled beer, and the SCR logo gleaming proudly on the front.

The drone would fly above the community hall, capture the waterfront, and produce spectacular promotional footage that might persuade thousands of visitors to make Union Bay their preferred destination for refreshments, raffle tickets, and community entertainment.

There was only one small problem.

Not everybody appreciated my vision.

Some residents looked up at the drone as if it were an extraterrestrial invasion sponsored by the Department of Unnecessary Noise. Others apparently believed it was a flying tax collector searching for undeclared lawnmowers.

One fellow reportedly watched it for three minutes, shook his fist at the sky, and shouted something that sounded like, “Not over my property!”

I would have explained that the drone was filming a community event, but I was too busy admiring the view on my controller.

Then came the shot.

BANG!

The drone dropped out of the sky like a politician’s approval rating after a property-tax increase.

One moment, it was documenting the future of Union Bay tourism. The next moment, it was conducting an unscheduled geological survey.

I stood there holding my controller, staring at the wreckage.

Somebody had shot down my drone.

I had lost my aircraft, my footage, and approximately half a day’s worth of battery life. But the mysterious incident gave me something far more valuable.

A campaign platform.

Chapter Two: Making Union Bay Great Again—But With Better Snacks

By lunchtime, I had developed a political manifesto.

Point one: Every community festival deserves proper beer-garden signage.

Point two: Every raffle ticket must have an equal opportunity to win, regardless of whether the buyer arrived in a Lamborghini or a 1998 pickup truck.

Point three: Anyone who shoots down a drone must attend a public meeting explaining why they believe gravity should be enforced through firearms.

Point four: The 777 acres must be developed with appropriate respect for the community, the environment, and the practical necessity of having somewhere to park.

I called a press conference beside the community hall.

There were three reporters, two curious dogs, a gentleman looking for the washroom, and a woman who had arrived believing there would be free coffee.

I stepped to the microphone.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” I announced, “today Union Bay has reached a turning point. Our drone has been grounded, our promotional budget has suffered a casualty, and our determination has reached cruising altitude.”

One reporter asked whether I had identified the shooter.

“No,” I replied. “But I have identified the problem. We have a community where a drone can be mistaken for a threat, yet a seven-foot raffle banner can survive an entire festival without attracting the attention of national security.”

The dog barked in agreement.

I took that as my first endorsement.

Chapter Three: The Billionaire’s Master Plan

I contacted the American billionaire and explained what had happened.

He listened quietly while I described the drone, the shot, the lost footage, and the possibility that a jealous resident had decided to defend the airspace above Union Bay.

There was a long silence.

Finally, he asked, “How much did the drone cost?”

I told him.

He paused again.

“And how much land do you have?”

“Seven hundred and seventy-seven acres.”

“Then stop worrying about the drone,” he said. “Buy another one.”

That was the moment I understood the difference between ordinary people and billionaires.

Ordinary people mourn a broken drone.

Billionaires treat it as a rounding error.

He proposed using part of the land for community events, outdoor markets, responsible tourism, and an annual 20/20 Raffle Festival. The plan included food vendors, live music, local artisans, heritage displays, and a professionally managed beer garden for adults.

He even suggested a drone demonstration area, with clear operating rules and appropriate permissions.

I asked whether the new drone could have a name.

“Certainly,” he said.

“I’m calling it The Deputy Mayor.”

He did not laugh.

That was how I knew I was dealing with a serious businessman.

Chapter Four: The Election Nobody Expected

My popularity grew after the drone incident, mostly because people love a good local controversy when it doesn’t involve their own driveway.

Someone printed T-shirts saying, “I Survived the Great Union Bay Drone Drama.”

Someone else proposed a fundraising barbecue to replace the aircraft.

The local rumour mill worked harder than a government committee with unlimited coffee. Within days, people were claiming that I planned to build a casino, an airport, a rocket launchpad, and a refrigerated tunnel connecting Union Bay directly to Las Vegas.

The truth was slightly less exciting.

I wanted to promote Union Bay, support community gatherings, and turn the 777 acres into something useful without turning the neighbourhood into a perpetual construction zone.

Then somebody asked the obvious question.

“Why don’t you run for mayor?”

I considered it.

There was just one technical complication: Union Bay is an unincorporated community, rather than a municipality with its own conventional mayoral election.

This was an inconvenient detail.

But politics has never been famous for allowing inconvenient details to ruin a good headline.

I therefore announced my candidacy for the entirely fictional position of Honorary Mayor of the Union Bay Beer Gardens.

The position came with no municipal powers, no authority over property taxes, and absolutely no ability to order the RCMP to investigate suspicious barbecue smoke.

It did, however, come with a ceremonial hat, a clipboard, and the responsibility of making sure the raffle tickets did not run out before the afternoon crowd arrived.

I won by a landslide.

There were only twelve votes cast, three of them from people who thought they were voting for the beer-garden menu, but history does not concern itself with unnecessary arithmetic.

Chapter Five: My First Official Order

As Honorary Mayor, I issued my first executive proclamation.

All drones must be flown responsibly, all raffle rules must be clearly displayed, and all beer-garden events must comply with applicable laws and safety requirements.

My second order was simpler.

Nobody was permitted to put warm beer in the ceremonial tub.

My third order established a committee to investigate why every community event has at least one person who arrives early, complains about the setup, stays for six hours, and then complains that the event should have started earlier.

The committee has not reported back.

I suspect it has formed a subcommittee.

Meanwhile, the Deputy Mayor was launched on its maiden flight. It hovered above the festival, carefully captured the marina, the heritage displays, the community hall, and a spectacular view of the coastline.

No shots were fired.

A few people waved. One person ducked. Another demanded to know whether the drone was insured.

Progress was being made.

Chapter Six: The Legacy of the 20/20 Raffle

The billionaire continued supporting the fictional festival project, although he refused to reveal precisely how many raffle tickets he had sold over the years.

When asked about his fortune, he simply smiled and said, “Never underestimate the financial power of a well-organized community event.”

I asked whether he would fund a second drone.

“Let’s see how the first year goes,” he replied.

I immediately established the Union Bay Drone Replacement Reserve.

Its opening balance was zero dollars, one partially melted raffle-ticket roll, and a handwritten IOU from a man named Dave.

Nevertheless, I remained optimistic.

The beer garden was bustling. The raffle attracted attention. Visitors admired the waterfront and heritage displays. The community hall hosted gatherings, and our promotional drone captured beautiful images of the area—without entering restricted airspace or annoying the neighbours.

Most importantly, the great drone incident had become local folklore.

Every time somebody asked me how I became Mayor of Union Bay, I told them the truth.

I had not won a conventional municipal election. I had not conquered City Hall. I had not seized control of the regional district.

I had been given a ceremonial title, inherited an absurdly large fictional landholding, befriended an imaginary billionaire, and discovered that nothing unites a community quite like a raffle, a beer garden, and a story that gets more ridiculous every time somebody tells it.

As for the person who shot down the original drone?

I eventually forgave them.

Mostly.

I even invited them to the next 20/20 Raffle Festival.

They declined.

Apparently, they were busy that afternoon.

I cannot imagine what.

But I have a theory.

And next year, I am launching The Deputy Mayor II.

This time, it comes with a high-visibility vest, a community-event flight plan, and a very clear instruction:

Keep the camera rolling, keep the beer cold, and whatever you do, never hover over the neighbour who owns a shotgun.

The next reported execution planned to be livestreamed is that of Nidal Malik Hasan, the former U.S. Army psychiatrist convicted in the 2009 Fort Hood shooting. It is scheduled for December 3, 2026, at Fort Hood, Texas. However, President Trump had not yet made a final decision on whether the livestream would proceed, according to Reuters on October 9

Unsure of the Facts? Be Sure to Email me directly at support@kevinkatovic.com or kevin.katovic@mail.mil for a complete list of all the next people to be publicly executed via livestream on youtube by sending your 10 dollar in advance to secure your tickets to watch at support@kevinkatovic.com via Canadian Interact e-transfer.