The Great Canadian Standoff

By Steve Stokl

In a city north of Toronto, Ontario, Dr. Ulysses S. Morgan is a practicing psychiatrist. He leads an average life, daily treating patients suffering from various mental illnesses, like panic attacks, depression, personality disorders, and relationship struggles. As well, he pursues his own romantic interests and personal hobbies, along with regular dynamic discussions about money, pride, theism etc. with his good buddies. However, his apple cart has been upset.

It seems that he has displeased one of his patients, who wants to extract their revengeful justice from him, plus the loyalty of friendships within his group has been morbidly challenged.

As zemblanity would have it, an unwanted adventure involving an international terrorist plot takes root in Northern Ontario, only to weave its diabolical thread tying the doctor's past and present, his patients, and his pals into a carnage of knots where not everyone will survive. A well known and ancient yet clandestine religious group has declared more than just the goal of the conquest of mankind—the battlefield is for his very soul.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Tellwell Talent
• Release date: Apr 27, 2022
• ISBN: 9780228867081

Steve Stokl

STEVE STOKL is an Assistant (Adjunct) Professor of Psychiatry, Faculty of Medicine, University of Toronto, and is engaged in a full-time practice in Newmarket, Ontario, where he resides with his wife Lisa of thirty-seven years. They are blessed with three great sons, two daughters-in-law, two sons-in-law, and three grandchildren. In 2018 he authored a book of poetry entitled "Patiently Influenced," and earlier published "Mentally Speaking," which was awarded first-place gold in the category of Mind, Body, Spirit at the 2008 ForeWord Magazine's Book of the Year awards.

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Table of Contents

Critical Praise for

The Great Canadian Standoff

A Note from the Author

Everything Matters

Chapter 1.

March 17th, 2022

Newmarket, Ontario

Chapter 2.

March 19, 2022

3:33 p.m.

Chapter 3.

March 19, 2022

Toronto, Ontario

Chapter 4.

March 20, 2022

Keswick, Ontario

Chapter 5.

April 1, 2022

Out Islands, Bahamas

Chapter 6.

April 6, 2022

Chapter 7.

April 6, 2022

Chapter 8.

April 6, 2022

Chapter 9.

April 7, 2022

Chapter 10.

April 7, 2022

Chapter 11.

April 9, 2022

… near Burk’s Falls, Ontario

Chapter 12.

April 9, 2022

Chapter 13.

April 10, 2022

Toronto, Ontario

Chapter 14.

April 13, 2022

Chapter 15.

April 14, 2022

Chapter 16.

April 15, 2022

Chapter 17.

April 18, 2022

Chapter 18.

April 20, 2022

McMurdo Station, Antarctica

Chapter 19.

April 20, 2022

Chapter 20.

April 21, 2022

Chapter 21.

April 22, 2022

Keswick, Ontario

Chapter 22.

April 22, 2022

Caledon, Ontario

Chapter 23.

April 23, 2022

Chapter 24.

April 23, 2022

Chapter 25.

April 23, 2022

Chapter 26.

April 25, 2022

Richmond Hill, Ontario

Chapter 27.

April 25, 2022

Toronto, Ontario

Chapter 28.

April 26, 2022

Chapter 29.

April 26, 2022

Chapter 30.

April 27, 2022

Bradford, Ontario

Chapter 31.

April 27, 2022

McMurdo Station, Antarctica

Chapter 32.

April 30, 2022

Chapter 33.

April 30, 2022

Near Sudbury, Ontario

Chapter 34.

April 30, 2022

Chapter 35.

April 30, 2022

Chapter 36.

April 30, 2022

Chapter 37.

April 30, 2022

Chapter 38.

May 3, 2022

Shaanxi Province, China

Chapter 39.

Friday, July 1, 2022

Lake Rosseau, Ontario

This is a fictional novel. However, certain geographical locations, structures, medical studies, and descriptions of events, along with reference to some of the political and celebrity figures, both living and dead, are real. Otherwise, the characters and plot are products of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to known individuals is merely coincidental. The opinions expressed by some of the characters should not be confused with the author’s.

Critical Praise for

The Great Canadian Standoff

Stokl has created a page-turning adventure that defies simple categorization. It is both a mystery and a philosophical treatise, yet also a dissertation on psychiatric methodology, underpinned by a grand essay on morality and the timeless battle between good and evil forces. The protagonist, Dr. Morgan, is a psychiatrist’s answer to Indiana Jones, trading a bullwhip and weariness for throwing axes and conversational debate. A must-read for anyone who wants to maximize their mental health, personal leadership, zest for life, and just truly enjoy a fun-filled story.

C. J. Calvert, Author

Bouncing Back Through Covid-19

A delightful and thought-provoking novel that takes us on a fascinating journey around the globe, drawing us into questions of a wide variety, from religion, psychology, and medicine to politics, philosophy, and more. An ideal novel for book clubs to dive into, written by a psychiatrist with imagination, humour, and an unusually vast range of learning.

Deacon Douglas McManaman, Author

The Logic of Anger and Why Are You Afraid?

"In The Great Canadian Standoff, Stokl has crafted a suspenseful adventure in which the dynamic characters will have you considering different perspectives on some of the controversial issues of our time, including forgiveness, pride, and Christianity. Weaving in his experience in psychiatry and the compassion he brings to individuals with mental health problems, Stokl is thought-provoking. The icing on the cake is the fun Canadian backdrop for this adventure."

Sheri Van Dijk, MSW, Psychotherapist, Author, and International Speaker

As a psychiatrist, as an Ontarian, and given my association with Newmarket, the realism, whether intended or not, of the narrative was stunning. I was literally right there, living the events, listening to the conversations, tasting the food … really an amazing experience! I could have been Ulysses, it was that real of an experience! As a teacher of future psychiatrists, I can only crystallize it as better than the Toronto notes! The thriller intrigue I found compelling and engrossing. I also think that everyone who ever had direct contact with psychiatry, or was affected by association, would delight in reading about Dr. Stokl’s thinking behind the prescribing of psychotropics, or how you delve into the dynamics of therapeutic relationships.

Dr. Bogdan-Cristian Ulic, Assistant Professor, Faculty of Medicine, Department of Psychiatry, University of Toronto

Dedicated to everyone who has ever suffered

from the scourge of mental illness.

All biblical chapter and verse references are taken from the Holy Bible English Standard Version (ESV) Catholic Edition (containing the Old and New Testaments with Deuterocanonical Books), published as the Augustine Bible by the Augustine Institute 2020, printed in Italy.

A Note from the Author

Indeed, there are some people I very much want to thank for reading my script and giving me their feedback. In particular, a deep gratitude to C.J. Calvert, Deacon Douglas McManaman, Sheri Van Dijk, and Dr. Chris Ulic, each of whom are productively busier than myself within their own priorities of life. I truly wanted to embrace Andrew Carnegie’s motto: Surround yourself with people who are smarter than you! So, I did.

My sister, Barbie, painstakingly corrected my grammatical sentence and paragraph structure, punctuation, and typos, yet she still managed to digest the story. She has always paved the way for me, besides continuing to still be my cheerleader. Any errors in grammar, over inclusiveness of details, or lengthy sentences in this book are only due to my defiance of not wanting to change the way I had written it. You know, an attitude of, I know it’s not quite right, Barb, but I want to do it my way. My condolences to you English Major readers.

I extend a very deep gratitude to my secretary, Diane Poroznik, who was forced to read my book countless times over as she corrected, redacted, and retyped page after page of endless editing. She wins the LP medal of the year for Longsuffering and Perseverance.

Finally, a very special thank you to my son Travis who willingly volunteered to read it and simply offered feedback with comments like, That’s too cheesy … no millennial talks that way … that’s way too sexist, Dad … remove those details, it’s unnecessary and I was falling asleep … I incorporated about 65% of his feedback. So if the reader barely gives this novel a pass, it’s because I once again wanted the final product to be done my way—you know, Father knows best! I’m confident my wife and other two sons will eventually read the final printed copy just out of love alone for me. I’m so definitely a blessed man. However, without my musician son’s transparent, honest, and loving critique, I doubt that you would ever read this story. Thanks, Trav, XO.

Writing a novel, albeit fictional, is a psychological strip. I would have said striptease, but the tease would only be decided upon and assigned by you, the reader. All art forms are autobiographical. As an author, I am laying myself out to be seen and judged, though possibly, and hopefully at least partially, understood. Well, what the heck, why not, I thought. Nothing ventured, nothing gained.

I don’t believe the average reader seeks out literature on mental illness and the torment suffered from the same by an individual who’s not a world celebrity. Nor do I believe the vast majority want to ponder subjects of morality, life after death, or poverty, for example. These are not the most popular genres for many of us to pursue. However, I had faith that maybe I could mingle the vegetables amongst the French fries and meatloaf and stir up a fictional adventure with terrorists, animals, and an ancient clandestine plot to subvert humanity. By doing so, I’ll add a little more welcoming spice for the average reader’s palette. All I have to do is weave my own messages that I want to deliver into the fabric of the characters, and finally sauté the novel within a unique Canadian background. Hopefully I will have produced a fun, enjoyable read, together with a stirring of heartfelt humanity that might help all of us reflect upon Quo Vadis. It’s certainly worth a try.

… thus, with no further adieu, I turn you toward Chapter 1.

Peace to y’all– Steve Stokl

Employ your time in improving yourself by other men’s writing so that you shall come easily by what others have laboured hard for.

—Socrates

Take care of your body as if you were going to live forever; take care of your soul as if you were going to die tomorrow.

—Saint Augustine of Hippo.

One ought every day at least, to hear a little song, read a good poem, see a fine picture, and if it were possible, to speak a few reasonable words.

—Johann Wolfgang von Goethe

There are those who seek knowledge for the sake of knowledge—that is curiosity. There are those who seek knowledge to be known by others—that is vanity. There are those who seek knowledge in order to serve—that is love

—Saint Bernard of Clairvaux.

Everything Matters

Some say we’re here for a good time, not a long time;

Some say we should do as we feel and live by our heart.

Some say life is short and we live on borrowed time;

Some say it’s all over when death do us part.

So does it really matter what we say or do?

Does it really matter being Christian, Muslim, or Jew?

Does it really matter if you work hard or not?

Does it really matter if you’re humble or a snot?

We asked the children and here’s what they say:

It matters that you brush your teeth and that you pray;

It matters that you wear a smile and do your best.

It matters that you run and play and sleep and rest.

It matters that you feel remorse when you’ve done wrong;

It matters that you apologize when you’ve done wrong.

It matters that you greet your neighbour and help them out;

It matters that you’re a good sport and don’t whine or pout.

It matters that you hug and kiss each other goodnight;

It matters that you make up before sleeping after a fight.

It matters that you hold hands and serve one another;

It matters that you forget the past and forgive your brother.

So when we look to the children and hear what they say,

They’ve got it right, and one day we’ll pay.

In the end there’s a scoreboard laid out on a platter;

Living bad or good counts, because everything matters.

Ulysses S. Morgan

June 6, 2022

CHAPTER 1

March 17th, 2022

Newmarket, Ontario

Chuckling and singing half aloud his favourite tune, It’s Hard to Be Humble, he lazily leaned on a pillar and scanned the parking lot. The late singer songwriter Mac Davis released that song in 1974, but it wasn’t until three years ago that he’d first heard it at The Ranch 2.0 Bar in Barrie, Ontario. Now it was his theme song.

There was a time as a young teen that he would have looked for the ten-to-twelve-year-old black, nondescript jalopy and used his trusted slim-jim metal rod to facilitate his unwelcome entry. Some nifty hot wiring would follow, and he’d be mobile in sixty seconds and have his wheels for the night.

Fortunately, technology had come a long way in the last six to seven years, so he had his eyes set on something more luxurious tonight. He spotted his prize as the upper-middle-class woman parked her black 2019 Lexus RX 350. After taking a dozen steps toward the Costco entry doors, she locked her SUV, signaled by a beep from her key fob. He calculated that no doubt she would spend two hundred to three hundred dollars more than she had planned on her list of shopping items. Her eyes would be bigger than her belly, at least bigger than her budget. That Costco marketing team certainly understood human behaviour.

He waited two more minutes before sauntering over to the vehicle while bringing out his iPhone 13 Pro and tapping into his file on Vehicle of Choice. In 2011, Swiss researchers had already cracked the encrypted remote entry systems of ten car models by eight different manufacturers, using equipment that cost about a hundred dollars. As such, a decade later, he was simply utilizing a cyber intrusion radio frequency especially adapted to his Smart phone so that he could unlock the door. By applying another frequency, presto, ignition was engaged. He had his choice too of Mercedes, BMW, Jaguar … essentially whatever vehicle he wanted.

In less than twenty seconds he’d be on his way. He was aware of Licence Plate Recognition Technology, but he knew the owner would be shopping her heart out for an hour or so, and it would take at least that amount of time for the York Regional Police (YRP) to arrive on the scene with their white Explorer SUV Fords marked with their motto, Deeds Speak. He really had plenty of time. Anyway, he had no goal of making a deal to ship this vehicle off to South Africa. His was a local borrowing from the kind, neighbourly woman of propriety lending him some transportation to help him out.

Thank you, my dear. Your good deed, albeit involuntary, has been well received. This was just so lit.

Master Maximilian Montgomery smiled as he thought about his destination. There was a fifteen-minute ride down Yonge St. from Newmarket to Aurora, and King Richard the III Pub would be crowded this evening. Green beer would be flowing too, besides breaking sales of Guinness on this Saint Patrick’s Day of celebration. He knew that Dr. Ulysses Morgan’s ancestry went back, on his mother’s side, to County Cork of Ireland, where the Morgan surname was actually Welsh in origin. Tonight, he just wanted to tease the good doctor, but if he could put a scare into him as well, that would be just fine. What was that 1964 devilish song by the Rolling Stones again? Time Is on My Side?

Most definitely.

Though not an Irish-named pub, he liked the Shakespearean tragic choice that the owners had renamed the pub a few years earlier, as he identified with this evil, corrupt villain of the play and his Machiavellian rise to power. The stage was set. Act One to begin, he playfully said to himself.

He pulled around the back of the tavern, which was located in a strip mall, and parked as he blocked access to a garbage bin. He didn’t see the doctor’s 911SPorsche. There were a couple others there, but not the specially designed and ordered 2010 cream colour with light tan interior and matching convertible top that he knew the good doctor so prized for himself. He knew Morgan drove it all year round and had already changed the top now three times, no doubt due to winter wear and tear. Master always did his homework. He believed that rigorous research rewards.

Perhaps he’d parked elsewhere, so he decided just to go into the pub and look for him inside. Even he didn’t expect the very long lineup of thirsty souls waiting to get into the tavern. However, this was never a problem for Master, as he always had his entry tickets. He pulled out four crisp bank bills. Making his way to the entrance door, he began singing happily for his own ears to hear The Divine Comedy’s tune, Queuejumper.

Upon reaching the entrance door, he grinned at the bouncer as he put his back to the bearded bloke he had butted to get in front of. Holding the bills at his chest, he stated in a loud Australian-accented voice, Thanks so much for letting me slip out and check on the kids, mate; all is well.

The bouncer briefly frowned at Master but quickly looked at the four red Mackenzie Kings being presented to him. He then nodded in affirmation, saying, No problem, pal and simultaneously grabbed the bills, crumpling them into the hidden palm of his huge catcher’s fist, while at the same time pulling the handle of the door to let Master inside.

Piece of cake.

Master also felt the invisible power of the H.G. Well’s character Griffin, in that he too was essentially anonymous, really quite unrecognizable. Several years ago, Master had enrolled at Seneca College, King Campus, and had secured a one-year certificate in Cosmetic Techniques and Management, which apparently later he learned had turned into a two-year course. Essentially, it was special effects makeup training. Master had thoroughly enjoyed himself, incorporating this adaptable talent into his armamentarium. Unlike others who took the course with dreams of making it into the movie industry as some acclaimed special makeup artist working for the silver screen celebrities, Master used it for his own disguises and purposeful costumes. The fact is, at twenty-eight years of age, he discovered how easy it is to facially look two to six decades older by the right application of his learned techniques. He hadn’t really achieved the same successful skill to make an octogenarian look thirty again, but then again, he rationalized, neither had OLAY. Along with his Aussie accent that he was expressing tonight, he wore a seven-centimetre (cm) scar on his right cheek that couldn’t be missed by anyone taking in his face.

As he surveyed his surroundings quickly, he observed the fine details of the players inside, the art work, the waitresses, and had a good count of who was here and where they were sitting and standing. Such fine observational and mental registration ability had been honed over years of survival to avoid getting caught and optimizing his gain. He knew that any predator would do the same. Then again, he mused, although it just made sense to have some sharpened skill, common sense was truly a superpower, as his grandfather Casey used to say.

Having cased the joint out quite well, he could see that the good Dr. Morgan was not there. He hadn’t seen his car in the front parking lot either as he had entered the pub. Although annoyed that he couldn’t do any mischief to Morgan that night, he was reconciled that he still had other playful events planned for the psychiatrist. He inwardly giggled at the thought.

Master was not one to waste an opportunity or to miss creating one wherever possible, so an immediate Plan B came into play.

He had noticed four fellows ordering at least their second round of beer after he had arrived. Two of them he recognized as local hospital doctors—an orthopedic surgeon and another slightly older guy whom he knew was part of the surgical assist team. He knew Morgan was friendly with both of these buds.

He waited another ten minutes, pacing himself slowly on his own pint at the bar, since alcohol was never an interest of his. Dulls the brain and the real fun in life, he would say, once again quoting his grandfather.

He asked the bartender for a tray of four Guinness, tipping him handsomely for the order. Being well prepared for this evening, he stealthily brought out a cylindrical container containing a brownish powder, which he carefully poured into the four drinks, concealing his somewhat sleight-of-hand action like a practised magician. He had crushed up 800mg of Phenobarbital tablets that he had purchased off one of his street contacts, and he even added some non-drug interactive food colouring to the molecule, knowing well ahead of time it would most likely be emptied into a stout of some kind.

Carrying the tray of drinks, he picked his way through the thick crowd of revellors in their varying states of inebriation and reached his target table of the two doctors and their pals.

Hey, mates, it appears you have some female admirers over yonder in the corner. They asked me to deliver these to you, he said smiling as he laid the tray on the table and proceeded to place a drink in front of each of them.

The whitish-haired older doc, who was clearly the garrulous inspiration of the group, asked, Who? Which ladies are you talking about?

Knowing it wasn’t possible to see through the density of customers into the corner of the room, Master half turned and vaguely pointed, saying, It’s difficult to see them from here; two were sitting at the table, and two were standing. One blonde and three brunettes; I guess about mid-thirties, super hot too, the whole lot. You guys might be in for a memorable St. Paddy’s tonight after all.

With that he added, Cheerio, picking up the tray and then disappearing into the wave of pub-goers.

He was snickering as he dumped the tray at an empty area on a table and took a serpentine course to get back to the front door of the pub, visibly hidden from his mates he had just met. He made his exit through the door. He walked to the back parking lot and was irritated to see there was still no sign of Morgan’s Porsche. Not content with his playful folly in the pub, he felt compelled to satiate his satisfaction with another deed that would speak.

Master pulled out his trusted D.H. Russell Canadian belt knife, specifically the H380S. This was a drop point hunter lock blade, with 8.26 cm of dependable cutting edge that when opened was 20 cm long. It had a natural staghorn handle, made of high carbon stainless steel with nickel/silver Bolsters liner pins. He always kept it held in his belt loop at the back with a leather folded button-down sheath. He actually had several Grohmann knives from Pictou, Nova Scotia, but this was his favourite, which he liked to carry on his person at all times.

He knew the laws. Switchblades and certain spring-assisted knives were illegal in Canada, like the Schrade SCHOTF3B. Actually, he also knew that despite popular belief, it was a myth that in general there was an illegal blade length restriction to carry a knife in the Canadian Criminal Code. However, if the blade was less than 30 cm and concealed, and didn’t appear to be a knife (e.g., a credit card knife), this would be deemed a prohibited weapon. Moreover, if it is discerned by law enforcers that the person’s concealed knife of any length is intended to do physical harm to another person, including in self-defense, this is illegal. Master liked carrying the blade, as it made him feel like he was always on the cutting edge, as he would say to those who asked him about it. He had talked his way out of this kind of potential problem several times with police in the past when they had questioned him about his blade. Knowing the law and your rights was power.

Thus, starting with the Lexus SUV he had borrowed for the evening, he punctured the front passenger wheel of that car. Twelve more vehicles followed suit with the same penetration as he weaved his way under cover of darkness, being certain that he was seen by no one. He was fond of that number, lucky thirteen. Sure, he might be spotted and caught, but that was all part of the adrenaline rush he was wanting, since Morgan himself had eluded him this evening.

He chose to not be daunted by missing the hunt’s trophy prize this night. Patience, patience, patience were the guiding words of Lord Yoshi Toranaga in James Clavell’s novel, Shogun. He would practice this same virtue, and in a matter of weeks he was confident another opportunity to direct a strike would arise. Either that or he’d create the occasion himself.

Master then walked to a nearby gas station after he had finished his penetrating vandalism, called an Uber, peeled off his facial scar, discarded his ski jacket in the trash, and with his hoodie pulled over his head, jumped into his promptu arriving ride and went home.

Earlier that evening, Dr. Ulysses Morgan had driven to the King Richard the III English pub. He had told several of his doc friends he’d try to join them for a St. Paddy’s toast, but not to count on him, as he had some hospital work to complete. Tonight, however, even before 6:30 p.m., he saw that there was a massive queue, and he just couldn’t stand to wait in line. It’d take an hour at least before getting to the front. He stood there in the lineup for five minutes, shoulders hunched, as it was still a late cold winter air outside. He reflected that the best thing about waiting in a line was turning around and seeing people lined up behind you. Forget it. He already had parked across Yonge Street and then down some side street after that, because there was absolutely no parking available.

He cut out of the line and headed next door to Joia Ristorante, where he took his time eating a scrumptious wood-burning pizza: A lovely cheese pizza, just for me. He ordered it just the way he liked it, but it was definitely a modified Kevin McCallister pie. It was perfectly cooked, thin crust, overflowing the plate with double mozzarella cheese, double pepperoni, double mushroom, double green olives, and of course double anchovies. He loved his salt. Often criticized for the excessive use of this mineral, his blood pressure, however, was excellent, and he justified that the taste was worth the risk.

The ristorante had an excellent wine list and always had a sommelier on staff. Their cellar was particularly representative of old-world wines, especially Italian. Just a month ago, he had enjoyed a glass of Masi Costasera Amarone Classico 2012, which was a full-bodied, dark ruby coloured wine, which his waiter had cautioned him had a little higher than usual alcohol content at 15% alcohol/volume. Tonight, he’d be skipping the green beer salute, so he decided to be patriotic and chose a nine-ounce glass of well-balanced and delicate nose of black cherry with hints of dried leaves and herbal accents. It was a 2015 Cabernet Sauvignon from the Niagara Vineyard of Château des Charmes. The vineyard was founded in 1978 by Paul Bosc, a fifth-generation French winegrower. He had planted Canada’s first commercial vineyard dedicated exclusively to vitis vinifera, the European grape varieties that make the finest wines. It produced a revolutionary impact on the peninsula’s wine industry. Ulysses mused on how these wine experts must have all been English majors in school, specializing in their utility with adjectives. As long as he took his time eating and drinking, he knew that the nine-ounce glass was safe for him to consume and then drive home later. It was truly yummy to the tummy. He doubted that Robert Parker or Antonio Galloni had ever used that expression in their adjective mastery of wine description. It fit for Ulysses.

As he left and walked the eight minutes to his car, he did not notice the Australian fellow negotiating his entrance at the pub next door, nor would he have probably recognized him either. Serendipity works in many ways.

On his drive home, he always found it interesting what thoughts would come into his head. He knew that he never liked to get behind a twelve-year-old vehicle in very good shape like the Toyota Camry that he was driving behind right now, which was driving just the speed limit or even a little under. These older vehicles would often be quite pristine in their body shape; however, every now and then, some of them would have a dent in their rear fender. He hypothesized that this deformation was no doubt the result of certain other drivers losing their patience and giving them an inadvertent nudge of some kind to at least go the speed limit.

As he drove up highway 404 back to his home in Keswick on Lake Simcoe, he noticed too that there was a wooden cross off to one side with some flowers around it. These memorials were often constructed off the shoulder of the road, prompting him to say a prayer by crossing his heart and hoping that they had a good relationship with Jesus Christ, and that God had mercy on them. His mother had taught him that, just as she’d always kept up and instilled a sense of humour in him and his siblings. The family would drive by a cemetery and her classic line, You know, Ulysses, people are dying to get in there, would always give him a smile even to this day.

Bringing his thoughts back to the current image, he wondered what it must be like for those loved ones left behind, who perhaps had put up the wooden cross adorned with flowers, and how difficult it must be for them to drive by that area. Furthermore, how difficult it must be to even watch a TV show or movie in which there is a car crash or some kind of fatality on the road. He wondered that it may even bring about a forced avoidance of certain regular daily activities of living for some of these loved ones left behind, such that they no longer ever drive by that route. Very hurtful, so much internal pain. Ulysses had heard the familiar story so many times.

Looking down at the digital speedometer it read 111 km/hr. Okay. Usually he liked to set the cruise at 119 km/hr, the free nineteen speed in the 100 km/hr. driving zone, but this speed would do until he got off the highway. Ulysses liked living in Keswick. Thirty years ago, it was arguably the murder capital of Canada. His colleagues used to tease him with comments and questions like, So Ulysses, is your house the one with the blue chesterfield out on the front lawn, or the fire pit with the lawn chairs? and I hear the ‘Wick’s going to be getting a dentist soon. However, the community had truly changed with the 404-highway going right up to Ravenshoe, and multiple new home developments sprouting up like wild pine. For Ulysses, it was just a twenty-minute drive to the hospital. Great commute.

Once home, he reset the security alarm, and making certain there was fresh water in the bowls for his trusted canines. However, before going to bed, his thoughts drifted to how he was just like many others in being a creature of habit with his routines. His wife had both kiddingly and critically accused him of being so predictable. His alarm would go off at 5:25 a.m., he’d stretch to the ceiling, then make the sign of the cross over his chest and pray to the Virgin Mary to help prohibit him from sin and the temptations of sin, say the prayer of Jabez and an Our Father, three Hail Marys and a Glory Be, along with asking for strength to do God’s will and do no harm. Next, he’d feed Odin and Freya, followed by showering for five minutes or less, brushing his teeth, then onto the only real morning ordeal— his shave. Next, he’d get dressed, let the dogs back in, and be in his car on the road for his first patient at his psychiatric practice by 6:45 a.m.

Although he thought it did sound boring, he reflected on the teachings of his father that Success swings on the often small hinges of the habits of our daily routine. So, he justified his predictable rituals to start the day.

Before he went to sleep, though, he looked over some notes he had made on his hometown. A half hour later, before he truly hit the sack, he completed his poetic tribute titled A Wick from Keswick.

Along the shores of Lake Simcoe,

Where storms and gales erupt their blow,

Windsurf, kite glide, boat cruise—your pick—

Is a town with a reputation, called Keswick.

A drive-thru variety store, Pinky’s by name,

Imagine Cinema, Krate Marina, and the five corners fame.

Not just greasy spoons aligned in a row,

There’s sushi, plus the Corner House that attracts De Niro.

Stephen Leacock, McGill’s Economy Prof,

Inspired a centre for the cultural lot.

Lumber plaid dinner jackets and snap-on tops

Mix with Harley’s bad boys and plenty of cops.

Have a donut and sip on your warm caffeine brew;

The town has Coffee Time, Country Style, and two Timmies too.

Canadian Tire and Home Hardware are a fundamental must,

And now Walmart has earned the population’s trust.

Winter means hockey, fish huts, sleds, and ATVs;

Summer exposes skin with tattoos and bikinis.

Autumn is gorgeous, a deciduous colourful delight;

Spring delivers parties, mania, and fellows who fight.

Yet Larry Pastorus, So Down Low, and Bubble sing out

Such joyful music removes all Wick’s pout.

Roche’s Point reside in their silent wealth;

This down-to-earth town reveals our Canadian health.

As dreamland started to embrace him, his last conscious thoughts were that although he had missed joining his buddies for a brew on St. Patrick’s Day, it had been a pretty harmless and good day. Once again smiling, he felt the luck of his Irish blood with him and concluded that Ulysses Stephen Morgan was truly a most fortunate guy.

CHAPTER 2

March 19, 2022

3:33 p.m.

You’re not a pedophile, I told him with calm reassurance. You’re about as much a pedophile as that lamp on my desk is a six-ton African bush elephant, that’s how certain I am. And no, you don’t need a referral to a forensic psychiatrist, nor do you need to undergo any phallimetric testing.

Cameron nodded in affirmation with a look of profound relief and thanked me for telling him this.

The twenty-six-year-old man, engaged in a Master’s programme in Geology, specifically climate change, plus working part-time at the Old Navy retail store, admitted he’d been feeling more stressed for the past several months since he and his girlfriend had moved into an apartment together. I had initially started to treat him for Adult Attention Deficit Disorder (ADHD) - combined type, and Generalized Anxiety Disorder (GAD), but over the last year, it had become clearer to me that he was quite a fretter and obsessively preoccupied with varying intrusive themes in his life, which interfered with completing his tasks at hand and enjoying himself due to his very problematic rumination. He was also a rather scrupulous fellow with a demanding conscience that was now causing him bouts of shame and guilt, taking him out of the game from his own self-pummelling.

Cameron had just embarrassingly told me that he had been collecting a cachet of pornography on a computer file that contained about a dozen anime cartoons of young girls, or segments of films of this type of pornographic material. He didn’t know who it was that was uploading and distributing this on the Internet, but he was aware that Google would have a file on his own search history and that he could be discovered at any time. It just struck him now that this was the situation he was in.

He had deleted the material over a week ago, but he was bothered by marked insomnia and even panic attacks over the past ten days in a very intense manner. He was already living the fearful vision of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police (RCMP) pounding down his door at the next Sunday dinner with his parents and girlfriend, handcuffing him, taking his computer, and announcing to the family that he was being arrested for his use of child pornography.

Just earlier I had asked him, How long have you had this material stored away?

Umm, about two years, he anxiously stated.

When was the last time you viewed these pics? I inquired.

Around that same time, about two years ago, he said.

What percentage did this anime porn make up of your porn collection?

I think maybe five, no, four percent.

What constitutes the rest of your porn files?

Adult heterosexual porn, the usual stuff, no animals or rape or violence or anything like that, he said with notable defensiveness.

Okay, so just so I’m clear, these are anime porn characters, not photos or real-life film of pre-pubescent girls, that you have stashed in your file … is that it?

Well, yes… but no, I mean, yah, they’re anime, but they’re not pre-pubescent. The girl figures are all post puberty but probably not yet eighteen years of age, like a grown woman, he replied with noted trepidation.

It was then that I had told him that he did not suffer from pedophilia, and his emotional relief visibly lifted off his tense shoulders and contracted posture.

Those images point toward a certain sexual interest called hebephilia, specifically heterosexual in your case, twelve to fourteen years of age, let’s say Grade 7 and Grade 8, which is pubescent girls, and also to a condition called ephebephilia, which is later adolescent ages fifteen to eighteen years or so, classically high school, I told him. Furthermore, I added, to be diagnosed with either of these paraphilias, that is any abnormal sexual desires or behaviours, the specific sexual interest must be the adult person’s preferred or primary choice.

However, I had only just related to him the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders—Fifth Edition (DSM-V) medical/psychological criteria for making such a diagnosis. Essentially, though, I was choosing to not tell him that in our society, pedophilia is considered by the general public to refer to any sexual interest in minors below the legal age of consent, regardless of their level of mental or physical development. Even though pedophilia is classified as a mental disorder like schizophrenia, bipolar disorder, or major depression, the public’s understanding and empathy toward a person suffering from such a condition is extremely intolerant.

There is just now in our society the beginning of a pronounced acceptance of one having a mental illness wherein just that person, the singular individual, is affected. Truth be told, though, others are always negatively affected in one way or another. However, heaven forbid if your disorder should physically hurt or injure another person, like someone attacking another in the midst of a psychotic break. Hence, having a mental disorder like pedophilia, where the object of your disturbance involves the fracturing of trust and physical/sexual molestation of an innocent … sorry, but even in the twenty-first century of a modern civilization, there’s no empathy for you nor any sympathy for your suffering and conduct. You are considered a pariah by most and must be exiled from society, preferably after you’ve been castrated—and not by chemical means, assuming most likely you’re a male. That’s just the current reality. The Old Testament’s an eye for an eye, and a tooth for a tooth becomes the public justice principle that reigns in most people’s hearts. Not right, but real.

Sexual activity by an adult with a minor below the age of consent is considered to not be consensual, and is in fact statutory rape. The Tackling Violent Crime Act of 2008 in Canada raised the legal age of sexual consent from fourteen to sixteen years of age, the first such raise since 1892. The new law further included a close-in-age-exception, meaning fourteen and fifteen-year-olds can have sex with someone who is less than five years older.

I found myself reflecting on some of these facts during our session. I knew that the legal age of sexual consent varies from state to state in the United States, from sixteen to eighteen years of age. Worldwide, the highest age of consent is twenty-one in the country of Bahrain, and it is twenty in South Korea. The lowest age of consent in the world is in Nigeria, set at eleven years of age, and it’s only twelve years of age in Japan. This further reminded me of how Lagos in Nigeria is predicted to be the ninth highest populated city in the world by over 24,000,000, surpassing even Mexico City by the year 2030. Also, the Great Tokyo Area currently has the densest population at over 36,000,000 people and is still going to be climbing at that time as well, maintaining its first-place position.

I thought that there was probably no correlation there, or certainly one that’s too hard to prove, so it’s merely an association about the legal age of consent and the respective populations in those countries. I did wonder, though, about Toronto, as the Greater Metropolitan area of this Canadian city just surpassed Chicago a few years ago as the fourth largest city in North America. Interesting to ponder, but I caught myself with these loose associations and brought myself back to focus on Cameron.

This lad has been stressed out significantly, thinking that he suffers from pedophilia, and my main goal here was to relieve some of his guilt, shame, and tension and to get him practising more thought-blocking and mindfulness to live more in the moment rather than living the tragedy of a potential negative future.

You’re spiralling with needless worry, Cameron, and you need to stop the negative ‘What If’ thinking that is literally making you sick. Your thinking style is reminding me of one of Samuel Langhorne Clemens’ great quotes: ‘I’ve experienced many terrible events in my life, some of which have actually happened. ‘Do you see what I mean?

He chuckled and nodded. Yah, that’s me all right. But who’s Samuel Langhorne Clemens anyway? Another psychiatrist? he asked.

Mark Twain.

Oh, sure, right, I knew that.

"I want you to spend about thirty-five dollars and pick up the CD set by Jon Kabat-Zinn, Full Catastrophe Living. You’ve got a half-hour commute to school or work each day, and these audio tapes will help you stay here in the moment and not dwell on some possible ‘what if’ mistake of which you irrationally believe you ought to have done or not done in the past, or ruminate about some future tragedy that is unlikely to even happen. Also, I want you to see if you can cut back on your pornography viewing. Use a chart and note how many minutes you spend per day on this addiction of yours. And don’t naively make the mistake of believing it’s not an addiction. It’s a compulsive behaviour resulting in both negative consequences for yourself and others. We’ll talk more later about its serious dangers to your health and the challenges with intimacy that it can directly cause in your life. Just put the date down and mark the number of minutes beside it until we meet again in a month. Call it the ‘POP’ Chart (i.e., Power Over Porn). Keep in mind that what doesn’t get measured doesn’t improve, plus the sooner you humble yourself and admit that you have this addiction, the sooner you’ll be on the road to healing yourself from a deep hurt and finding your true self."

He thanked me as I gave him another prescription to continue his brand Concerta (methylphenidate) at 54 milligrams (mg) every morning, and I raised his Zoloft (Sertraline) from 100 mg to 150 mg per day. I also gave him fourteen tablets of 1 mg Ativan (Lorazepam) and educated him as to how to use these as necessary, avoiding alcohol, until the higher dose of Zoloft had engaged.

As he was leaving, and currently in a much more relaxed state, he passed on his own words of wisdom to me on the subject of the environment. Remember, Doc, we all need to do something about looking after the earth. Even St. Francis of Assisi in the thirteenth century knew something about this, and good current literature by Naomi Klein will help you keep it 100 about climate change.

He continued passionately on his soapbox and exclaimed, I know you’re reluctant to believe this, Dr. Morgan, but the United Nations World Meteorological Organization said global temperatures are headed for a rise of 3 to 5 Celsius (⁰C) degrees this century, far above the target of 1.5 to 2 ⁰C. I know the Internet and other vested interest media groups can flood us with a lot of deceptive and erroneous information about this topic, classically misinformation, which can lead to many of us, perhaps you too, into a false complacent conclusion that it’s all a bunch of ‘bullshit,’ something like ‘which latest vegetable is discovered to be the cause of cancer this week?’ We end up taking an agnotological stance about climate, that is, adapting a culturally-induced ignorance or doubt about the subject. Can I go on and bend your ear a little more, Doc?

Of course, Cameron, we have a few minutes, I said, as he certainly had piqued my intrigue.

Gucci, Doc. Okay, well there are studies out there that show that bad news travels faster than false news, which both travel faster than true or objective news. So you, like others, might be saying hogwash to the scare of climate change and the need for individual responsibility to do something about it because you’ve embraced a belief that this legitimate concern about the danger of climate change is simply false. Perhaps you and many others share that information, and it represents your world view—a phenomenon called ‘confirmation bias.’

He was on a roll, and although we were closing in on our time to end the session, I felt compelled to listen to this bright erudite patient of mine. Fortunately, my own son’s vocabulary had taught me the translation of some of the millennial lingo I was hearing.

So clearly, one problem is that we’re not able to get the message of truth out there about climate change both qualitatively, so it really sinks in, and quantitatively, so that we reach more people. It’s an accurate information-deficit problem. However, you may like Dr. Paul Thagard’s psychological explanation for why we subconsciously deny the evidence that’s in front of us. He’s actually a cognitive scientist and a philosopher at my University of Waterloo, and he states that it’s a problem of motivation, specifically ‘motivation inference.’ Essentially, when people have strong motivations, they’re very selective in the evidence they look for. So despite a consensus that climate change is occurring and that we humans are the main perpetrators of this dangerous change, depending on our motivation, we refuse—in fact, deny—the evidence. For example, someone who makes their income through the oil industry may fear acknowledging climate change, as the mere thought threatens their job, their financial livelihood.

He concluded by saying, Thanks for indulging me here, Doc. I get turnt about all this. So in summary, I believe that by the end of this century, if we haven’t made drastic changes in our world to reduce our carbon footprint, Florida will be underwater, and just a decade from now, all of Southern Ontario, including where we are right now, will experience a snowless winter. I’ll bet you.

Okay, Cameron, let’s put one hundred dollars on that bet, plus when I win, I get to throw the first snowball, I said.

He laughed and we shook on it.

Have a good month and take good care of Cameron; cut him some slack, I added.

He smiled as he left. See you, Doc, respek, as he shot a Hawaiian shaka to me.

There were so many angles to focus on with him today, like his schooling and the exam he just wrote. How he and his girlfriend were doing. Is the Concerta dose adequate, and is he having any side effects? Does he have a genuine pornography addiction? I know last summer he was into the first man shooter video game, ‘Overwatch,’ which he played for four to six hours a day. He told me how much he loved it, and he played with people from all over the world. He defensively told me that it wasn’t just a running and gunning game. So how many hours per day or week was he into watching porn? He wasn’t clinically depressed, but he was experiencing marked anxiety, shame, and guilt, which could clearly lead to a more serious major depression, and it was evident that his obsessionality was impairing and burdening his quality of life. As such, I chose to psychotherapeutically, in a motivational and educational manner, plus some small psychopharmacological adjustments to his medication, focus my treatment primarily on these anxiety issues.

I had a little time left before heading home for the day, realizing as I always do—actually from the very first patient that I see in the morning—that we are all the walking wounded, but no matter what life problems I might be experiencing, in that comparison, It’s just not that bad, Ulysses!

Heck, it was just a couple thousands of years ago, on the Ides of March that had just passed, that Julius Caesar had a real tough day, being betrayed by his best friend, Brutus. So all in all, I was doing okay.

I liked to find a positive perspective no matter how tenuous or distantly related the viewpoint. I spent some time completing a poem about the negative aspect of the What If question and how it literally does support the household phrase that an individual can become worried sick:

What if? trumpets the dreamer

For them life is an adventure

Limitless possibilities

Not so the worrier

For them What if? cries

Apprehension and impending doom

Obsessing over past negatives

Reliving their embarrassment

Feeling the angst of some ridicule

Fretting over possible future failures

Living and suffering the terrible event

Though it’s never happened

Dwelling, rethinking, and ruminating

Becoming mentally incontinent

Soiling their day

Rumination doesn’t equate with reflection

Nor to contemplation, nor thoughtful analysis

It does not prepare the mind

Neither is insight gained nor lessons learned

Instead, neurotransmitters are burned up

Necessary for our future mood stability

We must be unfaithful to rumination

Block it, snap it to stop,

Distract oneself through immediate positive action

A mantra with 108 beads helps

Om mani padme hum

Happiness to all sentient beings

Or embrace Matts’ words

And do not worry about tomorrow

For tomorrow will worry about itself

Okay, that’s it, time to go. I knew I needed to refuel my jets and go to one of my own oases to be positively fed, so that’s where I went. However, I took note that I didn’t skip along with my usual upbeat self. My thoughts still lingered on Cameron’s lecture to me on climate change. It made me wonder who got more out of that session—me or Cameron? I definitely needed an injection of my friends’ company, and a little flying avian vodka wouldn’t hurt either.

CHAPTER 3

March 19, 2022

Toronto, Ontario

I looked at my phone. It was 4:44p.m.

It’s amazing how packed the Real Sports Restaurant and Bar is, at least before a Raptors or Leafs game. I don’t know what it’s like on other days, but the waitress said even after the game, especially with a Toronto hometown win, it gets super busy again. They must be making a mint.

I was glad to meet the guys and have a bite and a few drinks before the game. Instead of the Grey Goose and soda I’d been planning on, I went for the Tag No. 5 Ontario’s Craft Vodka, homegrown and produced in Maverick Distillery, right here in our own backyard in Oakville. I ordered it neat to embrace the full taste, and as advertised, it was uber smooth. After that I had it on the rocks.

We shared some burger sliders, though Ricky was on a Keto diet, so he had a lettuce wrap burger entrée with no fries. He even had changed his drink from his thirty-two-ounce Steam Whistle lager beer to a double Tag No. 5 vodka with soda and lime, and then just aqua thereafter. Lower calories help me keep my figure, he’d tell us with a big grin. The fact is, though, that he had lost ten kilograms (kg) in five weeks, so his 1.83 metre (m) frame was carrying only 88 kg now. He felt good and was still very fit. After his knee surgeries and some osteoarthritis having settled in, he had developed a certain varus deformity; essentially, he had become bowlegged. He had a strut like the Ray Donovan character, played by Liev Schreiber, which he didn’t seem to mind in the least. His full name was Richard Lionel Everhart, named by his English father, who had been a fan of the medieval English King Richard I, better known as Coer de Lion, or Richard the Lionhart. Ricky’s nickname was Lion, except when any one of us believed he was acting like a jerk. Then we just called him Dick. We had created our own private animal nicknames along with an argot that most minor niner’s adopted, like speaking in double negatives, or like the recent popular sayings of sick, wicked, or dope" to convey awesome.

Three years ago, Lion had treated all five of us to a VIP Superbowl package stay at the Fontainebleau Hotel in Miami Beach, where we took in the special tailgate parties and photo shoot with some of the National Football League’s (NFL) celebrities, and we watched the Kansas City Chiefs defeat the San Diego Chargers. I suspect it cost Lion over $100 K to float too. It was a great tight game, and we still talked about many of the awesome memories we had shared, some of the secret tales would no doubt die with us. We were proudly cheering Canadian Laurent Duvernay-Tardiff, the 1.96 m, 146 kg offensive guard for the Chiefs. By the beginning of the 2018 NFL season, there were 107 Canadians who had played in the NFL from the league’s inception 102 years ago. There have been other players from foreign countries who played in the league, with Canada being most represented, followed by Germany and then Jamaica. I was particularly admiring Duvernay-Tardiff’s accomplishments, as he was also the first medical graduate to play in the NFL and the first to win a Superbowl. I kidded the guys, of course, that unfortunately he had graduated from our second-best medical school in Canada, that being McGill University, as opposed to my own well-known alma mater, the University of Toronto (Uof T). The drinks barely allowed them to tolerate my boast.

Although only gaining a C-grade average throughout high school, where each of us had met, Lion was quite successful, having started a restorative repair business initially in residential homes and then commercial properties that had been damaged by flood or fire. Mind you, his father had also sold a water company two decades earlier to Nestlé Canada, and he had inherited a chunk of that multi-million-dollar sale. It was because of his four platinum season tickets that we got into this Leafs game, which he treated us to a half a dozen times per year. The seats alone were over twenty-four hundred bucks, so the rest of us took turns picking up the restaurant tabs and any treats and drinks at the game itself.

Certainly we would never be even Steven with Lion’s generosity, but he was cool with that, as none of us were regularly dining in his snack bracket. We always knew that he had our backs and also that he was quite a stealthy philanthropist, choosing anonymity whenever possible. So rare. Despite a limited post-secondary formal education, he was extremely well-read. Lion exemplified that adage not all readers are leaders, but all leaders are readers!

We had all met on the first day in our homeroom class in Grade 9. It was Ms. Vulvalina’s initial assignment at teaching, and with a name like that, plus her hourglass appearance, she had her hands full with a thirty-plus just past puberty, all-boys class with which to contend. Her high heels and short skirts easily secured our attention, but Ms. Vulva, as we nicknamed her, truly had no idea what vulgar, lascivious gestures some of us made the moment she turned her back on us to write on the blackboard. Looking back, she was probably only twenty-four or twenty-five years old.

It was her idea to get us to call out our birthdays on the initial day and rearrange seating so that the youngest in the class all sat at the front. Surprisingly, four of us all had our birthdays on December 29, so we all sat together in the first two rows for the entire year. Go figure. I mean, really, what were the odds of that happening? Such real estate location fertilized our bonds over jokes, sharing of our fantasies about Ms. Vulva making lustful love to each of us, along with group projects in History and English that also gave us further time, even after the classroom, to cement our friendship even to this day.

There were two other guys that joined us, so we held the first three seats of the first two rows, right in front of Ms. Vulva’s desk: Sebastian Zoltak, whose birthday was December 28, and Adam Poirier, who was born on December 1. We called ourselves the Sexy Six to Ms. Vulva and she rolled with it, allowing us to titillate ourselves by introducing sex into our conversations with her whenever we could.

Unfortunately, Sebastian introduced us to death three years later when he crashed his car into a median after coming home from a party. Another fellow in the car had suffered a fractured collarbone and shoulder, and the two girls came out unscathed. It sent us all for quite a loop, sobering each of us up on the mortality of our lives. He had been nicknamed the Parrot. Seb never initiated much, but he was a loyal follower, a trusted friend. He was, for the most part, a quiet guy but bright-eyed and would often just repeat whatever the best comment was voiced by one of us in the group, like Yah, let’s meet at eight o’clock, or Harvey’s does have the best fries in town, or It’s true, she’s the best-looking chick in school, etc.—hence, the Parrot.

Parrot did leave us with one good humorous memory of an act on his own initiative. We all knew when Ms. Vulva exited from her last afternoon class. About four metres outside her door, directly in her path, Parrot crazy-glued a shiny quarter coin, caribou side up, to the floor. The six of us took up our best vantage points and voyeuristically drooled over her multiple attempts at bending over to try to pick up that twenty-five-cent piece. We embraced her perseverance as her skirt hiked up even further onto her upper stockingless thighs, and her voluptuous derriere screamed at splitting apart at mid-seam. Boys will be boys.

Adam was part of our group, and then again not part of our group. We had come to accept him as a real funny guy but not someone we could always count on. Furthermore, he contradicted himself a lot, which was really a euphemistic way of us describing how we all caught him at lying multiple times. Later on, as a psychiatrist, I understood much better his tendency to embellish and lie as a result of an anxious insecurity that he never felt good enough. To that end, he didn’t want to disappoint anyone he respected or whose relationship he valued, so even if it meant lying at the time, he wanted the person to like him, as they may not if he told the truth. As such, he’d often agree to something or commit to being somewhere but not follow through on his word. At any rate, back in Grade 9 we had initially called him the Beaver because he was always busying himself making a sly buck here and there and acquiring a new electronic stereo piece or sporting equipment that fell off the back of a truck. He was the only one of us whose animal nickname changed after a couple of years, at which time he became Weasel. That name stuck. So even tonight, as we prepared