Gas Of Tank A Canadian Law Enforcement Odyssey 1979 2019

Todd Ternovan believed in keeping things simple: Marrying his college sweetheart, studying Early Childhood Education at Ryerson University, spending his professional life as a daycare teacher. It was a tidy plan. Except for one thing: Man plans and the gods laugh. To fund his life and education in Toronto, Todd worked a part-time job—as a corrections officer at the infamous Don Jail. Although he spent a few years working with kids, Todd’s experience in corrections propelled him into a 30-year career with the Ontario Provincial Police. Small-town policing isn’t just rescuing cats from trees and performing wellness checks. The concession roads and rural routes of southwestern Ontario are home to some incredibly kind, resilient people, and scene to some strange, tragic and heinous events. Todd dealt with them all, from the naked machete-wielding man who claimed to be Jesus Christ, to armed American fugitives, decades-old sexual assaults, harrowing traffic accidents, and even a year spent “Uncle Charlie” (undercover) investigating drug traffickers. The title derives from a motorcycle gang member who demonstrated his disdain for police by pulling a “wheelie” on his motorcycle following a traffic stop. The biker was charged with stunt driving. In his defense in court, the biker said, in a thick French accent: “It was not possible for me to a pull a ‘wheelie.’ I had a full gas of tank!” “Gas of Tank” embodies, for Todd, all the surreal, upside-down, unbelievable, description-defying experiences police face daily.

A chance meeting at a café one afternoon, I ran into an old girlfriend months after our years-long relationship ended. There was awkward talk of new jobs, new friends, and as I moved to say goodbye, there was one more piece of news: “I’m going to be an aunt,” she said. I looked at her. She shrugged, smiled sadly. “Deirdre’s pregnant. Two months, now.” The news echoed in my ears, quivered through my bones. I mouthed the words, Deirdre’s pregnant. Deirdre was seventeen years old. There seemed nothing more to say except goodbye and good luck. As I stepped into the sunlight, stunned and blinking, a murmur of longing and regret whispered through me. It continued unabated as I walked toward home, past my street, to the waterfront. All the while that voice welled until it surged through me like a cry… I cannot let this passing of affection happen without a word...

I have struggled with my weight my entire adult life. Dwelling among cubicles for two decades, my sedentary existence saw my weight climb to nearly 300 lbs. The number is irrelevant, but the discomfort, desperation, and despair I lived with were all very real. Fast forward to the COVID-19 global pandemic, I came to a crossroads where I realized I could choose which “95” I wanted to be—eat, drink, and laze my way to 395 lbs., or battle the isolation and anxiety by getting on my bike and pedaling toward for 195 lbs. I chose the latter. Since May 2020, I have logged more than 65,000 kilometers on my bike. I am not a slick, spandexed cyclist practicing his art in pelotons. I am a lone, obsessed hobbyist.

On June 30, 2023, Dave Hunter, father, husband, friend, philanthropist, entrepreneur, passed away at the age of 47. Two days later, in the predawn hours, as I prepared for a 100 kilometer cycling adventure, I felt Dave's presence and invited him to join me.

Now, after 34 years, here is the book the Vatican banned in 88 countries, the FBI tried to suppress, and every major media outlet in the English speaking world told you did not exist. Available in this limited, unauthorized edition are the stories of Homunculus. These are the ravings of a desert-maddened wanderer grown lunatic on locusts and honey, crazed by these voices that refused to be silenced. Written in the margins of international telephone directories, take-out menus, matchbooks and business cards, Homunculus has been meticulously reconstructed, its hidden codes broken and laid bare. Shield the elderly and the infirm, protect the innocent and nubile.

I met Pryvett on New Year’s Eve 1999. He was an improbable personage. At first glance, Pryvett resembled a melted snowman, a shapeshifter stuck between two ambitious shapes, but he was, clearly, not to be underestimated. He was drinking beer and tequila and wine coolers and smoking a pipe. He was the friend of friends, and I never really caught the connection Pryvett had to them other than he had once “gamed” with them. As the night wore on and outrage after outrage poured out Pryvett, my wife asked me (as other girls in the room were asking their boyfriends), “Who is that guy?” To which a friend, still choking on his drink, laughing at the freshest mordant bon mot from Pryvett, croaked, “He’s the the love-child of Don Rickles and Andrew ‘Dice’ Clay!”

These essays address issues like police regionalization, the role of police unions, the use of police tactical units, and the role of women in policing.