A Henchman's Honor

By Dennis M. Young

A Henchman's Honor is a dark, white knuckle journey that manages to be hilarious as it accelerates rapidly until its crash into the abyss of conscience. Dennis learns about freedom, independence, conflict and consequences as a young boy on the farm. His life lessons are challenged when he goes through the confused public school system, which teaches him little more that to endure the travails of life.
Dennis sets his innate values aside and gains experience as a soldier, policeman and intelligence operator, which causes him to lose what little respect he had for the many institutions held sacred in a democracy. The story culminates with his participation as a NATO intelligence operator in the Bosnian war at the end of 1995. There, he participates in an intelligence operation that pursues the Mujahadeen. He watches as the Mujahadeen were not expelled or killed, but received a strong embrace by American officials. For other reasons, the operation devastates him. Dennis makes a deep connection with his intelligence handler and learns the real reasons NATO went to Bosnia and the agenda that the American gov't has for the world.
It is a violent, thoughtful story of betrayal, cost and redemption that reveals previously undisclosed, shocking truths that every citizen should know.
Dennis Young is the former leader of the Libertarian Party of Canada.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: May 30, 2015
• ISBN: 9781483557724

Book preview

Note

PROLOGUE

August 1997

1. The End…I Think

The Reaper and I sat on my bedroom floor. We had been close for as long as I could remember. He was often offered the chance to take me without resistance. In fact, I had stalked him for a lifetime. Now, I would force the issue.

The message I left on my brother’s answering machine from Ottawa was brief. I’m finished. There’s nothing left for me to do. I’m just calling to say goodbye.

The cold steel of my Beretta 92F pistol pressed hard into my temple. If you’re truly intent on suicide, you need to know the best place to put a bullet. You don’t want to fuck it up. I knew if I put the weapon in my mouth I might just blow my face or my jaw off. But a bullet to the temple meant swift and sure death. I had seen it hundreds of times.

The weapon felt as comfortable in my hand as a pen would to an accountant. I’d pointed weapons with malicious intent many, many times before—but never at myself.

I was eight years old the first time I held a gun in my hand. It was a .22 caliber rifle, almost as tall as I was. I’d fire at every tin can or tree stump that got in my way and tallied how many times I hit the target.

Two years later a bird would become my first genuine casualty. Killing a living creature for the first time was an unforgettable experience. It was summer and I was out by the marsh with a few of my friends. As we approached a copse of trees, a snipe—a little bird about the size of my hand—swooped down at us, squawking frantically. We realized that the fierce and furious little bird was protecting its nest and wouldn’t go anywhere. I put the shotgun up to my shoulder and followed the bird’s repeated swooping, circular flight path with the barrel. It was easy to anticipate where it would be next. I lead the gun a little ahead of the bird and squeezed the trigger. There was a puff of feathers and the bird dropped like a rock. My buddies yelled, Holy shit! Good shot! We walked over to where the bird lay in a tousled heap of feathers. I had no feelings of sadness or elation, just a hollow feeling of accomplishing a task. In many cases, successfully killing something comes down to really wanting the target dead. The first one to calmly aim will usually win the scrap.

I held the barrel of my Beretta to my head with justice in mind and grim intentions in my heart. Death wasn’t a shocking subject. But fucking things up and ending up as a disfigured incompetent was not an option. My hand was steady. I smirked. I’ve always smirked as the stress of any situation cooled and I became focused. Clarity is joy. Suicide was just another dark mission that would end in peace. I was very pleased with myself for buying the pistol years before. It had become my best friend. What would I do without it? I would be forced to cut myself or strangle myself at the end of a rope. A bullet would be an instant, painless death. Humane.

As I fingered the trigger a deluge of thoughts raced through my head. I wondered if suicide was honorable—or an act of cowardice? The ancient Japanese considered it an act of courage to end one’s own life. The ultimate dishonor was for a warrior to survive a defeat in battle. It meant he had failed, and required the Samurai warrior to kneel down and plunge his sword into his belly, right under his chest. The Samurai killed themselves with the same stoicism with which they did battle. The bushido—the ‘way of the warrior’ demanded that a soldier be brave and honorable. Failing to uphold the bushido virtues in any way was dishonorable. According to the tenets of bushido, a soldier should be victorious or dead.

After twelve years as a NATO soldier, had I been victorious? Had I advanced the cause of freedom? Or had I been instrumental in exchanging one evil cause for another? Or worse, had I magnified an evil force? Was freedom even my mission? Was I a failure and therefore subject to the tenets of bushido? One thing was for certain. As with many soldiers, I had been a complete rube. But I had been warned and had been given signs before I departed. I had chosen not to take any advice seriously. It was certain that I had dishonored myself. If the tenets of bushido applied, then my demise was imminent.

I was one of sixty thousand NATO soldiers who had gone to Bosnia to replace the impotent bureaucracy that is the United Nations – an organization that embezzles money and solves nothing. The worthless façade of big government. NATO had one purpose: to fight for democracy—we had been duped into believing that democracy was the ultimate freedom. But Bosnia was a democracy before the war. We had simply re-established the same bad system. But I have since come to realize that democracy is not freedom. Not for Bosnia, not for anywhere else in the world, and not for me. It functions as a giant noose that tightens with every law that promises to better protect us - the gullible sheep.

Soldiers need to feel important. They have to know that the risk they encounter is for a just cause and that it is a benefit to their country or mankind. But being home was far stranger than going overseas was. I was shocked that no one understood the lessons of Bosnia. Society is oblivious to events that don’t directly affect it. Where would I go from here? Where would I fit in? The answer seemed to be: nowhere. While civilians went to work, had kids and paid the mortgage, we went overseas on NATO missions and participated in events that got our friends disfigured or killed. It made us feel like the lions that protected the lambs. We risked our lives to expand the free world. In reality, soldiers are the lambs sent to the slaughter by the vicious hyenas in government.

I was determined to let go of the army and to try and assimilate into a life where people didn’t generally get up in the morning and make plans to kill each other. Presumably, I was free to do whatever I wanted.

Bullshit. I was not free. I was restrained by memories that strangled me like a uniform three sizes too small. It was as hard for me to step back into society as it would have been for someone to go to another country where everybody looks different and speaks a different language, but what separated me from civilians was not skin color or culture. It was my very dark experiences and my belief in freedom. To strangers I appeared to be happy, healthy and carefree. But to the few who really knew me and had heard of my experiences, I was a man who had committed exceptionally dark actions requiring force, intimidation and often death.

Yet I could no longer spend time with soldiers. They still believed that democracy was freedom and that killing foreigners was a valuable service. We weren’t philosophically similar anymore. And I couldn’t find any civilians with my life experience. I was a foreign pariah.

Throughout my life I had either stalked the Grim Reaper or he had stalked me many times. Every near miss was accompanied by a feeling of euphoria. I had finally come to the point where I’d stopped caring about cheating the Reaper. I wanted to punish myself for betraying honor and failing to implement freedom. Worse, some very decent, innocent people were dead because of my actions. So I concluded the only way justice could prevail was to punish myself. It was also about the only path I could see that would allow me inner peace. The Samurai used a sword. I would use my pistol. It would be like taking a pill of peace at the speed of sound.

As I sat there -- pistol pointed at my head -- the phone rang and scared the shit out of me.

Holy fuck, I’m kind of busy here, I said out loud.

I picked up the phone with my non-pistol-holding hand, Hello.

It was my brother. What’s with the ominous message on my answering machine? he asked.

My brother’s call wasn’t like a lifesaver to a drowning victim, or the cavalry coming over the hill. It simply interrupted me before I squeezed the trigger.

Come to Edmonton and stay with us, he said.

My brother didn’t know that there had been a silent trial run in my head. I had been convicted and sentenced to death. It didn’t matter to me where the gallows were. So I traveled to Edmonton to get to know my brother a little better before I carried out my punishment. I felt my brother’s phone call only served to complicate things and prolonged my agony. He would not change the end result of my will.

* * *

JULY 2003

A Henchman’s Honor is about the events that sent me on my self-destructive path. It is a cathartic exercise, but it is also a warning to civilians and soldiers alike. What they see is false and they are in grave danger. Writing about the events that brought me to this point is a public guilty plea to a self-indictment. It would be much easier to sleep like everyone else and just go with the flow, but I owe society something. The most valuable thing in the world is information. I will donate shocking information in exchange for my past transgressions. I will speak out and risk public scorn. Ultimately, I have to live with myself. The aim of what I say is to render a payment, clear my conscience and regain some of the honor I have lost when I committed moral crimes for terrible people. The public can use what I write to forearm themselves or not. My ten year book writing project, along with the mental torture I have endured, is payment for my sins. I have been punished and have paid restitution. I should be free to move on.

I need to spread the message passed to me by those who didn’t understand the message themselves until it was too late. For twelve years I was a hammer of the state. By conducting many immoral state-sanctioned acts, I learned that no ism benefits society. Freedom is not an ism. It is a belief in oneself, friends, family and charity. It is the antithesis of believing in government solutions. I am ashamed of many of the acts I’ve committed. I fired many shots in the name of immoral big government. This is my cannon shot from the besieged and burning fort of freedom. If the fort falls—so do we all.

But the most important of my questions and self-examination were not only about freedom versus government. They were much more personal. How does one get in over his head and end up doing evil things? I couldn’t help thinking: What was it in my life that had steered me toward immoral actions? Was I born this way? Was I predisposed to deceit and moral corruption? To answer that requires a very serious, thorough and honest investigation of the events, the consequences and myself. This narrative of events, and following short commentary from hindsight, may seem contradictory. You may ask, Why would a man who believes this, do what he admits to in the preceding chapter? You’ll have to bear in mind that at the time of the event, I was not as enlightened and didn’t hold the views I do now.

The man who hungers for truth should expect no mercy and give none.

- Hunter S. Thompson

I.PRE WAR CONDITIONING

AUGUST 1976

2. The Making Of A Bastard

I was literally born a bastard.

That information didn’t come to light until the age of twelve. It was just after a baseball game that my dad had coached. Softball provided an opportunity for me to bond with my dad. He wasn’t a very demonstrative guy, but he was fair.

After the championship game, mom told me that the man known as Dad wasn’t my biological father. After my mother had become pregnant, my biological father exited the scene to parts unknown. To this day I have neither seen nor heard from him. My stepfather has been in the picture since just before my birth, and remained until he passed away recently.

Learning the sensitive information was like flipping on a light switch. It had been difficult for me to understand why my mother beat the shit out of me with so much frequency and guile. She always included the destructive verbal tirades to go with the violence. She was thorough. The new information about my biological father was evidence that I was a reminder of Mom’s past indiscretion. It was a clear message that I didn’t belong with what I thought was my family. The thin bond I had managed to form with Dad snapped like a cold rubber band, and in an instant I had become alienated.

The truth is that I am the fruit of the temporary passion that existed between a wandering Irishman and a Low German farm girl. Mom decided on the secure route of finding and marrying another Irishman before my birth. Stepfathers who treat another man’s kid as their own possess a selfless heart. They should be commended. Why would a man marry a woman with one in the oven? The answer seems to be that man is programmed to feel good when he makes others feel good. Altruism isn’t altruistic at all. My dad coached me in softball and hockey right from the age of seven until I hit high school and my interests changed.

The year of my birth was 1964. It was the year that Democrat Lyndon B. Johnson beat Barry Goldwater in the race for the white house. Goldwater made great speeches about individual freedom. Johnson made a short T.V. commercial that showed a nuclear bomb exploding over a kid picking daisies, and the inference, Can we risk electing Goldwater? The propaganda worked: People feared Goldwater and voted for Johnson instead—and got the slaughter of hundreds of thousands in Vietnam. Thinking that you are voting for certainty or safety can really backfire. Voters are mostly distant from the facts and can be fed almost anything. Push a meaningless emotional hot button and any crook will be elected. Voters just want to hear one good sound bite that satisfies them. Then they can ignore the rest of the charade and lies and go back to living their lives. It always cracks me up when someone is asked,

Have you decided who you’re voting for yet?

No, says the faux intellectual, Not until after the debates.

What kind of moron wastes his time waiting for a lie that pushes his emotional hot button before he wastes more of his time pretending to be powerful by casting a vote? Or the I’m voting for Obama because he’s black and so am I crowd. If that’s why people vote, then it would make sense for me to vote for Hitler because we’re both Germanic. Maybe all the short people should vote for Charles Manson. After enduring lies from politicians for generations, we still vote for a politician because of what he promises or how photogenic he is. Will we never learn?

I have an actual lapel button from Goldwater’s campaign. It says Go Go Goldwater in ’64. I keep it as a reminder that in a democracy, good people often finish last. In order to deflect attention away from their own faults, politicians often fabricate bigger and better faults for someone else. The most aggressive liar wins. Most promises these days amount to the demonization of one entity with the guarantee that, if elected, the politician will steal from the demon to the benefit of the electorate. In truth, only real demons promote stealing. This is the democratic system we’re all so proud of.

At the time of my birth, my family was so poor that my parents could barely afford life’s little rewards like booze and cigarettes. My Uncle George, who worked on the drilling rigs, had some spare cash to pass on. He was impressed by the speed and determination with which my new father acquired groceries and the rewards. Back then, we looked to family for help.

I remember my Dad coming home late in a drunken stupor one evening. Mom’s reaction was relentless and excessive, but there was no way of getting her to stop. She smashed dishes, threw cutlery and beat on Dad. In the end the cops came and arrested and incarcerated Dad. It was like stopping a shooting by removing the target. Even at a young age I thought the world was irrational.

SEPTEMBER 1969

3. The Government Socialization Program Known As School

The lies, fear and flag waving that spur a country into a nationalist foreign slaughter permeated the news. If the citizens refused to go overseas and kill foreigners, they were either cowards or traitors. Experience has taught me that people who go overseas to kill foreigners are gullible, adventure seekers, or searchers for meaning. As the war in Vietnam escalated, many either avoided the draft with a tactical relocation or underwent a strategic education in college.

I advanced my own education and enrolled in kindergarten in Saskatoon, Saskatchewan. It became painfully obvious that kindergarten was a haven for memorizers of the written word. Thinking wasn’t required. We were forced to play as a group, color as a group and say our alphabet out loud and in unison. Ho Chi Minh was closer than anyone suspected. As America projected force into Vietnam, Ho projected ideology from Vietnam. Ho succeeded. History is full of stories where the little kick the shit out of the big.

My kindergarten was in a rough area of town, and when some little snot took my crayon, I punched him into submission. I had a natural, innate grasp of property rights and had yet to read anything written by Murray Rothbard. I had a long way to go to become a pacifist. I never did make it there. To me, laying across a railway track to achieve freedom, or to get my crayon back, wasn’t an option.

I wasn’t completely averse to socialization, and my need for praise did kick in. My kindergarten classmates and I were given the opportunity to advance our status by performing certain notable acts. When we had accomplished the act, we received a much-publicized star pasted beside our name on a poster for the whole preschool world to see. Who would want to be a starless idiot? The message was clear: Play within the system or face subtle minimization.

To obtain the coveted Zipping up your own jacket star we had to run and put our jacket on and zip it up in a limited time. My problem was that my ratty old coat had to be held closed even after it was zipped up. I didn’t mind the jacket. I was always warm if I held it closed. My jacket was reality and I accepted it. It was something to build on. But to make me compete with the clock in some irrelevant contest to impress others was demeaning. I had never attempted the monumental task of timed self-jacketization and all the other kids had nice jackets. After failing the test, I displayed my contempt for the lack of flexibility and justice in the system by further ripping my jacket. Not only was I refused a star but my collectivist teacher removed one for bad behavior. It was impossible to have both a tough reputation with the other indoctrinates and a good behavior star posted by my name anyway.

Regimented followers of someone else’s system should be ashamed. To spit out what the teacher told us was beyond simple. I had known the freedom of my Grandpa’s farm, and didn’t want much to do with the urban fishbowl. I didn’t see the benefit or reason to repeat my teacher’s views. Freethinkers would never excel at scholastics in such a boxed up environment with no room for opposing thought. Putting everyone in the same box makes it easier for someone to come along and put the lid on. It’s an invitation to tyranny.

Escaping became paramount. Escaping with a cute little French girl would be even better. Clyde had Bonny. The apple of my eye was the always impeccably dressed Jocelyn. A pretty dress adds significant appeal to a lady whether she’s five or forty five. Jocelyn had been my girlfriend for all of five minutes when I pitched my escape plan to her. She shared my deep disdain for the system. Together, we concocted a plan that would have made the escapees from Alcatraz proud. After recess, the teacher rang her hand-held bell and the students went back to class. It was pretty informal: no head count, no desks. We’d never be noticed and freedom would be ours.

We hid under a bench until the screws and tattlers all went inside. Next step? That’s where we discovered a critical flaw in our plan. The kids inside were being treated to Mr. Dress-up on TV. The older hippie kids were wasting their time sniffing glue and tripping out on Joan Baez songs -- I was into the solid entertainment provided by Ernie Coombs with Casey and Finnegan. I was appalled that our successful escape meant that we would miss out on Mr. Dress-up. It was a critical error in planning. Jocelyn should have caught that.

Phase two of Operation Kindergarten Evasion was just as rocky but any battle plan is only good until the first shot’s fired. We couldn’t go back into the school. We’d get shit, or even worse, we’d have a star removed. My good behavior star had been removed so many times there was a hole in paper where the star was supposed to be. We wondered if we’d have a star removed if we got caught running away. I considered the precedents: beating up the kid who took my crayon, and ripping my jacket each resulted in a star removal. Jocelyn still had her star and didn’t want to lose it. She almost turned herself in until I reminded her that she was already absent long enough to warrant a star removal anyway.

Because Jocelyn possessed such superior critical thinking skills, she accepted my hypothesis. She went one further and suggested that we could watch Mr. Dress-up at my place and go back to school the next day without anyone knowing. It was pure genius. No wonder men stop thinking once they’re married.

Ahh, home. The place famous for the foil-wrapped, rabbit-eared TV that enabled Dad to watch the third period of the hockey game with minimal cursing and swearing. Jocelyn and I were enjoying near-perfect reception. The old second hand black-and-white was performing with maximum clarity and all systems were GO. But we hadn’t weighed in the mom factor.

Why aren’t you kids in kindergarten? she asked.

The teacher told us to go home ‘cause she was sick, I said. I made the infallible, unconfirmable statement with the greatest of confidence. With Mom being so busy folding clothes, the whole thing would blow over unnoticed. It was back to Mr. Dress-up.

I’m phoning the teacher, Mom insisted.

Mr. Dress-up became joyless. Who could concentrate on TV with all the variables to weigh? Maybe the teacher became sick while we were on the way home. Maybe no one would answer the phone. Maybe Mom wouldn’t find the phone number to the school. Operation Kindergarten Evasion was yet to fail. Then the teacher answered the phone and exposed our sinister actions.

We were right; Jocelyn lost a star and the hole in my chart would never be filled. Nowadays, instead of giving out stars, the government gives out medals and ribbons. Schools put letters behind a student’s name. I’ve met a lot of highly educated intelligent people, but I’ve also met a lot of highly educated people who utterly lack the ability to think. I’ve also met people with a grade eight education who can think in a very complex, abstract way. The ribbons, medals, letters or the lack of them doesn’t mean anything until I throw around ideas with someone.

* * *

My dad’s dad, a.k.a. the grouchy Grandpa, came to stay with us. He was in a wheelchair, and by then I had two brothers. We had learned that we could bug Grandpa and, if no other adults were around, we could get away with it. That is, until mom caught us. I wish she would have just taken a star away, but instead she chased us outside swinging a stick at our backsides. It would be some time before I was able to sit on my bike seat with reasonable comfort. Normal kids would have learned a hard lesson from teasing Grandpa, but the thrashings only cramped my style for a little while. Bugs Bunny taught me that, in the end, ingenuity will conquer force.

Grandpa always fell asleep in his wheelchair. This gave my brother and I an opportunity to sneak up and slap him on the arm. By then we had learned to hit grandpa and run outside before the stick was swung. But Grandpa got fed up with it and feigned sleep. As my brother and I sneaked up to deliver reveille, Grandpa ambushed us and caught my brother in the head with his wooden cane. My brother fell down crying and I bolted out the door. The hunters had become the hunted. Grandpa must’ve watched Bugs Bunny.

Grandpa died later that year. I don’t think we bugged him to death, but nevertheless, Grandpa got his revenge in heaven. I was running with my little wheelbarrow in the mud when the tire got stuck and I banged and cut my eyebrow on the metal frame. I still remember the thump, thump as my Mom carried me on foot for four blocks to the hospital. I received 3 stitches beside my eye. Life was getting rough.

I should’ve learned my lesson way back then. Whenever I caused discomfort or judged others harshly, I would soon after suffer or be in a position to be judged myself. Invite toxicity into your life and you’ll live a toxic life.

4. An Armistice With Giant Turkeys

Making it through the turbulent 1960s without dying or being sent to prison was a major accomplishment. A lot of people didn’t. My family had moved nine blocks west, in part because our house was condemned, and partly to move upscale. We couldn’t move downscale—we moved side scale. That drove a wedge between Jocelyn and I. My relocation made it too far for me to walk to her house and my bike was at my grandpa’s farm. Jocelyn had a bike, but her Mom wouldn’t let her ride it across a street. All Jocelyn could do was ride around her block over and over again. The stats on long distance relationships weren’t good anyway. I wonder what Jocelyn is doing these days? I wonder if she’s ever crossed the street?

My Mom’s dad was an incredible man. He was a big, bold German farmer with eyebrows like scouring pads. He was loud and large and always in charge. You knew when you were with Grandpa that whatever he said was law.

He was a drinker and a scrapper right until he died at the age of about seventy. He was the personification of the Gadsden flag—the flag of the American Militia during the War of Independence. It has the symbol of a coiled rattlesnake and the words: Don’t Tread On Me. It was a fitting symbol for my grandfather. Unlike the rattlesnake, my grandfather didn’t usually emit a warning. He led with one quick right and things were over before they began. The whole town of Big River, Saskatchewan knew that arguing with grandpa was a prelude to short, intense violence.

I’ve seen many pictures of my grandpa at the farm and it always seemed that there was a party going on. I asked an uncle why the party was always on our farm. He explained that during the hard times of the depression, many farmers around Big River were starving to death. Grandpa headed for the stockyard, removed some stock and ran them down the road and out of town. At every farm, one beef made a detour to a very thankful family. The moral debate on theft is nothing more than sophistry when friends are dying. Grandpa later stood tall before the man for stealing chickens during that tumultuous time. He was defended by the future Prime Minister of Canada, John Diefenbaker in Prince Albert Provincial Court. Grandpa was convicted and did a few months behind bars. Decades later, people still traveled from miles around to bring Grandpa a bottle of whiskey as a gesture of gratitude. He never asked for anything, but never turned anything down either.

At the ages of five and four, my younger brother and I often traveled by bus from the city to Big River to stay on the farm. The bus didn’t pull into town until 6 p.m. Grandpa hooked up Pearl, his big Clydesdale workhorse, to the wagon and went into town a few hours early to sell eggs, chickens and cream before meeting us. The sales invariably generated some cash that Grandpa didn’t need. He had paid the price for helping people survive when they were desperate and everyone made sure John Hiebert never had to buy a shot of anything in the bar. When my brother and I arrived, grandpa met us with strict instructions to guard the horse, his rifle and the traded goods, while he accepted some gratitude and adjusted some attitudes in the bar. It never failed. We always had to wait until closing time before we proceeded to the farm. Sleeping on an open, straw-filled wagon became a ritual that was required before going to the farm. Every farmer that left or got thrown out of the bar, stopped and made sure we were comfortable. Some of them were bleeding.

Grandpa was the supreme ruler of the farm that included all the birds, wolves, bears, trees and domestic animals. They existed because Grandpa allowed them to. Being his right hand man gave me full and unfettered access to the aforementioned domain. My official title was ‘Deputy Commander of the World.’ It sounds hectic and complicated, but I did manage to have a lot of free time.

Grandpa was the one person in my life who loved me for certain. Proximity is power and there was never a gap between us. If anyone wanted to find me, they just looked for Grandpa’s knee. He was the umbrella that protected me whenever the shit hit the fan -- and I was good at making it hit the fan. It didn’t matter. My version of the almighty was never far away.

He, with some assistance from Grandma, gave me ten aunts and uncles. He could and would circumvent any act set down by Mom and Dad. I wore my cowboy boots in the house and the echo of my boots on the hardwood floor was a clear demonstration of my immunity from prosecution. I am the oldest grandchild. Hear me stomp!

My aunts Gloria and Kathleen had taught me to ride my bike while Mom made the rules. Rule number one was that in the event of a flat tire, riding was suspended for the summer. That rule lasted until I got a flat tire and Grandpa fixed it. Grandpa and I: one, Mom: zero.

Fighting evil was a big part of my duties, which wasn’t easy when all my adversaries were bigger than me and I insisted on operating alone. But it’s not the size of the boy in the fight that matters. It’s tough to obtain credibility and instill fear when you have yet to reach four feet tall, but it’s not impossible. The turkeys on the farm were big, ugly and intimidating. I didn’t like them and made their lives as hellish as a six year old could. I mocked their gobble and approached them aggressively and backed away. The turkeys pushed back with the full weight of their size and numbers. Domesticated turkeys were everywhere. I had gone out of my way to get their attention and I had succeeded. I thought the scrap had some sort of sunset clause. In my mind, just because I bugged the turkeys in the morning, they had no reason to fight me after supper. The turkeys thought otherwise.

Concentrating on any given outdoor activity was difficult. Hyper vigilance is a must when one initiates force and intimidation. Since ignoring the turkeys was impossible, including them in my daily activities would eliminate the need for shoulder checking. My inner peace required me to establish and enforce a hierarchy of power and control in which, of course, I would be at the top. I was a bureaucrat that feared the winged people. Peace through submission. There would be order no matter how many subjects needed to be slaughtered!

We gobbled at each other one afternoon while I sat on the front steps of the farmhouse. They put their war faces on, puffed out their feathers, and slowly advanced as a group, with the biggest turkey leading. As the distance narrowed to a crescendo of angst, I stood by the farmhouse door and feigned brazen bravery. Once the brinkmanship became too hot to handle, a simple sidestep inside the screen door would alleviate my nervous tension. Nothing encourages aggression like allowing the aggressor to enjoy complete protection from any repercussions.

My aunt Kathleen had been watching the turkeys and I go at it and she saw a teachable moment. As the rush of fear became too much, I yanked on the screen door. Son of a … some traitor had latched the screen door. Don’t show fear, don’t show fear, I thought. I had to think fast: Me, a flock of big pissed-off turkeys and 160 acres of land. Should I run for it? How fast can a turkey run? Failing to accurately assess the enemy before throwing myself into a dust-up with them resulted in a critical situation and total information darkness. As the furious birds edged towards me, my Aunt Kathleen opened the screen door and pulled me inside.

Don’t start fights that you can’t finish, came the advice. She had locked the door for instructional purposes. Those turkeys can run a lot faster than you can. E Tenebris Lux—From Darkness Light.

I learned that my adversaries were faster than me. Along with being bigger, stronger, better protected and better armed, I faced a power deficit. It was important information. The prudent decision was to avoid a direct conflict with a superior force. Where force cannot further an agenda, diplomacy (fraud) is required. Or is it the other way around? I had embarrassed myself and was forced to make a prudent non-aggression pact with turkeys. I left them alone for a while and most of them seemed to let bygones be bygones. The agreement was pure fraud. In silence I thought, I’ll see you on Thanksgiving Day, you flightless bastards. Swearing on the farm was, for some reason, permissible. Maybe because treating kids as adults makes them mature faster and they can handle more responsibilities sooner. Treating adults as children confines them in adolescence and makes them useless at any age.

Entangling myself in a turkey war was too time-consuming and distracting anyway. Grandpa had slaughtered a cow and I found great interest in the slow moving, but compelling event.

The puffy beef entrails glistened on the ground. Curiosity can be a curse, but anyone of any intellect has it. It can’t be cured until someone hammers away at your mind for many years. Farm kids often require being transferred to the nearest city educator to be dumbed down but I had only suffered one year of schooling and had experience in another society. I still retained some of my own will. I knew that exploring the contents of the bubble-like membranes was not allowed. I picked up a stick and pretended that I just wanted to fool around with it and that’s all I did for a while. I displayed no criminal intent as I approached the entrails. Put that stick down and don’t touch anything, Grandpa barked. He’d caught me red-handed and scared the crap out of me.

Grandpa didn’t understand that bubbles and bubble like membrane had to be poked. A short while later he was too busy to watch me. It was the destiny of the oldest grandson at the slaughter to do what had to be done. I shoulder checked for any non-treaty turkeys. The last thing I needed was to be attacked during my moment of glee. I pierced the entrails stomach and prepared to flee, but a terrible smell had permeated the air and had alerted Grandpa. His notion that beef entrails should be left alone was correct.

You’re not going anywhere, he ordered, If we have to smell those guts, you do too. I was forced to stand there until the animal was quartered. I had to keep my nose plugged with both hands the entire time but, I could still taste the odor.

Grandpa couldn’t be convinced that I had to leave the area. Didn’t he realize that some renegade turkeys could attack at any moment? This was inefficient use of manpower. I was needed to direct operations on the front line. I may have started the war, but we were at war nonetheless. We all had to pull together.

It struck me as odd, that the cows all stood around mooing and watching their friend get quartered. They grasped what was going on and clearly objected. Yet, they still stuck around for their morning and evening handout of hay. They must’ve thought, The chances of that happening to me are one in a million. Even though we only had 50 head or so. Cows aren’t good at math.

My indiscretion with the cow guts was viewed by the adults as a onetime event, but everyone would soon realize that I would never miss an opportunity to overcome the rules regardless of the consequences. Some people are born investigators/hell raisers. During the early years of my life, poking anything and everything was my way of life. I was well into my thirties before I learned that the trick is to focus my innate desire toward something that should rightfully be poked and provides a benefit to someone.

Visiting grandpa on the farm was like Nirvana for me. It was emotionally fulfilling and there were many fringe benefits. A few of my uncles and aunts were still teenagers or just beyond. They taught me to ride my bike, get eggs from the henhouse and milk a cow. But the best pastime of all was to ride Pearl -- a huge and powerful 19-year-old Clydesdale workhorse. She was about ten feet to the top of her head. My uncle Walter regularly hooked her up to the stone boat, a flat decked sleigh used for gathering stones from the field. Pearl fought every step of the way as we headed away from the farm for about a mile. The fight was well worth it when we’d turn her around and she’d head for home at a full, unfettered gallop. No one other than Pearl had any control at that point. We were very thankful for the ability to live an anarchic lifestyle. No cops or bureaucrats. It was an Asshole Free’ zone, which required humanity to act as adults and to solve their own problems.

I had developed a special relationship with Pearl. No one ever taught me to ride her. My uncle Pete often just threw me up on her bare back for an afternoon ride. That was a well-understood signal for Pearl to trot off to the back 40 acres of land to graze. Straddling her wide back was like trying to straddle a flat-decked truck. My legs were too short to traverse around her torso, so I wrapped them around Pearl’s neck and held onto her long mane for dear life. After a short trip of about half a mile down a wooded path, we came to a clearing where Pearl commenced grazing. We could no longer see the farmhouse and freedom was ours.

We often shared a personal one-sided conversation about my interests. Pearl was a very good listener. We talked about my long distance relationship with Jocelyn, having to go to bed early, and I tried in vain to form an alliance with Pearl against the damned turkeys. If assured victory, I could find a reason to re-ignite the war. With Pearl’s strength and size, and my leadership, we’d kick some major turkey ass. But my arguments fell on deaf ears. Pearl refused to become entangled in a war that she had no business being in. I think she saw me as the instigator of the conflict and she knew that the threat could be easily contained by a screen door without an initiation of violence. Maybe she saw herself as having to do all the heavy lifting, while I got all the glory. I don’t know. I’m not a horse whisperer.

At first, I had feared trotting off into the unknown, but it was an experience that would foreshadow my life. Heading into the unknown had become a constant. I needed a lot of assurance the first time my uncle Pete threw me up on Pearl’s back. The questions flew as I gripped Pearl’s long main.

What happens if I fall off? I asked.

Well, get back on or walk home, he said. On reflection, the choices were obvious. My uncle Pete treated me more like a little man than a little boy. He taught me to solve my own problems in my own way. I am thankful for that.

Bears and wolves were always a reality. Pearl and I discussed the black bears that were constantly scavenging around the farm, and the wolves we heard howling all night. The danger aspect was never mentioned. In the event of real danger, Pearl would’ve been the first to know and we’d have headed for home. But besides those dangers, I could’ve fallen off of Pearl’s back. I knew the way home, but my protective barrier of height and speed would’ve been lost, and I would have been easy prey. And the fall itself would’ve been like jumping out of a building. But my grandpa cared about me enough to let me do things that involved risk. It was his greatest gift to me. To remove risk and repercussions doesn’t just stunt one’s growth, but it is the removal of life itself. Bumps and bruises are life experience. They build character and courage.

My ancestors were Mennonite homesteaders. They settled throughout the area of Saskatchewan and Alberta with nothing but an ethic of hard work and bravery. They asked for nothing and built what should have become a great nation—The Canadian west. We really dropped the ball on that one. But one should never feel love for any state, Western oriented or not. States are run by politicians – people who seek power over their fellow man. Geographic boundaries mean nothing if the people in them are not free.

After an hour or so of grazing, Pearl and I inevitably heard the sound of one of my aunts banging on a metal pail half-full of oats. The drill was always the same. At the first sign of banging, Pearl jerked her head up, faced the farm, stopped chewing, pointed her ears forward and stood motionless. I knew what to do. My legs tightened around Pearl’s neck. My hands took a couple of wraps of her long black mane and we were prepared for the charge home. Another bang on the metal pail and Pearl suddenly bolted forward without stopping until her nose was in the pail. What a great way to live. Animals can be great friends.

Once I overcame my fear of falling off of Pearl, my desire for solitude and freedom far outweighed my need for safety. Overcoming the fear of getting up on Pearl’s back and riding away had built confidence in me. There was a deep meaning to my grandpa’s seemingly uncaring attitude. Those who teach courage are your best friends. I’m no psychiatrist, but I think that people who will sell their soul and their rights for safety have a dependent personality disorder. When people accept a handout, they become owned. They will become victims when their masters so choose. (see the cow story above)

* * *

My Grandpa never came to the city to see us. We always went to see him on the farm. So I was elated when finally, after six years of my life; I came home from school and saw Grandpa there. There was a phone call for him and he spoke with a very determined, matter-of-fact tone. The house was full of my aunts and uncles, all listening intently to the conversation. Something serious needed to be done and Grandpa was always the go-to guy when it came to action, but for the first time we discovered that not even Grandpa could overcome his last challenge. We all listened to him grunt into the phone with a firm demeanor as he received the results of his cancer test.

Soon after, I lost my best friend and my protective umbrella closed for good. I stood in the pouring, cold rain and felt like nothing more than a number. Pearl died a short while later and Grandma sold the farm. By the age of six I had lost my girlfriend, my Grandpa, my confidante, a huge parcel of land inhabited by my favorite people, and a wilderness that had taught me to be independent. How could a powerless child replace an entire way of life? My life was over at the age of six. I cried for hours at my grandpa’s funeral and broke into spontaneous tears for months. I had lived through an apocalypse. Grandpa had been removed as my god and was replaced by unionized bureaucrats in the education system. Things that can change can change back. Whenever I deal with some asshole in gov’t, I think You’re one apocalypse away from being on trial.

After my grandpa died I closed myself. I became introverted and unresponsive. I was the world’s youngest nihilist. I was a slow starter at the best of times. Being spoon fed information by some stranger made me defensive. I felt I could figure out anything that I thought was important. But, nothing was important. My grade-one teacher informed my mom that in her opinion, I suffered from mild retardation. Mild? I had never been mild in my life! I failed grade one or the union failed to inspire and enlighten me, whichever way you want to look at it.

I don’t know exactly what happened behind the scenes, but after repeating grade one, my new teacher was astounded when she heard the previous teacher’s assessment. Her evaluation was that I was gifted. I repeated grade one and then completed grades two and three in one year. Go union!!

How can the same kid be retarded—and gifted? It’s scary to think that a government employee controlled my fate.

By the end of grade three, I was back where I was supposed to be in the school system. Not that I cared much. I didn’t understand the point of school. The meaning of life was the freedom to ride Pearl on my grandpa’s farm and face the challenges presented by domesticated birds. The death of my grandpa had planted a seed of sadness in my soul. After that, all the pain I’ve ever felt – emotional and physical – I measured against the pain I felt when my Grandpa died. Years later as I stitched up a man’s bleeding hand he said In a 100 years, Dennis, none of this will matter.

My response was: It hasn’t mattered since I was six years old. Nihilism and anger come easily to those who aren’t free to achieve happiness. I must’ve had the same feelings as the native Indians when the white man came and said Hey, we killed your food supply, pushed you off your land, but we’re going to give you a cradle to grave hand-out. Aren’t we wonderful? The great natives made the decision to die with honor. They decided to die on their feet rather than live on their knees. The rest made a pact with politicians and have suffered from all the pains of cradle to grave socialism ever since.

* * *

Happiness depends on being free, and freedom depends on being courageous

Pericles

5. Awards And Violence Go Hand-In-Hand

At the age of seven I won the Most Valuable Player award for goal-tending in the 1970-71 hockey season. I refused to stand up while minding the net due to the excruciating pain caused by my second hand, ill-fitting skates. I appreciated that the alternative was no skates at all and beggars can’t be choosers in a just society. I was the first and last goalie to win a trophy playing on his knees. In 1973 I got a pair of better second hand skates and stood up. I was awarded the Best Goalie in the League trophy. That was the last goalie trophy I ever won.

Some of my fondest hockey memories had more to do with events that occurred off of the ice. I appreciated my dad coaching me in minus 30 degree weather and my uncle George returning from the drilling rigs and freezing his butt off just to watch my outdoor game. I’ll never forget climbing into a freezing car at 6:00 a.m. on a Saturday with dad smoking like a chimney and swearing at the unholy Saskatchewan cold as the car declined to start. It remains a little-known fact that incessant cursing can warm a person up and even get a car to start. Those were the 70s, when fighting in hockey was common.

My net minding kept me mainly isolated with short bouts of intense stress. While the play was at the opposite end of the rink I stood alone and was heckled by a persistent kid who supported the other team. After the game, I walked off the ice, threw off some equipment and commenced to pounding on the mouthy bastard. A little violence often escalates and this was no different. The kid’s dad and his friends were about to deliver me a counter pounding, when my dad picked up my goalie stick and challenged them and the entire opposing team’s fans. They wisely declined the offer, even though Dad only stood about 5’6 and weighed in at about 155 lbs. My Grandpa’s unarticulated credo of ‘Don’t Tread On Me had become a way of life. My Dad worked a physical labor job his whole life. It must’ve been tempting to demand a day off and refuse to get up at 6 a.m. on a weekend and stand in the Saskatchewan deep freeze, but we never missed a game. What I owe him for that might be calculated by me, but never by him. He never kept score.

6. Older Women; The End Of Vietnam

Sports stars and good looking women are inseparable. The best looking woman I had ever seen was my grade five teacher. Although some were cute, the young ten-year-old girls in my class just didn’t stack up to my intelligent and vastly life experienced 22-year-old teacher. To her I was just another kid that didn’t do homework. She didn’t realize it, but we would be married someday. I banked on that theory right until she gleefully announced that she was getting married to some adult. Why didn’t she just come to school in her wedding dress, rip out my heart and eat it in front of the whole class? Yet despite being burned by the altar, my overall philosophy was sound. There is something about an experienced calmness of an older woman that is irresistible. I appreciate that quality in all people. At the age of eleven my softball team won the city championship. My dad was successful in coaching/cursing us all the way to the promised land. During one notable game, I was on my way to first base after a hit, but the first baseman blocked the base. I ran over him, which again resulted in violence. Don’t tread on my base.

The last troops pulled out of Vietnam that year as I pulled out of grade five. For the next two years I had grade six and seven installed into me by Mr. Taylor. He was open, honest and very demonstrative about not liking me because I couldn’t center my life on homework. He stacked on the homework and I went home without it. He then stacked on punishment assignments and I went home without them. I hung around with kids who smoked and we were rough when we played hockey. Mr. Taylor came over and slapped my cold ass with a hockey stick after I had boarded the puck carrier while playing a game of shinny. In those days if your parents found out that you got into trouble at school, you got it even worse at home. The Americans had Vietnam and I had Mr. Taylor. The Americans got off easy.

My first year of high school taught me that marijuana is much more fun than tobacco, girls much more fun than boys. And if you combine the girls and the marijuana, a great lifestyle ensues. No more of that silly softball and hockey. Playing on the high school football team was but a brief indiscretion. I refer to my previous statement on girls being more fun than boys. It would be my road map for the next few years.

SEPTEMBER 1980

At the age of 16 my family grew to include a newborn girl. With four older brothers, she had to be tough and a little wild just to survive. Both attributes gave her a full and powerful embrace. My little sister grew deep in my heart for a few brief years, but the nest didn’t seem to appreciate my presence. Being told that I didn’t belong put me on a constant search for an exit strategy. Whether the exit turned out to be a few minutes, days or a lifetime, it served as a relief from being somewhere I wasn’t supposed to be.

My strategy put time and distance between me and the hammer known as Mom, but it also