January 2017

Autobiographical Sketch of Darcy John Bouchard, li Exule

Concerning the beating that the pigs Officers Ron & Terry gave me in Regina (1997).

I smoked marijuana since I was age 17 - for just over 40 years - and would still be
smoking pot but for coming down with "cannabis hyperemesis" - a real sickness which
hospitalized me several times for weeks on end with chronic non-stop vomiting. If I
smoke again my Mom will probably kill me...
I'd like to share this following story with you - in case it helps you somehow. On-orabout Midnight, the night of either Thursday, 6 June 1997 or Friday, 7 June 1997 (I forget
the exact date), during the 2nd Annual Can-Am Police-Fire Fighters Games in Regina,
Saskatchewan, Canada, I hapt to be out and about. I was restless and couldn't sleep, so I
went for a walk to the Victoria Park in downtown city central, whereat it was my habit
to visit with the Squeegie Kids or sit and contemplate life sharing a smoke with the dead
soldiers at the cenotaph, as was my long-time habit (whether rain or shine or snow).
That night there were no Squeegie Kids in the park... but there were a lot of revelers
(which I later determined were cops and fire fighters).
Now, there is a bison sculpture nearby, on Scarth Street, where-at I chanced to walk
past and find a fine bottle of champagne. I later imagined that this had been stolen from
one of the nightclubs by the drunken revelers and forgotten there, where I found it.
Happy at my good luck I set out to find a pokey thing to push the cork down into the
bottle so that I could indulge... but I couldn't find one, although I looked long and hard.
Then, in a dumpster behind the Regina Inn I found what I was looking for... and a large
can of wood cement. Now, I have been a substance abuser for a long time, huffing glue
for as long as I had been smoking pot... so I took that, as well, and made for a good place
to drink and huff. This place was in an alley not too far away - thereat there was a small
place enclosed on all sides by a high cement wall, housing a transformer or something of
the sort. I was well-hidden in any event.
I tried huffing the wood cement, something I'd never done before but had seen the
Indians do, but it was old and useless. So I sat back to enjoy my champagne. I hadn't had
but two-or-three sips when a squad car came by - and I was found out in my secreted
hiding place. How they knew where I was has always troubled me. I've been a brat all
my life and have always had good luck at hiding in plain sight. (I've always assumed that
the two cops who got out of the car and approached me had been looking for me.) The
cops were named Ron and Terry. They had been introduced to me by Gordon
McMain, "the man in chains," called so because he had been chaining himself to a
bench outside City Hall in some sort of protest concerning ADHD. He was a real
lunatic. He told me that he had killed three men in jail. I believed him - but reckoned
these men to be "punks" and not real tough guys. Anyway, this creep told me that it was
easy to manipulate cops... you just had to talk the right way to them - to speak their
language.
Now, I was celibate and had been for a quite awhile... at least until I met a small town
girl and got involved with her on one occasion. I gave her a lot of hickies at that time,

which was my mistake, because I found out later that this creepy killer had been putting
the moves on her. - and he was jealous. Well, let me tell you, Ron and Terry grilled me
pretty good over my association with the Squeegie Kids. I had been befriended by them
a year before after letting some of them crash on the floor at my art studio... which was
right by the park and just down the block from where I now stood being questioned by
these two cops. Finally, I got the idea... they were jealous of my relationship with the
young White girls.
I had driven cab for my father a few years previously and had learned form the
prostitutes that a lot of the cops were in the habit of "turning out" young Native girls
who followed their older sisters out onto the stroll. I accused Ron and Terry of my
suspicions...
"You're right," one of them said. I can't remember which - because they were shining a
flashlight right into my eyes so that I was quite blind. It was then I was hit very hard on
top of the head by one of their clubs. I don't remember falling, but I remember being on
my belly with my legs crossed and one of them kneeling on my ankles where my legs
were crossed.
"We're not doing you any favours," one of them remarked.
The two of them worked me over pretty good - pounding my inert and helpless body
furiously. Then the bastards tried to peel my buckskin jacket with long sleeves and
fringes off of my nigh unconscious body. I resisted at this point... stiffening my limbs so
that they couldn't remove my dear jacket. I received a second pummeling by the two
assholes... this one worse than the last. I could feel them remove my jacket but was
unable to move a limb. At last, though, I found a burst of strength and growled, pushing
me up off the ground to kick ass. I had grown up in a poor part of town and had been
involved in a lot of battles.
One of them kicked me in the head and I slumped into unconsciousness. I remember
floating up out of my body and seeing the two of them holding my jacket... and then they
disappeared into a point of light, leaving me alone in cold, inky blackness. I felt very
lonely. Finally, afar off, there was a pinpoint of light... of a sudden it appeared before me
as a great portal out of which appeared the "Blue Lady" who saith unto me: "Whutchu
doin, Darc, wriggling around in the muck for like a worm? whyn't chu get up and walk
like a man?"
I did get up... and made my way about half-a-mile to the General Hospital. I
remember the nurses rushing to me... they wanted to call the police but I got afraid and
tried to get away from them. I wasn't able to talk because the kick to my head had broken
my mandible. Eventually, they got me unto a gurney and took me away for examination.
I thought, though, that they were aliens and that I was going to be put into a furnace and
burned alive... because they were trying to get me into a catscan machine, I guess. The
security guard was terribly mean to me... ordering me to lie still, which I did, being
unable to resist or defend me. So I gave me up to my fate. I don't remember much after
that, except that two cops did show up at the hospital - and they were Ron and Terry.
I don't know why they took me away, but they did... with heavy fetters around my
ankles and my hands cuffed behind my back. I remember sitting in the back of the
patrol car and being driven to police headquarters - in absolute silence. Even the radio
was quiet. Thereat I was quietly presented to the desk sergeant and then put into a cell
and left alone.

I waited a long time, worried that they were planning on how to finish the job they had
started in the alley - and do me in once and for all. Although I found it difficult to move I
tried to push the button on the sink to get water for my lips, which were quite parched...
but it wasn't working. So I put a few squares of the had toilet paper into the toilet to
wetten... and this thought to apply to my lips... but as I did so I thought of all the dirty
men who had used the toilet and, revolted by the idea, threw the wet paper away. I was
very very sad. I had a thought of poor Jesus being given vinegar to drink.
Anyways, they eventually took me back to the hospital and I was put into a bed unable
to move. The nurses came and undressed me and rolled me over unto a contraption
which lifted me up and took me to a tub. When I was naked I could see all the long red
welts that their clubs had left on my poor body. I lay in bed for three days unable to
move.
No one from the police department came to interview me. After I was released I had
my father take me to the police department to inquire for my jacket - which was not
amongst my belongings whence I was released form the hospital. I was told that my
clothing was in the "drying room" - but when produced, my jacket was not amongst my
other apparel. This almost broke my heart. I loved that jacket. It had been through a lot
of adventures with me.
Several weeks later, a cop finally did appear to make an inquiry into the events which
had transpired... but only because my father had been making waves. My mouth was still
wired shut. Nothing came of the officer's investigation. He merely asked a few questions
and disappeared. The lawyer I went to told me that I had no case. The Department of
Justice told me that the incident didn't happen. I didn't know what more I could do? I
resigned me to only being able to share this sad story in the future - as I am dong now
with you.
A short time later, while eating dinner at the local noontime soup kitchen (Marion
House) one of the local rubbies, a lysol-drinking Indian, told me that he had seen my
jacket in a dumpster. When he told me which dumpster... it turned out to be one behind
the man in chain's apartment.
Some time later I was approached by a young Native girl who claimed to have
participated in beating me up along with the man in chains. I sent her away to keep her
out of trouble with these dirty cops. Unless I had been beaten so badly that I couldn't
remember her being there... I had no choice but to believe that she was lying... but that
there was a grain of truth wrapped up in her lie, insomuch as she had been with the man
in chains and he had confessed to her by bragging of his involvement in the incident which I assumed involved Ron and Terry giving him my buckskin jacket for whatever
reason!
Story over - except for the fact that I was hounded by several of the city's peace officers
until the day I removed me to British Columbia, whereat I now live. I had been framed at
lest once thereafter - and this shows on my record today. My youngest brother had sunk a
lot of money into my Pardon application, which was finally accepted, but he died before
the loose ends could be tied up... and I can't afford to pursue this matter further myself.

Now, I'm no saint, eh! I've spent many a night in the drunk tank since I first took to
booze as a teen - and had gotten charged with a concealed weapons rap having been at
large whilest drunk, having half a pool cue - which I intended to use as a weapon against
some Indians which had troubled me - and this being in my pant's leg when I was picked
up... but that was a long while ago. And, at one time, a few years before this sad incident
I just told you about, I was dinged with a DUI. I let my Class 4 license go then and
haven't really driven since.
I still hung out with the Squeegie Kids... continuing to allow them live with me in the
house I rented from my father and his life-partner. The cops showed up at the door once
with a lady from Social Services, there to take one of the boys away... but he merely
walked out of their office after sitting there a few hours and came back home.
Please don't get me wrong. Things with the kids weren't always hunky-dory... I mean,
they were just kids, right. I knew and got along well with a lot of their parents... but the
Anarkids were all pretty much homeless, insomuch as if they had been forced to go
home they'd have run off for parts unknown. And many of the brats were from parts
unknown and had nowhere else to go.
I'd like to mention that some of the girls who lived with me even went so far as to finish
school. And some of these kids are still my loyal and beloved friends... and we keep in
close contact via Facebook even today.
There is not much more I can tell you about this incident... except that I don't often
share this story. I hope my story helps you in your own struggle... but remember, I'm not
perfect and may disappoint you if you delved deeper into my character. Let me tell you
that besides being a painter (of portraits) that I am a writer and have been all my life. I
believe in God, but ain't much of a Christian. And, I am pretty racist, insomuch as
believing in my heritage (which originates in the Qubecois First French Family and
includes many habitants, voyageurs, coeur-des-bois, fur traders, mountain men and
buffalo hunters - both French and Scottish/English - and, of course, I have no less than 14
Native women in my genealogy, which prevents me from pursuing my neo-Nazi
interests... despite being a skinhead in my younger days).
I no longer drink or smoke and am pretty much a shut-in, rarely leaving my room,
except to go out for groceries or other shopping, or to make appointments, or attend the
local missions to tie the foodbag on.
Its a pretty interesting story... so I reckon you might have found it entertaining in the
least.
Repent and Rebel
o/