Table of Contents

Copyright © 2012 by Anita Arvast

All rights reserved. No part of this work covered by the copyright herein may be reproduced or used in any form or by any means—graphic, electronic, or mechanical—without the prior written permission of the publisher. Any request for photocopying, recording, taping, or information storage and retrieval systems of any part of this book shall be directed in writing to The Canadian Copyright Licensing Agency (Access Copyright). For an Access Copyright licence, visit or call toll free 1-800-893-5777.

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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Arvast, Anita

Bloody justice : the truth behind the Bandido massacre at Shedden / Anita Arvast.

Includes index.

ISBN 978-1-118-15651-3

1. Mass murder—Ontario—Shedden. 2. Bandidos (Gang).

3. Motorcycle gangs—Ontario. 4. Trials (Murder)—Ontario—London. I. Title.

HV6535.C3A78 2012 364.152'340971334 C2012-900456-

ISBN 978-1-11815743-5 (ebk); 978-1-11815745-9 (ebk); 978-1-11815746-6 (ebk)

Production Credits

Cover design: Ian Koo

Printer: Trigraphik | LBF

John Wiley & Sons Canada, Ltd.

6045 Freemont Blvd.

Mississauga, Ontario

L5R 4J3

 

 

To those who strive for social justice in all walks of life.

Acknowledgements

In 2008 I was looking for a new writing project.

I had grown tired of researching and writing in the academic arena, typically journal articles that are read by a miniscule percentage of the population but consume so much of a professor's time. The articles don't, in my opinion, have much of an impact on our society.

I had been reading about the Bandidos case and an acquaintance of mine suggested I might be interested in writing about it. I had never followed a trial before or been inside a jail. It could be an adventure.

I moved to London where the trial was being held, scoured over preliminary hearing transcripts, reviewed testimonies and forensic evidence, and travelled a couple of times a week to meet with one of the accused.

It was indeed an adventure—one that would profoundly alter my understanding of justice.

There are many people who have contributed to this project.

I do not thank the one police officer who banished me from court for two weeks for providing literature and a thesaurus to Brett Gardiner through all of the proper channels. I also do not thank his supervisor for supporting this perspective that I proved to be some sort of a threat. I do thank Justice Heeney for having that settled and those police officers who smiled at me when I was permitted to return.

I thank my family for their support and for (mostly) not complaining about my considerable time away from home and behind my computer screen.

I thank the many lawyers who shared their time and expertise, and met my befuddlement with patience and humour. I congratulate my many bench mates who managed to sit through the trial with me on less-than-comfortable seating.

At various stages of this project, I have been supported by outstanding editors: Martha Sharpe, Don Loney, Brian Will, and Carol Harrison. The team at Wiley is just that: a team.

Finally, this book could not have been written without the many personal stories shared by Brett and his family.

Author's Note

The author obtained all material in this book from attendance through the criminal trial and review of transcripts. In addition, she met regularly with Brett Gardiner in the detention centre to hear about his life story. According to biker culture, one may never divulge any information about the motorcycle club or any of its activities. Brett remained true to that code and only ever divulged information about his life before the events at Shedden. All content in this book is based heavily on the trial and testimony.

Some names have been altered to protect family members and children.

Cast of Characters

Murdered

Convicted

Includes ages at time of arrest

Informant

Crown Prosecution

Judges

Defence

For Marcelo Aravena

For Brett Gardiner

For Wayne Kellestine

For Frank Mather

For Dwight Mushey

For Michael Sandham

Others

Chapter 1

Assembling the Chorus

As flies to wanton boys are we to th' gods.

—King Lear, act 4, scene 1

Russ “Rusty” Steele and Mary Steele generally rise each morning at 7:15. On the morning of April 8, 2006, they had finished their breakfast cereal and were topping up their coffees as they sat in their kitchen overlooking Stafford Line. Their house is nestled among pine trees just outside of Shedden, Ontario, invariably described as “a sleepy hamlet” about 20 miles west of London, but they still had a clear view of the gravel road that runs from their house back into town. Just then Forbes Holden drove past, likely on one of his regular visits to the Steeles' neighbour, Charlie McMullen. Mary always said they could set their watches by Forbes's visits.

Shortly after 8 a.m. the Steeles got a call from Charlie. “Forbes tells me there's a mess out near your field. A bunch of cars out there. We're going out for a look-see.”

The Steeles live on what is typically considered a “gentleman's farm.” Their substantial brick home is relatively new. The grounds are immaculately kept with a circular gravel driveway, parking spaces for numerous vehicles, and a pond that is inviting to look upon with birch trees settled on its shores and an arched bridge separating the deeper from the shallower sections. During the summer, the pond is green and murky, with a bottom you likely do not want to feel underfoot. On this spring day, however, the pond is merely a grey, thawing slush. By country standards, where the sounds are subdued by the perching larks, a breeze across willows, the gentle flap of a Canadian flag tethered to its pole, this is decidedly a pond for reflection as opposed to swimming or fishing. This is a place that exudes calm. When you approach the driveway and turn off the car, there is nothing more pressing than this peace.

Behind the pond and the main house, the property spans 95 acres of treed and harvested land. A deer run erected by the previous owners runs from the road to the barn and out toward the end of the property along Stafford Line. Eight-foot-tall deer-and-buffalo fencing differentiates the traditional cattle farmers from the entrepreneurial and aspiring. The Steeles wouldn't have much use for such fencing.

The Steeles are salt-of-the earth retired dairy farmers. They moved here the previous fall for “the peace and quiet.” Like most people who decide to live in the country or have grown up rural all their lives, they wanted to be somewhat removed from broader society but still be part of a community. This is, after all, a place where grandchildren come and play, and a place to mix the odd euchre tournament with substantial seclusion. It is a place to relax after so many years of running the dairy farm—arduous work in the seeding, fielding, and eventual recovery of crops set against dairy cattle that need multiple daily feedings and milkings, not to mention the spring calving.

Before moving here just six months ago, the couple sold off their dairy farm in Kintore, another small town just 20 minutes on the other side of London. There they had raised the much-admired red-and-white Holsteins, first seen as an abomination to dairy farmers then embraced in the late 1980s as high fashion. Their five-time all-American champion Holstein, Stelbro Renita Range, long since passed away, is remembered in a plaster and painted one-foot-tall casting. Despite the outbreak of mad-cow disease, the Steeles were able to sell their healthy stock for a good price and move to this spacious new home near Shedden.

The Steeles don't yet know the neighbours particularly well, but they do know Charlie and Forbes. The Steeles consider two scenarios. Perhaps Charlie is pulling a prank and they will arrive to find one of his jokes greeting them; both Charlie and Forbes are regular pranksters. Or maybe some local teenagers took a joy ride to the next level, which sometimes happens in the country. By the glint in Rusty's eye, you can tell he favours the first scenario. Either way, this isn't an emergency; the couple sips the remains of their coffee then drives to where a tow truck and three other cars sit close to the side road in a tractor's laneway beside dense brush. Charlie and Forbes are already on the scene, warming their hands by the truck's interior defroster fans.

The first car they see is a grey Infiniti, backed into the unused deer run, seemingly abandoned. That's the only one that looks like someone tried to park. The rest are all run aground in the thick mud of the field.

The tow truck is especially peculiar as it has a car attached to its hoist and seems to have just run off the shoulder. Even odder is the Toronto identification and phone number stencilled across its sides. Couldn't be local teenagers, the couple deduce. Must be city kids. A whack of them.

Rusty and Mary try to peek inside one of the vehicles, but a blanket obstructs their view. The other vehicles are heavily frosted over and fail to provide any immediate clues. Mary thinks one of the trunks is slightly ajar, but can't be sure. She is now beginning to wonder who might be around the neighbourhood and why they'd abandon these vehicles. The couple has watched enough television programs depicting criminal discoveries that their curiosity turns to concern. Forbes tells them that as he drove by that morning he could make out two men running away through the field.

“Good luck to them fellows getting back to Toronto in that direction,” he chuckles as he points south over the field.

Mary is a little more serious. “Don't touch anything,” she warns Rusty. “You don't want to disturb any evidence.”

This represents a bit of excitement on Stafford Line and a chance for the couple to practise something of a vicarious interest in forensics. They return home and dial 911 for the police. Curious and unknowing, they drive back to the scene. They haven't ruled out that this is likely nothing more than kids weary of winter and hopped up on whisky, out for a joy ride in “borrowed” vehicles. Rusty approaches the vehicles as Mary sits by the side of the road; then Rusty yells out the licence plate numbers as she scribbles them onto a pad of paper they carry in their glove compartment, trying to shush her husband at the same time. He heeds his wife and is careful not to disturb evidence, or to awaken the presumed occupants who are probably “sleeping it off” and will likely be a little cranky when they wake up. That is Mary's biggest concern: What if they wake up or someone comes back? Charlie and Forbes stand by and make small talk.

The Steeles head back to the house and phone the police again since they have discovered another car farther in the field: a total of four vehicles now. Then the couple goes back to the side of the road to wait. Inside their vehicle. Just in case. Charlie and Forbes join them.

It isn't long before an Ontario Provincial Police cruiser with its one constable arrives. Officer Karl Johnston was dispatched at 8:22 and arrives within 10 minutes. He peers inside the semi-open window and sees a man with wounds to his face. As per protocol, he immediately contacts Emergency Medical Services and calls his detachment to send backup. He waits by his vehicle until the second officer and car arrive. By 9 a.m. he is joined by Officer Jeff Chandelier and they look out over the field and the vehicles, tracing their steps and being careful not to disturb any potential evidence. As one of the officers opens the slightly ajar hatch, he calls out to the other officer, “Body.” He approaches the grey Infiniti next and peers in to see a male in the rear passenger side. “Body.”

The officers are soon joined by ambulance attendant Lee Restorick, who checks the pulse and notices the coolness of the man in the rear of the Infiniti. Rigor mortis has set in. Lee then approaches the semi-open hatch and confirms with the officers that they are dealing with multiple deaths.

Mary and Rusty stand looking on in bewilderment. Two guys stuffed in a trunk? The two officers then guide Mary, Rusty, Charlie, and Forbes back to their vehicles and ask them to return to their homes.

“Come by for lunch,” Charlie tells the Steeles, “Kay's fixing up some egg salad sandwiches.”

Just after 9 a.m., as helicopters whirl above, Mary and Rusty go to the local OPP detachment to provide their statements. Forbes goes and gives his statement: “I just saw the cars and two guys running south through the field.”

Mary phones one of their daughters before heading to the detachment and leaves a voice-mail message: “We found some bodies on the property, but we're okay.” As a long-time dairy farmer, Mary is accustomed to being matter-of-fact.

After giving their statements at the police station, the Steeles head back to Kay and Charlie McMullen's house for the promised egg salad sandwiches and coffee. By now the Internet is awash with what has really been found on the site and Charlie and Kay say the neighbours are phoning to ask about the eight bodies.

“Eight?” Mary and Rusty shake their heads. “Holy cow.”

The Steeles finish their sandwiches and return home. By early afternoon there is a central command set up just at the end of their driveway. Once inside they discover 56 voice-mail messages, a few from friends but most from media as far away as London, England.

Mary's only other contact with police was several years ago at their Kintore farm. At 2 a.m. she drove out to check on one of her cows that was ready to calve. She parked her truck close to the barn and left its lights on. Shortly after, two uniformed officers showed up with guns drawn on her. Though initially startled, she quickly took control and advantage of the situation. “You guys look strong,” she said. “Why don't you come here and help pull.” They pulled the calf out and kept the exhausted Mary waiting with them until they could see the calf stand. Mary sat on one of the stools shaking her head. She had seen many a calf stand and wanted to simply return to bed, but she obliged the officers who would eventually buy “Opie” as their mascot. At a time when many farmers were losing their hard-earned lands to bank foreclosures, many with considerable reluctance, the police force was in dire need of some positive publicity.

These circumstances were considerably different. Typically not easily shaken, the Steeles were frightened. They were relieved that their old dog, Winston, had not heard anything in the night. Had he barked, Mary would definitely have risen and gone out with a flashlight to see what was happening. And then who knows what might have happened?

Encroaching brush separates the Steeles' farmhouse from the field of discovery, as does a subdued set of pines that distinguish the gentleman from the work. Thankfully these trees are probably what saved old Winston. That and failing hearing.

Suddenly this mix of harvested, lost, entangled, and discriminately contained farmland is a central meeting point for hundreds of journalists, investigators, writers, and curious neighbours. By late afternoon, more than 150 police officers are on the scene. Some arrive from nearby St. Thomas where they had been attending murder victim Lynne Harper's gravesite as her remains had been returned to their place of rest. (After 35 years, forensics couldn't prove that Steven Truscott, the 14-year old boy charged with her murder and sentenced to be hanged in 1959, was either guilty or innocent. The death penalty had eventually been commuted to life imprisonment. It would be more than a year after the forensic entomology was done that the courts would overturn his conviction.)

Other police officers arrive from the Caledonia reserve where a land dispute is taking place between natives and developers. One hundred and fifty police officers at the end of the driveway isn't the attention anyone choosing to live in a quiet countryside expects or wants, even if the drama of the early part of the day was somewhat exciting.

Eight men's bodies were found in the vehicles: one rolled up in an old carpet in the trunk of a car with numerous bullet wounds and the rest of the men slumped over or curled up in various seats with execution-style gun wounds to the head.

Who were these guys? What did they do to wind up like this?

Many a conversation occurs today in the aisles of Palmer's Supermarket and Paint Store less than a mile from the discovery of the bodies. There is some talk of a motorcycle club called the Bandidos.

“What are the Bandidos?” Forbes asks Charlie. “I never heard of them.”

Legal officials around the world in countries that have Bandidos membership—the United States, Canada, Sweden, Australia, Germany, and Britain to name a few— regard the Bandidos as a highly organized and violent culture of motorcycle gang members participating in numerous criminal activities. Did these guys fit the bill?

Within a couple of days, monuments were erected at the site by the victims' next of kin: a white cross with a small fence around it; a blue spruce; some orange chrysanthemums; and, at one point, a Toronto Maple Leafs jersey with the number 93. Doug “Killer” Gilmour must have been a hero to one of the men.

“Remember those biker wars in Quebec,” neighbour Paul Severs says adamantly. “We don't want any of that shit here. I hope they are all gone … either dead or going to prison.”

“Kill each other and go to jail,” offers his sidekick as they stand in the aisle of Palmer's. “It's all good.”

Once the media lets the world know about the discovery, sentiments pour in. The comments page on the Canadian Broadcasting Corporation's (CBC's) website conveys what most people are thinking.

“Eight dead Bandidos … what's the problem?”

“Who cares, let them kill each other.”

“I favour the Government of Canada legally eliminating every one of these useless carcasses, using the authority given to our military to deal with terrorists.”

One quote receives the iconic “thumbs up” approval from 112 of its 130 readers: “Good riddance to bad rubbish.”

Mary and Rusty just sit back, shaking their heads. They don't judge. They just feel badly for all those families. And oddly blessed that with something so horrible happening on their property, they are protected by whatever gods are watching over them.

Chapter 2

The Man Who Would Be King

The prince of darkness is a gentleman.

—King Lear, act 3, scene 4

The entire region around London, Ontario, is named according to British tradition. There is Middlesex County, Elgin County, Southwold, Strathroy, and Dutton. Just about every concession and road in the area tips its hat to English lineage.

Maybe this is why Wayne Kellestine chose to live in the area. Kellestine wasn't the least bit like Rusty, Mary, Charlie, and Forbes. He was a man with ambition. And maybe he was fated to live a Shakespearian tragedy, a modern-day King Lear in this makeshift Britain.

Talbot Line is one of the few concessions to a specifically Canadian history. Thomas Talbot emigrated from Ireland in the late 1700s. As the personal secretary of John Graves Simcoe and essentially the author of modern roads with his efforts to remove both Crown and clergy reserves from main throughways, Talbot quickly assumed a position of power in the community. He was celebrated locally for bringing wealth to the region via the eponymous Talbot Trail, but not well understood in terms of his contributions to the 1837 Upper Canada Rebellion. It seems that the colonel preferred to give land only to settlers he liked; if they fell out of favour, he would simply erase their pencilled names from the documents and take their land back. Aside from such a small and little-known reference to Canadian history, London, Ontario, seems desperate to be London, England.

About a seven-minute drive along the Talbot Line from Shedden is a significantly smaller town, Iona Station. It has just a handful of houses and one business, the Holland House, which was one of Wayne's favourite haunts.

The Holland House is an interesting establishment—a restaurant, tavern, gift and antique shop, used bookstore, and sales point for Edam cheese, blue-and-white Dutch ceramic tiles, and eBay auction paraphernalia.

Marty Angenent, a man in his early 60s with a penchant for ball caps, had been running the establishment for some 25 years when the bodies were discovered near Shedden. As a former maître d' with some of the finest hotels and restaurants in Canada, he had come to this small town to have a place of his own that reflected and celebrated his Dutch heritage. He prided himself on never serving patrons more than two servings of beer. He made strong coffee. He seemed to be okay with fat, lazy house flies in the windows. He liked history and acquiring more than just a superficial understanding of anything from politics and law to agriculture and sports. His ex-wife and kids didn't have much use for him, but he was happy with his lot in life.

The Holland House looks and smells like a grandparent's attic, with mouldy books, vinyl office and kitchen chairs from the 1960s, plastic table cloths, and dusty vases on just about any horizontal surface. It's also a place where everyone seems to know each other's name, but isn't interested in each other's business. Farmers, business people, suburbanites, and even the odd motorcycle rider are all welcome here.

Marty remembers Friday, April 7, 2006, like it was yesterday.

The Holland House had just a handful of regulars that night enjoying a plate of fish and chips, the Friday-night specialty, washed down with a pint and followed up with a cup of freshly brewed coffee. The usual topics were discussed: what the Farmer's Almanac was predicting for the upcoming season, who had won Thursday's hockey game, what was on television.

If it was relatively quiet at the Holland House, it was even quieter out at the Iona Station intersection itself. One stoplight. One business. About six houses.

The Holland House sits on Iona Line, which stretches north to south across the major throughway from London to Windsor and indeed from central Canada to central United States, Highway 401. Exiting the 401 and driving north on Iona Line, the second road that one comes to is Aberdeen Line. The entranceway from Iona Line to Aberdeen Line is flanked on both sides by Cowal-McBride Cemetery. Gravestones date back to the 1800s. Many of the locals have generations of ancestors resting here.

Apparently, it was far less quiet on Aberdeen Line than it was at either the Holland House or the graveyard.

Wayne lived on Aberdeen Line and he was always up for a good party. About a half a mile west down the road from the graveyard was his farmhouse, far less the stately ideal of farming than the Steeles' residence near Shedden. A two-storey white wooden home, it was expansive, but long overdue for maintenance. Nevertheless, the fields were just as serene and the family residing there, Wayne and Tina Kellestine, along with their young daughter, Kassie, wanted a life removed from traditional society. The house sported a large and amply furnished living room, complete with a traditional stone fireplace. Off this room was a games room, including a pool table and hot tub. But the plumbing wasn't really working, so now the hot tub sat empty and the toilets needed to be flushed “manually” with buckets of water. The family couldn't drink the well water because of the presence of E. coli, so they had to purchase bottled water in bulk.

Wayne had lived here for about 30 years. In its heyday, the house was home to some of the finest parties, with beer flowing, the pool table hopping, a band pumping out old-time rock and roll and an army of men hugging each other with the traditional greeting of “Love you, Bro.” In those days, money was easy and friendship was forever.

Journalists from the city would eventually write about this house as a “mess,” but most local farmers would appreciate that the family living here celebrated its history with photographs along its walls, collectibles scattered throughout the home, and a wide selection of tools and parts in the garage and basement available for any do-it-yourself project. Working farms are indeed messy, but the contents at this farm differed from the traditional working type. There were a couple of police scanners. Photos of motorcycles adorned just about every room. There were hundreds of videos of drunken parties with rough-looking men.

Then there were the videos of Wayne himself, either a king or a jester—you couldn't be certain—who deemed himself indestructible and whom you didn't dare cross. He danced a jig, he sang songs out of key; he bantered on while filming his brothers. He even videotaped a man raping a woman on the pool table and then had the audacity to keep the footage rolling as the woman sat crying.

Reporters would tell of Wayne's sensational side, but he also had a cache of standard family movies: friends together playing with children, his daughter's first steps, loving footage of Tina's devotion in which Wayne told her of his undying love for her. In the years that followed, nobody would hear about the many videos in which Wayne showed himself a loving father and devoted husband.

At the outer perimeter of the residence, a fence lined the property with old stone pillars that secured a heavy, rusted iron gate—an aged but operational surveillance camera perched on one of the pillars, its sights fixed on the road. The 100-or-so-year-old maples and oaks that ran along the road had been cut down a few years ago to provide Wayne a better view of Aberdeen Line.

There were four Doberman pinschers, each with its own doghouse, chained up close to the first fence around the property. None of them were neutered to ensure their testosterone was high. There was a second, significantly higher fence that enclosed the house and barn topped with barbed wire. And there was a lot of Nazi memorabilia: helmets, plates, mortar shells, flags, and an “SS” sign on the barn, the logo from an old biker gang called the Annihilators led by none other than Wayne.

Only by plane would you be able to discern a swastika cut out in the field. Only by historic surveillance would one be interpreting the sorts of gatherings that previously occurred at this farm, not of white supremacists but that more than a few locals knew involved motorcycle clubs. Some of the locals welcomed the protection afforded them. After all, bikers would scare away common robbers.Wayne and his biker friends weren't scary to the neighbouring farmers. He had the finest pig roasts in the area and could always be counted on to have some cold beer on hand. Despite the video, men forcing themselves on women would certainly not be the norm.

Wayne always said hello. Always smiled. Always waved.

But if you were out in his field, he knew about it and wanted to know who you were and what you were doing on his property. This was Wayne's world. Nobody came on it without an invitation. Fair enough. His neighbours didn't wander out there and the one crop surveyor who did never did it again. Not that he was hurt. He was just met by Wayne's mean look, eyes that would stare through your soul and make you regret being born. Wayne saved that look for people he perceived as a threat.

He never looked on his neighbours this way if they were respecting his property. He looked on them with kindness.

Marty Angenent had come to count on Wayne as a protective force in the community. He was a regular patron of the Holland House, always generous with the staff, amiable with the patrons, and charitable with Marty. And Wayne's demented sense of humour was legendary, always welcomed by the staff and patrons. Here was a man who loved life.

At one point many years prior, Marty recounted numerous break-and-enters to his establishment and Wayne ensured that he would prevent any such further criminal activity. Money was never exchanged for this protection; it was a gentleman's agreement between two men who respected each other's right to run a business.

Marty could sum up his impression of Wayne pretty easily. “People talked about him, but I never asked. To me he was always a fair and generous man with a good sense of humour. And a better sense of loyalty.”

At the Kellestine farm, the flags and memorabilia were perhaps appropriately vilified by many and understood by few outside of the organization. In the Annihilators' anti-racist beginnings, the Nazi ephemera served as crude anti-establishment symbols; but in a socially conservative society, it came to be seen as merely representing hatred, intolerance, and violence. In the world of motorcycle clubs, Nazi paraphernalia does not connote Nazi sympathies; the flags, symbols, and songs serve to express a rejection of society and particularly its policing. Legal officials are systematically seen as soldiers of anti-civilian regimes, whereas bikers are freedom fighters. In fact, it is in some ways a highly complex culture of civil libertarians that is ironically paramilitary, though it is rarely depicted as such by the media or understood as such by the general public.

In the case of Wayne Kellestine, who called his entrepreneurial security business KKK Securities and signed off e-mails with the occasional Nazi code for “killer” (SS), the simplistic interpretation of the symbols of white supremacy at his farm may have been in order, but then again, Wayne was always a far more complex individual than meets the eye. Pretty sure the Toronto Maple Leafs hockey captain, Doug “Killer” Gilmour didn't sign his hockey cards with an SS.

On the farmhouse door was a popular rendering of the Latin phrase, Caedite eos. Novit enim Dominus qui sunt eius (“Kill ‘em all. Let God sort ‘em out”). Somehow the saying was acceptable when used by the U.S. Marines or the British Green Berets and worn as a motto on their T-shirts. But was it acceptable for a motorcycle enthusiast with a sordid past?

The Kellestine home held more than just Nazi trappings. Despite two lifetime bans for owning weapons, Wayne had quite the stash of guns.

Kellestine's loss of this status as a biker of envy came slowly and painfully.

By 2006, Wayne was down on his luck. He seldom went to visit Marty at the Holland House, and when he did, he couldn't maintain the same generosity with the staff that he had once had. Despite his decades leading various bike gangs, including recently serving as an executive member with the Canadian Bandidos club after his Annihilators gang ceased to exist, his brothers didn't want to hang out with him anymore. He was hopped up on drugs and had become increasingly paranoid, posing a danger to his brothers, even though some of them were also battling some serious addictions.

His world was now a disaster. The skeletons of old cars and rusted sheds that littered his property and the surveillance equipment and barbed fences were just an outward reflection of a man gone mad. His long, stringy silver hair straggled down his thin frame while his pot belly hung out over his old jeans. He needed glasses now to see. And he had a cough that he could never shake, something that sounded like a wounded coyote.

Photos of him at various public events depicted a crazed and aged biker who alternatively danced a jig, broke into the German national anthem, and even ate raccoon and deer feces. In other videos he could be seen drinking beer with his buddies and giving them loving hugs. And then there were the photos where his menacing appearance and stony eyes could send a chill up the most courageous person's spine. Wayne was clearly not a man to be messed with.

In the videos he now filmed of himself, he was a tempest in the body of an old, abused, and now discarded shell.

So what does a man do when he wants to regain his sense of importance? How does a dismissed renegade return to royalty? If he were logical, he might slay his enemies; if he were tragic, he would slay his allies.