Mr. Knife

I spent two years in prison. And where, you might ask? The place was called Drumheller Penitentiary. Just plain old, Drum, as people who did time there would prefer to call it. I served two years out of a five-year sentence. It’s really true what they say: you know, all the mumbo-jumbo talk on the outside? In movies and what not. Good behaviour really does get you to a head start on an early release. Parole that is. And even then, the government still owns your ass until your warrant expiry.

If you really must know the reasoning behind my prison bit. Then I’ll tell you. Aggravated Assault with a Weapon was the case that they gave me. Prison was definitely not a place for a guy like me—an introvert—not a loner, or a shut in. I much rather prefer the company of a few trustworthy friends or family, my girl and my loyal German shepherd, over a bunch of criminal minded fellas on any given day.

Minus a few traffic tickets and violations, I was a pretty law-abiding citizen. My sports car got me in the only ever trouble with the law in advance to my prison stint.

Prior to prison, I had been dating this beautiful younger girl for about eight months. We both resided in the city of Calgary, then came along the fateful day that I chanced upon her shopping around at a local supermarket. She looked almost to the point of being lost and shy. Her short stature and a high shelved box of cereal was my call to approach her. And am I ever glad I did.

For the record, the following all transpired about a year before I was ultimately sentenced to prison.

As I was saying, she was younger as in myself being 28, and she at the tender age of 21. I was damn near out of my twenties; the best years of my life, and she was just starting hers. So naturally I felt lucky that she chose to unconditionally be with me. I liked to attribute her deep affection toward me for the fact that I had never have—and will continue to never hit her. Unlike past relationships she had been in.

Her name: Mia. In this account, her surname will be left out. Mia is short, at 5’1 she is very petite. However, she maintained a vibrant gymnast’s body with a Coca-Cola bottle shape figure and shapely long legs. Her light brown hair with tints of blonde was always short, though not too short. She kept it cropped just above her shoulders, and it danced, barely scraping the tops when she moved.

And Mia’s eyes—oh those eyes though. They were her absolute best feature; slightly narrowed, very sharp and alluring. They drew you in like a black hole’s gravitational pull. Depending on her mood, they also morphed colors, from brown to hazel to a light greyish green. She was light skinned like me. Okay, maybe a few tints darker. Absolutely gorgeous. She hailed from up north. Way up in northern Alberta, the land of ceaseless scrublands and lush evergreen forests. She was of Dene descent.

I am from the deep southern plains of Alberta.

Blackfoot. Nitsiitapi.

My home reserve, the Blood Tribe (yes that’s the actual name given to us by the Canadian government) just happens to be one of the largest in land size in North America. Where I grew up; at the very southwest end of the reserve, is a place called Bullhorn. Bullhorn is a magnificent place of beauty. It’s a charming portion of land where the sea of gold and olive drab grasslands sway and ripple in the continually present wind which washes down from the snow-capped peaks of the Rocky Mountains.

Just beyond the initial peaks of the Rockies in a plateau surrounded by emerald-blue lakes, lies a beauty of a small tourist town by the name of Waterton. A perfect little spot to take your lover, especially in the dead middle of the high, midsummer heat.

Mia had never been out west to the neighbouring province of British Columbia or had ever been to the Rockies for that matter. So what better than my opportunity to take this girl, whom I am gung-ho crazy about, on a very scenic tour of southern Alberta. My very own backyard, so to speak.

It was an unusually warm May Long Weekend. An early taste of the scorching summer to come. The car ride was pleasant. We had the sunroof open the entire way. It’s usually about a three-and-a-half-hour trip, from Calgary to Waterton, without any stops. We ended up taking four and a half.

The first leg of the journey took us on a relaxing cruise across a large, prairie established freeway. Panoramic views of beautiful river lacerated valleys and farmlands as far as the eye can see, all the while, the looming Rockies stand tall in the westerly backdrop. The final segment of the journey lies at the very foot of the Rocky Mountains. A narrow two-lane highway which twists and slices through the isolated foothills. The mountains lie so close, you could almost throw a stone at them. They’ve always reminded me of the Mountains of Mordor, from the Lord of the Rings, in the way they materialized in the clouds. Just watching us.

Midway through the desolate two-lane highway, there lies a nifty Mexican style cantina. We pulled into the roadside restaurant and bar for some nourishment and a break, seating ourselves at a small round table beneath an outdoor awning where the view of the immediate mountains before us was picturesque. To my surprise, the owners and cook were Caucasian. This seemed somewhat uncanny at first, until to my delight, the food was rather good. Genuine Mexicans aren’t of abundance in the farthest reaches of southwest Alberta. No surprises there. The food was worthy, and at least they served Corona beer. I slammed back only two of the imported lagers, not wanting to get overly buzzed—and break the law—then getting back behind the wheel.

Following our delectable Mexican cuisine, we promptly proceeded back on our journey. At that point in time, the sun was starting to fade away behind the Rockies. I had almost forgotten how beautiful the skies looked when you were that close to the base of the mountain slopes. The transition between the black, ridged embankments, with their pointed peaks stabbing up at a sky of explosive blue, pink and gold hues.

Awe-inspiring.

I switched on my newly installed HID headlights and carried on with our voyage, the brightness of the high-tech headlamps skating across the rigid background of foliage silhouettes. The enveloping darkness with the barely visible twilight glowing above the mountain tops was spooky. It gave me the feeling of being surrounded by colossal god sized monsters. Mia had fallen asleep by this time, and so I felt somewhat alone driving through that cryptic landscape.

The road then narrowed out. It twisted, dipped and curved sharply through the hilly terrain. I had to reduce my speed many times to avoid swerving over the sharp edge of the road. I couldn’t have imagined driving a jacked-up truck on that tedious stretch of highway, unlike like my low-riding, road hugging sports car.

For the duration of the entire desolate journey through the dark, one vehicle passed us. An old rickety pickup truck from the 1970’s. It couldn’t have passed us at a worse time. I had to brake hard and veer onto the gravelly shoulder to let it pass us on the winding highway. To my astonishment, the driver never slowed once, and seemed to the least bit bothered by my blinding HID headlamps. I switched my beams from dim to bright to express to him: slow down buddy. No dice. He just kept on moving past us like a country born maniac.

At last, following another hour or so of the cryptic road voyage, we came to a junction to the outskirts of Waterton, where the abundance of firs overtook the outlying land. I keep saying we as though Mia had been awake the entire time. Nope. She was slumbering like a child at naptime. Maybe it was from getting so full off the Mexican food, and now it was her time to siesta. It was only about 10:30 pm, and I was expecting more road traffic, what with it being a long weekend and all. There was none. Even the small national park admission huts were void of personnel. All four of them.

I carried on cruising ahead through the bypass lane.

The moon was out in full essence, its beautiful silvery glow skimming across the tops of the placid lakes to my immediate left in the massive valleys. I had been to Waterton enough times in my life to know that there was a steep embankment just off the shoulder of the highway to my left-hand side. Going over the edge would spell immediate death. If the ridged rocks below didn’t kill us, then the icy cold, glacier lake waters sure would. I kept my speed well below the posted limit.

Relief streamed in as I steered by the visitor information centre. Tall LED streetlamps lit up the granite enclosed highway on both sides. A few vehicles were parked: two SUV’s, a national parks truck, a fancy sports car, a pickup truck, and a minivan with a family of five loading cargo through its large hatchback door. I wondered if I should pull in to use the men’s facility, but I didn’t. There would be a gas station in town for that.

I kept on cruising.

At last, the lights of the town came into full bloom. My spirit warmed at the beautiful sights from the high incline of the winding mountain road, and down to the urban glow glimmering across the lake’s gently rippling surface. I really needed to go the bathroom, so I gently nudged Mia awake and informed her we had arrived at our destination.

She looked so beautiful and at peace when she slept.

When she awoke, her eyes lit up like the night skies on Canada Day.

I pulled into the nearest gas station and told the attendant to throw in $20. Mia said she didn’t have to go. She excitedly got out of the car and stared in astonishment at the visible silhouettes of the Rockies with the moon glowing just above their jagged peaks.

I went inside alone. The store emitted a real touristy feeling. Rotating metal shelves full of postcards and keepsake memorabilia. Glassware, stuffed animals (bears and elk especially), hats and t-shirts with funky writing on them, kids’ toys, local snacks and an array of cheap sunglasses donned the walls (along with food and drink coolers) and aisles of the artsy wooden cabin interior. A young teenager manning the till politely asked if he could help me. I paid for the gas and asked him where the bathrooms were, and he gave me the key to the men’s room around the back on the outside. I thanked him and went about doing my business.

I came back, purchased a few iced teas, and returned the key. When I wandered outside, I found Mia in the parking lot talking with a local man in his 50’s, I presumed. She was half kneeled, caressing at the fur of his huge St. Bernard dog. The adorable dog with a mouthful of dripping slobber, looked to be in delight at the attention being given by my girlfriend.

“Hello there, how are ya?” asked the man as I casually strolled over to them.

“I’m doin’ good thanks, and yourself?” I replied, placing a wide grip on both iced teas as I prepared myself for a handshake.

“Not from around here, are ya?”

I gave him a quick puzzled look, and before I could answer, he said, “Oh sorry, I don’t mean to intrude.” His beady eyes redirected to my moon glistened, navy blue Audi. “But I can tell by your car.” As he spoke, his thick broomy mustache moved like a furry caterpillar.

“Hey no worries, man. But yes and no to me from being around here,” I articulated. “I’m actually from the Blood Tribe—but I live in Calgary.”

“Oh, okay cool. And yes, that explains the wheels. Nice car man, Audi is it?” he asked.

I nodded like a proud man in accordance. I grasped a certain vibe about the man. A vibe I hadn’t felt in years. Childhood years.

“Ohh my goodness. I just wanna take him home and snuggle him, like all day,” bellowed Mia, while the massive white and brown St. Bernard was busy planting sloppy wet kisses onto her cheek. She didn’t seem to mind at all.

“His name is Oskar. And he sure seems to like ya too,” said the friendly man with a courteous smile.

“Aww, Oskarrrr. You are just so cute and fluffy,” she said in a high pitched, playful voice which made the big fluff of a dog’s ears elevate and twitch.

I nodded at the apprehension of the dog’s name and smiled. I once had a cat named Oskar when I was in high school. Damn good cat.

“Well . . . Mister?” I thrust out my hand, thumb up, and palm sideways.

“Oh, where are my manners. Name’s Everett. Very nice to meet you.” He dusted his hands off on his denim jacket, took in mine with a powerful grasp and gave it a firm powerful shake.

“Likewise. I’m Danny, and this is—”

“—Mia,” she cut in and introduced herself. She rose from her half kneeling posture, swept her palms on her short cut denim skirt and shook hands with Everett. “Very nice to meet you too. I so love your dog.”

“Thanks. Looks like he’s made a new friend, also.” Everett then glanced at his wristwatch. “Well, I oughta be hittin’ the ol’ dusty trail. You two lovely folks have a nice night now. See ya.” With that, he trotted away whistling a happy tune, throwing a two-finger salute as he proceeded down the side of the road, and vanished into the night.

Mia turned to me and smiled cunningly. The side of her face gleamed in the moonlight, wet from Oskar’s sloppy kisses.

“What?” I asked with a sideways glance and raised eyebrow.

“Everett and Oskar.” she giggled. “That has a nice ring to it.”

For a brief second, my mind went sidetracked and I couldn’t help but feel taken aback at her beauty in the moonlit night. “Yeah. I gotta very peculiar vibe from that man.” I paused for a moment, then shook off the rising impulse. “Come on, I wanna show you something cool.” I waved her over and she followed me back to the car.

The heat from earlier in the day seemed to hover off the freshly refurbished blacktop, making the cool mountain air have a tinge of moist warmth. We cruised slowly down the small cobblestone main street with the windows rolled down. The town seemed livelier than it had previously seemed on our way in. Shops and restaurants had their front doors wide open. Many of them had music pouring out into the streets. Families and couples walked about, gawking at the array of tourist friendly businesses. A Japanese family of five were following one another in a flying V formation, chattering cheerfully, each of them holding their smartphones in front of them like x-ray scanners. Outdoor patios were full of patrons, wining and dining. While ice cream shops ran actively full of cheerful patrons lapping at assorted shaped cones topped with rainbow scoops of the delectable treat.

“Everything’s still open?” Mia asked me with a staggered look.

“Yup. Until midnight. It’s the towns opening day to the public. May long weekend. But only on this one night for the entire year.”

I finally came to the end of the township road and pulled into a small campground leading down to the lakeside beach. An assortment of tents littered the green park flats.

We both cleared out of the car.

“We’re gonna stay here?” Mia asked cautiously, her eyes drained of the excitement that had flourished through them only seconds prior.

I snickered. “No. We don’t even have a tent. There’s just a lil’ something over here I gotta to show you. I been visiting it since I was a kid.”

Hand in hand for a few blocks, we treaded down the sidewalk free road, alongside fenceless neighbourhoods with small, paved driveways. To our right was a medium sized school park enshrouded in evergreen trees and an assortment of planted trees not native to the region. The areas were well lit by tall streetlamps radiating with a bright LED glow.

“You hear that?” asked Mia, stooping low like she was listening for a large, approaching vehicle.

“That’s what I wanted to show you. It’s just over there.” I pointed to an area beyond the streetlamp illumination, across a small bridge. In the area was nothing but a large grouping of fifty-foot-tall evergreen’s masked in total darkness.

“Umm, no. It’s dark over there, and we don’t even have a flashlight. Or do you?” she questioned me warily.

“Why, are you scared?” I asked friskily.

“It looks dangerous though,” she said, sounding worried.

I stared at the darkness. “Oh come on, don’t be scared. I’ll protect you. Besides, there’s no one else out here but us. Might be a few grizzly bears, or maybe a mean old wildcat. Ahh hell, there might even be a hungry pack of wolves. But I swear that’s about it.”

She then hit me lightly on the chest, saying coldly, “Ughh, I can’t believe you just said that. I’m going back to the car. Give me the keys.”

“Wait. Hold on.” I hesitated and stood motionless.

“Oh my gosh, did you see something?” she said speedily, her adorable eyes darting around the darkness.

“There. Better late than never.” I pointed ahead of where we stood. The dark, tree filled area was suddenly brightened by a group of hidden park lamps.

“Oh wow! I can see it now.” She grasped my arm tightly and tugged me toward her as she trotted toward the lights.

We crossed the bridge and followed a cement laden pathway until we came to the footing of a vertical, rocky incline. In the corner of the steep, stony bluffs was a magnificent waterfall. The falls stood at least a hundred feet high. They poured over the edge like a mini Niagara Falls, churning and boiling a milky white as they crashed with a deafening roar to the ice cold plunge pool below. We proceeded onto the antique bridge just over the stream billowing from beneath the falls.

“You feel that?” she said, pressing her nose to the night sky and closed her eyes. A cool biting mist veiled her lamp lit face.

“I figured you’d like this.”

“I do. I love it. Can we get closer?”

“We can. But what about the bears and whatnot?” I joked.

She thought for a moment and shrugged her shoulders uncaringly. “Meh. Let’s just go anyways.”

Ducking under a rickety, wooden fence barrier, we headed for the end of the gleaming, meadow like grounds, and were abruptly met by the rocky embankment rising up at a sheer ninety-degree angle. The chilly mist secreted from the falls immediately started to soak the outer layer of my windbreaker jacket.

“Well, this is it,” I said, my excitement waning as I began to shiver uncontrollably. “Wanna go back to the lake?”

“Yes,” she quickly replied. She too looked to not be enjoying the combination of frosty mist and chilly night air.

Following a few selfies and shots of each other in front of the raging waterfall, we strolled back the way we had come, and landed back at the small campground clearing. By that time, there were numerous, pitched tents teeming with occupants all around the beachside clearing. Voices of young kids could be heard giggling and joking inside the array of colourful tents. A few of the fireplace berths had families surrounding them, chatting and roasting hot dogs and marshmallows on the dancing flames.

Still locked in each other’s hands, Mia and I strolled down to the rocky beach and found a small wooden bench and plopped down on it. We ogled at the wonder of the perfectly still lake. Not a ripple could be seen slithering across its black, moonlit surface.

“Can we go for a drink?” she asked, giving my hand a squeeze.

“If you really want to, I’m down for that,” I said. “I know a lil’ spot. Come on, let’s roll.”

We walked back into the town site via the main street sidewalk. It was going around 11:30 pm, and the bustling activity was now to a low hush of only a few people here and there. A few blocks in, and we found the destination I had in mind.

The Thirsty Bear.

Guarding the front entrance of the bar, stood a massive grizzly bear statue in attack mode, its dangerous looking claws at the ready. Inside the bar had the look of a country style saloon, with oak bars and oak furnishings. Oak everything. Even the floor was a laid down with a sturdy stained wood covering. The lighting seemed adequate. It reminded me of the bar from the movie: Roadhouse. The sounds of classic rock drifted through the stale, beer reeked air. An array of intricate neon signs adorned the wooden walls. The place was pretty dead, except for a few tables full of loud and giggling drunken people who looked to be around our own age. I had been in that bar on a few occasions on May long weekend, and I strictly recall it being packed to the brim. We walked up a small incline ramp leading off the dance floor and found a nice empty booth with total privacy to ourselves.

“Hi there. May I take your order?” asked a tall and slim, beautiful woman. She had long wavy black hair that flowed like a river past her shoulders and came to a dead stop on her busty chest.

I smiled at her and asked for a moment to look over our menus. She complied and said to wave her over when we were ready.

“Could you eat?” I asked Mia.

“What the hell was that?” she snapped.

“What was what?” I said with a tetchy, sideways glance.

“The way you were looking at her. Couldn’t have been more obvious there, bud.” I knew right away she was furious. The only time Mia ever called me bud, was when she was upset with me.

Had I perhaps taken too long of a glance at this beautiful server? “Come on now. Please, don’t start this.” I said, rolling my eyes.

“Well then don’t bring me all the way down here just so you can start hitting on the first bimbo you see!” She raised her voice high enough so that the tables across the bar floor had heard her. Each and every one of the patrons were curiously gazing our way.

“Really?” I was starting to get upset by that point. I knew that Mia had an insecure spot in her heart for me, but I had never actually cheated on her in our whole eight months together. In the first few months of our relationship, her best friend; a fella named Guy, had informed her of one his lady friends whom I had previously been with. All before Mia of course.

“I just wanna go home,” she stated boldly.

“What about drinks, and aren’t you hungry?”

“Not anymore, I’m not. Get me outta here. Now!” She slammed the top of the table with her right, open palm and screamed loudly that time. Loud enough so that one of the patrons from a distant table had decided to come and inevitably investigate.

He drunkenly trotted over to our table. A tall man with broad shoulders and a keg for a belly. Maybe a once good football player in his prime days, but now just another case-of-beer slammin’ farm boy. “Everything okay over here, folks?” he asked. His face deeply reddened from an overabundance of time in the sun.

“We’re good,” I retorted, half irritably. “Please leave us be, dude.”

“Whoa there now. No need to get angry with me. I just came to see if the little miss was okay.”

“Little miss?” barked Mia. “Umm excuse me, who’s little here? Your cock?” I had to swivel my face away to laugh as silently as possible, coercing myself from bursting out in boorish laughter at Mia’s serious yet comical remark.

“Now you better just be stoppin’ right there,” said the man. His face reddened furthermore, enough to stand out beneath his sweat blemished, white trucker cap. I could tell he was infuriated—or embarrassed. Maybe a little bit of both. “You best check your misses there, buddy.”

I shrugged my shoulders and furrowed my lips. “Can’t help you there, man. The girl says what she wants to say. And that’s that.” I glanced at Mia. She was glowering at him with hateful—yet beautiful eyes.

“So, you just gonna let the lil’ girl fight your battles, huh?” he retorted acidly, his thin pencil mustache quivering as he spoke.

“Battles?” I asked in astonishment. “No battles here. Hell, you just came along and budded your thick ass nose in our business.”

“Now those right there are fightin’ words, buddy!”

Before I could lash back, Mia scrambled out of her side of the booth and cocked her arm as though she was going to swing boldly at the burly intruder.

I stopped her in the nick of time.

The man took a step back, deep embarrassment playing through his flushed face. “I’ll see you out in the parking lot,” he snarled before scampering off like a large dog with its tail tucked between its legs.

My hands were still holding onto Mia’s fit, shaking shoulders. She forcefully shrugged herself free of my light grasp. “Geez now look,” I said. “Now I might have to fight this big ol’ goof.”

Mia’s only reply was with a crinkled nose and a teasing grin of her perfect teeth.

Fighting the man was of no intimidation to me. I had been training in MMA with my bigger, younger brother, Darby, for at least three years. I had won my only two amateur fight-card matches, both within the first three rounds. I just didn’t want to have to fight and end up hurting the out of shape guy. My coach was strictly against his fighters being involved in street fighting. As would any good coach, for that matter. And as for my imminent contender; I knew these kinds of guys well coming of age in the countryside.

What if this unknown man happened to be one of those unfair fighters? Whom invited their friends to jump in? Or maybe he could be a respectable old school scrapper and do it fairly. 1-on-1. Either way I wasn’t in the mood to fight. And besides, both players usually always ended up walking away with more than minor nicks and bruises. My thinker was hammered with curious and doubtful questions.

I exited the bar and embraced the cool, crisp mountain fresh air. The outdoor temperature seemed to change drastically in our brief indoor absence. My plan of action was to talk it out with the guy. You know? Be the better man as they say.

Mia followed me outside and lightly grasped me by the shoulder. “Please, babe, don’t fight him. Let’s just get out of here and go to the city like we planned.” She eyed me with her beautiful twinkling eyes. They were swimming in cynical emotions.

“I’m not, baby girl. I’m just gonna talk it out. Like real men,” I said with a wink.

The group the man had been drinking with inside suddenly interrupted us, stumbling out of the bar like a spooked herd of cattle.

“Let’s do this!” shouted the man. He exited last, trying to make like a champion fighter flaunting his entrance into the ring.

Solemnly and calmly, I walked toward the man with my open hands’ half raised in the air. An insinuating sign of no harm intended.

But right then and there, I seen it.

It gleamed like an emerald in the bright mountain reaching moonlight. A translucent pearlescent handle stuck out from behind his brown leather belt. It had not been there, just minutes prior.

Keeping myself composed, I began saying in a cool, calm manner: “Look, guy. If you’re thinking about busting out that—”

Too late.

The coward clutched the buck knife handle in his right hand, hastily unsheathed it from his belt, and swung aggressively in my direction. Luckily for my quick-witted reaction time, I bobbed out of the way like the remarkable kick boxer I was. I felt the squall of backdraft from the blade carving through the air—inches from my nose. He must have propelled all his body weight into the slash attempt, for he suddenly lost his balance and nearly toppled over. I only had to complete his fall by thrusting down on his shoulder blades with my open palms.

Just like that, the fight was over.

Or at least it should have been.

Never kick a man when he’s down, is what the people of high morality would say. Yes, I do believe in that statement—by all means. But not that night. Nope. He broke the first rule. NO weapons in a fistfight. I was enraged at this stranger of a man for breaking the age-old and principal of unwritten rules. I abruptly initiated in some powerful Muay Thai kicks to the side of his grounded torso. The man’s body shuddered violently, and shrill cries of pain escaped his lips as I felt the crunch of breaking ribs beneath the shell toes of my black, Converse All-Stars.

Initially I ceased my ground-and-pound kicking when I felt the cool yet warming touch of Mia’s fingers gently clasp down on the base of my neck. By that time, I must have broken every rib in the man’s left torso. I swivelled my neck and met her exquisite gaze. Horror swamped her delicate, moonlit face. “Stop. Please stop!” she cried. “Oh God, you’re going to kill him!” Tears of anguish were streaming down her night glistened cheeks.

I thrust my arms to my sides and stood immobile. Breathing heavily and staring coldly down at the man, I backed up a few steps to let his concerned friends see to him. He was in a state of tortured agony. I knew the pain all too well—to some extent. I had two ribs broken in my first card fight. The man lying before me had all of them on one side of his body broken. I was one-hundred percent sure of it.

Only a few short minutes had passed. A sudden rouse of emergency sirens rang out through the still, nighttime air. The close-proximity mountains echoed and enhanced the sirens evermore, like the bells of calamity tolling me closer to my fate.

I knew I was in trouble.

I didn’t think for one instance that I was going to be in as much trouble as I was. After all, it was self-defence, right? Wrong. Aggravated Assault with a Weapon, and Assault Causing Bodily Harm were the charges the justice system handed down to me. All the man’s friends had been appointed as key witnesses at my trial. Of course, I plead not guilty. Even the tall and beautiful server with the wavy black hair agreed to testify against me. It was all their words against my poor little girlfriend, Mia’s. And according to their fabricated statements (moreover to protect their bozo of a friend from the strongarm of the law), I initiated the fight with a violent shove to the man, making him tumble defencelessly to the ground. And of course, there was no knife. I was the weapon. Having a martial arts background spelt you out as a “dangerous weapon” in the eyes of the law.

I was screwed.

Following a year of house arrest, and ultimately, my trial procedure, they let me hug my family and Mia after my sentencing. Although a goodbye kiss to Mia was strictly ruled out.

Then I was off to prison.

A few of the arrest processing sheriffs were aware of my amateur wins in MMA. So they respected and treated me somewhat fairly as they shackled me up and took my civilian shoes and jacket.

I arrived at Drumheller Penitentiary not a week after my sentencing.

Firstly, the shithole Calgary Remand Centre was my place of residence for a week while they found me a bed at old Drumheller Penitentiary. “Strip down. Show us your arse. Spread em!” Yes, you’ve seen it on TV and the movies. Yes, that’s how it’s done. I felt humiliated.

I traded in my leather jacket for a dull green, garbage man looking coat. And even worse was trading in my tapered fitting jeans for some pairs of baggy jailhouse trousers. Now don’t get me started on the shoes. They looked like the kind an old foreign tourist would wear, all the while snapping pictures of everything and anything around him.

The walls were constructed of dull white brick, the gates and doors thick tempered metal alloys. My screen less window was barred by a thick mesh of steel, just beyond that, thick grey concrete columns. All this meant to keep me from breaking out into the yard, which was surrounded by not two, but three enclosures of thirty-foot-high chain-link fencing, with rolls of razor wire mounted on top. And if that didn’t stop me, then the man with the AR-15 definitely would.

There was a whole lot of other Indians within the razor tipped gates of Drum. Although I wasn’t too keen on befriending them. Most of them belonged to local gangs. A ruthless, violent loving bunch. Also, I had lived most of my life off the rez, and the few years I stayed with my grandparents on the rez, I had it tough being a light-skinned city boy.

Right off the bat I was designated as a medium-class security threat because my crime was of a violent nature. Other inmates didn’t much bother me and didn’t step on my toes, and vice versa. Sex offenders and rats on the other hand, they had it bad. Either beat downs or stabbings were in-store for those unlucky few. I made a few friends here and there, but I chose to mostly stick to myself. I was never big into gambling, drugs, smoking, or any of that good-natured stuff, so I didn’t create any problems with any other inmates. I just did my time. Also, I strictly steered clear of the inside politics. But it was still prison, so I had to always watch my back.

During my two-year stint, I had lost count of the plentiful lockdowns due to stabbings, overdoses, beat downs or any other overly suspicious group activity. A few deaths even occurred during my stay, causing the prison to go on lockdown for up to a month. Luckily for me, I had a small pink wash bin, a vital object which came in most handy when we were only allowed to shower every 10 days during lengthy lockdowns. Yes, a wash bin means good old fashioned bird bath hand washing. I couldn’t have asked for it better in those shithole circumstances.

Then one day, came along a seemingly nice, quiet fella. He had nowhere to sit for lunch, so me and my buddy, J, invited him to take the extra seat at our table. His name was Willy. He hailed from Maskwacîs Reservation in central Alberta. He was a lifer. In prison, you just don’t ask what a man is in for. That’s considered “bad action”. So I never asked, and he never told. The year sailed on. Willy and I became fast good friends. He had the look of a pow-wow singer, with a rounded face and long black flowing hair. His ponytail was always kept neatly perched under his black Nike cap for most of the time. His thick wireframe glasses gave him the look of a sophisticated man. And he was to a point. He was very street-smart. Growing up on the rough and shattered streets of a gang swarmed, reserve town site, you had to be. Willy and I became friends, at first, through our taste in music: Heavy Metal. I was, and always have been, big into the brash sounds of electric guitars and fast paced drumming.

At Drum, most of the music that floated around was gangster Rap. I hated gangster Rap. So naturally, Willy and I traded and sold each other CD’s. Yes, compact discs were the only form of music to acquire inside Canadian prisons. I found myself constantly in his cell, listening to music, talking life and playing each other on his PlayStation. No, not PS5. PlayStation was the only gaming system allowed (along with N64). Drumheller Penitentiary was like going into the past, with no new-age internet capable items available to us.

In due course, my new best friend and I got to revealing to each other of our personal lives, and he eventually told me about his life on the outs. He had informed me of how his dear father was killed, not a year prior to his actions that got himself incarcerated. His father was an old school Metalhead, and a Satanist. He was stabbed to death at a local rockers bar in downtown Edmonton. During that conversation, I conveyed what I had done to get me locked up, and of how I could have been another statistic of a stabbing had it not been for my mixed martial arts training.

By that point in time, I figured we were close enough buddies. So I dared to inquire about him. “If you don’t mind me asking, what are you in for, bro?” I asked.

He looked at me solemnly with raised eyebrows and studied me for a brief moment. Then he said, “Second-degree murder, bro.” He continued, “I was drinking for about a week with some cousins and friends. Nothing but hard alcohol, bro. So anyways, a cousin of mine had gifted me this knife earlier that night. A knife which my dad had originally gifted to him. It was totally a satanic knife, with a demon head nestled into the base of the handle, and some ancient runes and designs etched into the grip. I was very thankful, but then . . .” He rolled his eyes and punched his bed. “Then the fucker goes and says something about my younger half-sister. By the way, they weren’t related, he was my cousin on my dad’s side. So, he said how he wouldn’t mind going into her room that night while we were all passed out . . .” Willy’s expression suddenly changed, and I noticed right away. He looked to be . . . distressed.

“You okay, bro? You don’t have to carry on,” I asserted.

He threw me the: it’s okay gesture with his hand, puckered his lips and carried on after a quick self-deliberation and long weary exhale. “And then, I just don’t know what happened to me. It’s like everything went black, bro. I remember getting super mad. And that was it. When I came too, I was staring into the dead face of my cousin, lying on the floor in a mess of his own crimson. I guess I slit his throat. Blood was everywhere. Coming out of his neck, everywhere bro. Everybody ran from the house, except for my little brother. He dragged me out of the house, and we both took off in his car.” Willy then turned away in anguish.

I had to say something. All that I was able to muster up was, “Deep, bro. Deep.”

Although this kind of story would no doubt make ordinary people walk out and not ever talk to that person again. I didn’t. I wasn’t about to judge this young 22-year-old kid on his past. Mistakes were made. Blame it on the alcohol. Satan’s juice. And besides, why would Willy’s cousin say such a thing about his own cousin’s sister?

So, we carried on with our friendship. I informed him that I had lived near Maskwacîs as a kid. I was well familiarized with the area. My father was married up there in the town of Wetaskiwin. I told Willy that I stayed on the Louis Bull reserve and went to a public school out in the middle of the countryside, just west of there. I will keep the name of that school out of this context for good reasons. He asked me what school, and I told him the name. He then turned awe-struck with wide eyes and mouth agape.

“What’s up?” I asked.

“That’s where it is!” he said excitedly, his bottom lip quivering a touch.

“Where what is?”

“The knife!”

“The knife?” I echoed with a raised eyebrow.

He got right to it, and revealed to me that the school I attended as a kid was where he had buried the knife he killed his cousin with. The demon knife. He knew it would be vital evidence in his murder trial, so he and his brother floored it a half-hour west to bury it amongst the foothills. Since the knife was once his late father’s, he wanted to keep it as a memento of him, so he buried it in a spot where he would never forget. In the thick hedgerows of a countryside school yard. He kept the exact whereabouts from his brother, knowing the police would eventually demand him of it. He then drew me up a map of the precise location and told me if something ever happened to him (remember, we were in prison), that I would dig it up and deliver it to his younger brother. I promised him, hoping that I would never actually have to unearth this murder weapon.

Another year of friendship had passed. We grew to be like brothers, Willy and me. He was a lifer, so he still had another ten years or so until his parole eligibility dates. Parole would be in the air if he was lucky.

I on the other hand, was granted day parole. Precisely two years after my initial acceptance into Drum. CSC then transferred me to a minimum-security institution to wait out my release date. And where was this place located? None other than on the sacred grounds of the Maskwacîs Reservation. Willy’s hometown reserve. It was like camp. We had real bedrooms, cooked our own food, and weren’t locked up all day. The list of goodness goes on. And best of all was there were Elders there to help us on our healing journey. I loved the drastic change. Then one day I was preparing my meal, and my housemate had the satellite TV tuned into the local 6pm news program.

“Good evening, Edmonton,” began the solemn looking reporter. “We begin our broadcast with breaking news. Drumheller Institution is under lockdown after a man was stabbed in his personal cell. Authorities will keep the prison under full lockdown until they can conclude their investigation and locate the weapon and assailants involved. The name of the victim has been released. Twenty-three-year-old, William J. Knife, was found alone in his cell with multiple stab wounds to his chest and abdomen. He is currently in critical condition at Drumheller General Hospital. He is not expected to survive…………………….”

My peripheral vision dimmed, and I nearly fainted at the news of my good friend’s death. I had just kicked it with him not two weeks prior. I had said I would write him within the month. My heart ached.

A month or so had passed and I was finally out.

Mia picked me up in my sun sparkling blue Audi. She looked more beautiful than ever leaning on that hood like an extravagant model. Her hair was now past her shoulders and dyed a jet-black with a hue of purple that glimmered beautifully like strips of small rivers. Releasing a loud scream, she sprinted over to me and thrust her whole body on me. I held her firmly while she wrapped her long, tanned legs tightly round my torso and squeezed. She clasped onto my face and smothered me in kisses. She smelt of cinnamon and vanilla. I was in Heaven.

“I’ve missed you sooo much, baby,” she breathed into my ear. Her sweet melodic voice drifted through my senses like a delicate, inbound ocean breeze.

“Mmm, I’ve missed you more,” I replied.

“I love you so much.”

Mia had never said she loved me before. I had fallen in love with her long ago. I was just afraid to ever say anything, so I waited for the right time to say it—if there ever would be. Like at that very moment. “I love you, Mia. More than anything in the world,” I said.

She shifted her head until we were staring each other in the eyes. “Hmmm, I dunno about that,” she said and smiled widely.

I shot her a bewildered glance. Had I just heard her correctly? “Wait, what?”

“Come on, let’s go.” She dismounted from our enveloped posture and gripped me tightly by the hand. I followed her unquestionably. She stopped just before the car and whirled around. “You wanna drive?”

I thought for a moment. It had been two years and I was probably rusty as hell. “No, babe. You drive,” I said. “And what’s this ‘I don’t know about that’ talk?” She only continued to grin slyly without saying anything, ducking swiftly inside the car through the driver’s door.

I strolled around to the passenger side in a state of nervous pondering.

Once snuggly inside the car, Mia turned to me and her smile amplified. She then announced to me, “So . . . do you wanna meet your son?” Her eyes motioned for the backseat.

My eyes enlarged and my mouth dropped.

I whipped my head around to meet the beautiful gaze of our baby boy. My own flesh and blood. He had my face, and his mother’s nose. But best of all, he had her eyes. His own caramel irises sparkled vividly in the window tinted sunlight. A stream of emotions flooded through me. I was truly at a loss for words.

“His name is Adrian. Named after your late sister, Adrienne. He’s just over a year old.”

Right then and there, I knew what she meant by her sly comment just a minute prior. I had the best surprise any man can ever ask for: a beautiful, healthy baby boy. Mia had honored me by naming our son after my beloved, late sister, Adrienne. Only the male version, spelt differently.

I had only seen Mia once, during a private visit early in my incarceration. Let’s just say we had a hell of a good night in that PFV hut. After that, I told her it was too hard seeing her leave, so I wanted to wait until my parole to see her in person again. We kept in close contact through the phone and old school love letters. Mia revealed to me that my brother, sister, mother and stepfather all reluctantly agreed to keep her pregnancy secret from me. In the wake of baby Adrian’s birth, they all pitched in and helped Mia take care of him. My family wanted to give me the surprise of a lifetime. Literally. They all knew how much I loved Mia and even figured that I would love the surprise. My family knew me all too well.

My new family and I hit the road following our heartwarming reunion. It’s typically about a three-hour trip from the minimum institution to Calgary with minimal stops. We were gliding down the road, when I ultimately remembered: A promise that I had made to my late good friend, Willy.

“Babe, turn here. I need to make a stop. It’s not too far out of the way.” I pointed to a paved service road. I knew exactly where it led to. I knew the area well, even though it had been several years since I resided close to the area.

Not thirty minutes later, and we came upon the elementary school’s desolate location. The main building rested just off the main highway, separated by a deep ditch, and surrounded by an array of tall hedgerows and maple trees. It was July, and thankfully void of any bustling student activity. I guided Mia where to park and scrabbled out of the vehicle.

“I’ll be right back, okay babe?” Mia nodded slowly, delivering me a confused expression.

The spot where Willy informed me he had buried the knife was easy to find. It was entombed just on the other side of a chest high, chain-link fence, beneath a canopy of dense trees and shrubs. Way too close to the playground, I thought. I was astounded that it hadn’t been unearthed by a curious student in the years past. I dug wildly at the undergrowth soil with my bare hands, looking like a rabid dog. I had been a groundskeeper at the medium-security prison, so naturally my hands were used to it. Finally, after minutes of wild excavating, my fingertips brushed the edges of something stiff. I exhumed deeper and extracted a dirt caked wad of cloth. I dismantled the cloth and uncovered a thick rusty incense tin. The knife sized tin was bound tightly by diminishing duct tape. I was just about to carefully begin peeling off the tape, when I heard the all too familiar sound of a siren blast. The kind police cruisers emit when the cop just wants to grab your attention.

I carefully placed the tin back in the hole and dashed for the car.

“How are we today, sir?” asked an older, little on the chunky side, sheriff. I could feel his solemn gaze peering at me through his black Oakley sunglasses.

“Not too bad, Sheriff. Yourself?” I asked.

“Schools closed. Can I ask why you’re parked here?”

I had to think fast.

“Well actually, sir, my son goes to this school. And he just won’t stop bugging me about a toy he lost here. So here I am looking for the damn thing.” I giggled uncomfortably.

“Your son, huh? Well, here’s the thing. According to your plates, you’re from Calgary?”

Damn.

He had me. Almost.

“Yes sir, that’s correct. But for the time being he stays with my mother and father just over in Louis Bull. You see, I’ve actually just been released on parole. Like, today.” I figured a little honesty might lighten up the mood.

He removed his sunglasses and stared at me boldly. “Is that right, now? Might you have a piece of valid identification?” His eyes were bloodshot and portraying his pessimistic emotion. I cautiously approached the sheriff and handed him my only piece of identification. My Corrections Service Canada identification card.

“Okay, this should only take a moment,” he said before sucking in his paunch and squeezing back behind the steering wheel of his cruiser. He picked up his radio handset and began speaking. I was oblivious to what was being said through the cruisers sun reflecting windshield.

A few minutes of impatient waiting had passed. The overweight sheriff finally slipped out of his vehicle and faced me. “Okay, my good sir, you’re clear to go. But I must insist on advising you to be very careful. There was a”—he hesitated—“car accident just up the hill. Pretty grim. I’m legally obligated to say no more than for you to be very cautious. Finish your search and be on your way, thanks.” With that said, the sheriff nodded at me, wedged back behind the wheel of his car and peeled out of the narrow, highway bordered parking lot.

I stood and waited until the sheriff was well enough away before scurrying back to my little excavation. But not before Mia gave me a hurry the hell up honk of the car’s horn.

Promptly I returned to the metal tin and carefully began removing the duct tape. The tape ribbon was badly water damaged and came off in gauzy, decaying strips. For some odd reason my hands were shaking with anxiousness like a kid opening a gift. Finally, after about five minutes of impatient tinkering, the tape was cleared. I opened the tin box and peered excitedly inside.

The knife blade gleamed like a piece of raw, untouched gold. Not a single dab of damage or rust was visible. It was just as Willy had described it. The blade was meant to be pointed downwards, with the head of an uncanny, hellish creature resting at the top of the handle, its deformed head dressed in a crown of bulging horns. Beady eyes popped out of the menacing head like blood red jewels, its mouth fully agape with four sets of razor-tipped fangs. A foul, uninspiring design donned the entirety of the handle, covered with engravings of some ancient, tedious looking runes. Even the blade looked more like a spear tip rather than a dagger.

I shuddered just by looking upon the dreadful thing.

But a promise was a promise.

I returned to the car with the tin in hand. Mia watched cautiously as I slid into the passenger seat. “Okay what the heck was that all about? And where did you go?” she demanded.

“Just promised an old friend I’d deliver this here to his kid brother,” I answered, letting my breath catch up with me.

“What is it?”

I showed her quickly. Just a glimpse. Then I snapped the case tightly shut and tossed it into the glove box.

“Whoa. Wait, wait. Can I have another look at that thing?” she said, her hand pawing at the empty air.

Without hesitation, I fished out the covered knife and showed her again.

“Oh my—no way. It can’t be.”

“What is it?” I asked inquisitively.

“I swear to the life of me, my older cousin showed me a knife—exactly as that. When I was a kid. She was all into this Satan worshipping and occult black magic stuff.”

“Which cousin was this?”

“Tirana. But you wouldn’t have known about her. She passed on when I was eight.”

“Can I ask how?” I was starting to feel a sense of uneasiness at that point.

“Some crazy asshole stabbed her to death at a house party. It was—”

A dark malevolent cloud swiftly moved in over me. “Sorry to cut you off babe,” I said as I was already scrambling out of the vehicle. I stopped, half out of the open door, and snapped my head around. “Do we still have that army entrenching tool in the trunk?”

“Oh . . .” Mia pondered for a quick moment. “You mean that mini shovel thingy?”

“Yeah.”

“Yes, it should still be back there. I’ve never touched it.”

I finished heaving myself out of the car and bolted for the trunk.

Yes.

The mini shovel thingy was still there. I snatched it from its long-time place of rest and strolled around to the open passenger door and eyed Mia, saying, “I’ll be just another five minutes. Again. Sorry baby girl but believe me it’s for the best. I’ll explain when I get back.”

I returned to the spot where I had just previously excavated and scooped out the unpacked dirt, burrowing down at least a few feet more until my sweat was dripping from my head, stinging my eyes and pooling in the dirt. I didn’t bother blanketing the knife this time, as Willy had done before. I figured some damaging rust would be good for the knife.

Good for the world.

I tossed the vile contrivance in the hole and buried it once again, this time taking a few extra minutes to compact the dirt tightly.

To this day, I damn well hope no one has, or will never unearth that demonic relic. And will the Creator have mercy on whoever does. Oh, and I can’t forget to mention, I left a little handwritten note with the godforsaken thing:

A very heedful warning to anyone that finds this dagger. Plain and simple: IT IS CURSED. Please leave it where it should eternally rest, or you will spell out your own DEATH!