Available Now! Kevin Annett’s Latest book “Fallen: The Story of the Vancouver Four”


Now Available through Amazon and Createspace:

To order: www.createspace.com/7263374

List Price: $14.95 – Release Date: Sunday June 18 2017

Fallen is a personal recollection and reflection concerning the lives of four men known to the author, all of whom died. The four characters were survivors of the murderous “Indian residential schools” of Canada and lived in the poverty-stricken downtown east side of Vancouver. The author came to know them intimately as they shared their stories with him and helped to publicly expose the horrors of the state and church-run residential schools.

Fallen is the human face of Canada’s ongoing genocide, written with heart-felt pathos.The characters present a mystery that is never resolved and yet accentuates whatever humanity remains to us: the capacity for the unlikeliest of people to endure alone against unspeakable odds with nothing on their side save themselves. And having found that endurance they become more than victims amidst the usual woe called history.

​This is Kevin Annett’s twelfth book. He is a renowned Canadian whistle blower and Nobel Peace Prize Nominee who has led the global campaign to expose and prosecute crimes against humanity by church and state.

Order Fallen today through this email: thecommonland@gmail.com, or at www.createspace.com/7263374.

People Who I Plan to Take Down, thanks to Justin Trudeau:

 Another Ringside Report from the Great White North

by Kevin “The Champ” Annett

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When I learned the other day that it’s no longer a crime in Canada to publicly criticize Christianity, or to hold a duel, my first assumption was that now the atheists and the church goers will finally get to fight it out with pistols at twenty yards. Why else would a Parliament as sober as Canada’s enact such an eclectic mix of legal reforms: of dispensing with the medieval crime of Blasphemous Libel while allowing again the medieval practice of Trial by Combat?

But then suddenly I recognized the hand of divine providence in this typically mixed-up Canadian law: namely, that I’d finally get to legally execute the United Church Moderator.

Now hear me out: I have nothing personally against Jordan Cantwell, the present Moderator. I don’t even know the guy, besides the fact that he was a shoe-in to the position thanks to the male gender of those he sleeps with. But if we’re ever going to put such a messed-up institution and mindset out of its misery, hell, shouldn’t we start at the top? And it’s not like I don’t have just cause.

So I’ll be the first to admit that I’ve been practicing my Muhammad Ali impersonations in front of the mirror in recent days, since it’s just me now in the ring against Jordan Cantwell: armed and dangerous, squaring off against each other at fifty paces.

Because face it, people! The guy is nothin’, and he’s just plain ugly. Man, he’s so ugly the sweat drips backward from his face so it don’t have to go there. I’m gonna wup his ass even without any bullets. Man, when I get through with Jordy he ain’t gonna be able to Moderate a phone booth! I’ve wupped Popes! Some mealy-mouthed nobody from the flatlands ain’t nuthin’ compared to the Champ!

Mind you, I doubt that the little bastard will accept my challenge. When it comes to United Church bureaucrats, shit boy! I can carve a better human out of a banana! So in the name of justice for all those mangled little kids, I ain’t gonna confine my challenge to some watery know-nuthin’ like Jordan Cantwell, who shits himself when he hears the words “Kevin Annett”. I’m out for bigger game! I’m on the prowl for any church big shot who’ll have it out with me, ’cause man, they got nuthin‘ now! Those church boys can’t put me away anymore for calling them out on their crap! The law’s on my side now! Blaspheme my ass, dick weeds!

I’m talking to you, Fred Hiltz! That’s right, you mutha fucka! Don’t try hiding behind that funny hat and all-white-boy Anglican smirk! I know what you done. Maybe you can wallop a mess of little brown kids and shove ‘em in the ground but you dealin’ with the Champ now! And I know why they call you the Primate, you little shit! ‘Cause you ain’t nuthin’ but a big stupid ape in a fancy dress! So choose your weapon, mutha fucka! And meet me at high noon some Sunday outside your fancy Toronto temple! I’ll be waitin’!

And let’s not forget the Papists.

Shit, I already took down their champ, so they is nuthin’. They’re too busy shreddin’ documents and hidin’ all their kiddy fuckas to put up any fight! Hell, I won’t even need to draw a bead and shoot on them jokers. They is already skedaddlin’ with all their loot for the Cayman Islands and Abu Dabhi, man! The papacy’s as big a fake as Sonny Liston was when I dropped him in five!

So what’s the Champ to do? I hear voices from ringside yellin’, “Give ‘em the knock out blow, Champ! Land ‘em one right in their gut and put ‘em down for the count!” I got the bead on them, that’s the truth. But takin’ them down ain’t even fun now ’cause they’re not even puttin’ up a fight anymore. They ain’t even buryin’ their own dead but are hightailin’ it out of sight before you all wake up and deal with ‘em yourselves. Just like George Forman in our Jungle Rumble, man, those churches can run but they can’t hide! They’re the real blasphemy, children, and they knows it!

Maybe the government knows it, too, which is why they is makin’ it easier for us to challenge them fake churches to a standoff now that they don’t have Big Brother holdin’ their coat for ‘em while they take down innocent little kids. All of them is scared now, people, so why the hell are we still so scared of them?

Like my good buddy Dalton Trumbo wrote when they were tryin’ to take him out for good, during his own blacklisting years:

Put the guns into our hands and we will use them. Give us the slogans and we will turn them into reality. Sing the battle hymns and we will take them up where you left off. Not one, not ten, not ten thousand, not a million, not a hundred millions but a billion of us, all the people of the world, we will have the slogans and we will have the hymns and we will have the guns and we will use them and we will live. Make no mistake of it we will live this time. We will be alive and we will walk and eat and sing and laugh and love and bear our children in tranquility and security, in decency and in peace. You plan the wars but we will aim the guns, and this time we will know which way to aim them.

Walter Meets the Primate: A Recollection

Dear friends,

Well, I couldn’t resist. The news this week that Top Canadian Anglican Fred “Hide the Bodies” Hiltz has honored yet another child rapist, former Toronto Archbishop Terence Finlay, prompted me to brush the mothballs off this piece I wrote some years ago. Laughing at the criminals may fall short of putting them away, but it’s one of the next best things.

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by Kevin D. Annett

In his more coherent moments, my big buddy Crazy Walter from Vancouver’s skid row would wander from his voyeuristic pastimes around First United Church. Sometimes he’d seek the greener pastures of the University of British Columbia campus, where abounded plenty of thrown away food, comfy couches and young nubile female students. Walt also knew that I attended the seminary there. So much to his delight and mine, the guy would show up unannounced at the Vancouver School of Theology (VST) and seek me out, usually in a loud voice. And then he’d spend the day hanging with me in the student lounge or sitting in on various classes where he’d pretend to be a visiting scholar.

His ruse worked more often than not, since your average seminarian or theology professor is about as sharp as an eraser. Walt never got shown the door at VST because nobody there quite knew whether he was not indeed some eccentric savant rather than a local bum. And even though the long hair and beard definitely gave him an arcane messianic quality, Walt couldn’t help but unnerve the official Christians. And so my seminarian colleagues gave Wally and his ripe odor a wide berth whenever he ensconced himself in the VST lounge, regaling anyone within earshot about his latest ecstatic revelation and proving that he could bullshit as good as any egghead.

And Walter was thus poised the day the Primate came to visit.

Anglicans are generally odd, and not just because they’re Englishmen. Their Wannabee Papism makes their pretensions not only comical but downright inscrutable. Take “Primate”, for instance. That’s what the Alpha Male is called in the Anglican Church in Canada: the top-of-the-food-chain official, who lies just beneath the Archbishop of Canterbury. And guess who was coming to dinner at VST that day?

I could tell something was up as lunch time approached, and the Sycophant Index among the school crowd began climbing steadily. Well dressed big shots and their mink-coated wives started clustering in the VST rotunda, and students began hurrying around, speaking in hushed and excited whispers. Principal Bud Phillips actually emerged from his office for a few moments to flash his perfect smile and pump the flesh of all those potential donors.

Walter never let anything slip by him, and pompous bullshit always set him off like a cat in heat. And so from his perch next to the coffee machine he suddenly proclaimed “What the fuck is goin’ on?”

One of the few students who associated with me until he was told not to, an American Methodist named Rich Lang, ducked out of the lounge to go and see.

“Probably another cluster fuck” mumbled Walt to me, emptying the last of the coffee from its urn with a bellowing slurp.

Just then I noticed out the window that a colossal limousine had pulled up from which emerged a scowling bearded fellow in a funny hat and a huge gold cross. He was adorned in a flowing purple and red robe.

Rich popped his head into the lounge and with a provocative grin announced, “It’s the Anglican Primate!”.

Exactly as if he’d been struck by a thunderbolt from the Almighty, Walter turned from his coffee and with an aroused look of joy he bellowed,

“The Primate? The FUCKING PRIMATE? He’s HERE?!”

Walt hurried as best he could to the hallway and stood facing the arriving dignitary, who of course stepped into the rotunda just as Wally did. And with his hips visibly quaking in anticipation, my buddy turned and thrust his considerable and rotating ass towards the cleric and his crowd of austere hangers-on while loudly emitting the kind of primal grunts and moans that no doubt does it for your average baboon in estrus.

It’s all a stage, for sure, and Walt had suddenly seized its front and centre. The Primate and his crowd were riveted into a shocked stupefaction as they watched the bearded lowlife perform his little mating dance for them. The entire place was instantly silent, save for Walt’s groans and the sound of Rich and I screaming our heads off with laughter.

“Oh god, boys, it’s those fucking colours he’s got on!” Walt gasped as his bum kept rolling and reaching out to the object of his affection, and we two soon-to-be-disciplined students rolled on the floor hysterically, trying to breathe.

George Orwell was right, of course, when he observed that the only thing the rich and powerful ever really fear is to be laughed at publicly. And so after its momentary eclipse at the hands of the unwashed and unruly, official church decorum quickly recovered. Reassuming their briefly-shattered authority, the Primate and his little flock turned their collective back on Walter with a decided sneer and hurried off to the reception hall where awaited not the Second Coming but lots of free food and booze.

Their retreat didn’t faze Wally one bit, of course, and he called out to the departing object of his feigned desires, “Oh don’t go! Don’t just up and leave me like that again without even giving me your fucking phone number! Prime me, baby, Prime me!””

Rich and I were somehow still breathing by then, although we were spent and quaking. The other students in the lounge had long since departed, hurrying past our irreverent shrieks with the kind of career-conscious disdain I would encounter only too often in the church during the years that were to follow. None of them would even look at Walter, whose lecherous gyrations continued as he flashed them a semi-toothless grin.

After the discomfited Christians had departed the three of us sat together once more, alone in the VST lounge. Walt’s eyes were aflame and deeply happy, and he let out the same high pitched giggle that he always employed whenever the collection plate was passed around down at First United. 


“You crazy bastard, you could have got us lynched” I commented to Walter.


“Well?” he replied.



Everyday Carnage

Table Talk – A Series by Kevin D. Annett

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Some of our handiwork, Lejac “residential school”, Fraser Lake BC

Of course they did it. Look at how they act now. It didn’t matter to them then and it doesn’t matter to them now” - Protester at Christ Church Anglican Cathedral, Vancouver, on Aboriginal Holocaust Remembrance Day, April 15, 2007

“There is none who are righteous or who understands, there is not even one who seeks for God. All have turned aside and together they are useless, for none do good.” - Romans 3:10-12

Most of the other young boys on my street never did the actual killings, but they knew about them. They even stood around and watched. The City of Winnipeg was paying for the slaughter, which may have had something to do with its normalcy and popularity among my fellow pre-pubescents. After all, who would pass up a chance to make a quarter from every prairie dog tail sliced off a still-quivering little brown creature?

The bigger guys among us wielded the mops or wrenches that shattered the captured animals’ backbones, and the rest of us were encouraged to dive in with our Swiss army knives to finish the job and claim the fluffy bounty. I was one of those who didn’t, but who nevertheless stood by and watched fascinated and with a suspended horror at the bloody ritual. The glazed and happy look of contentment in the eyes of the killers has never left me, nor have the dying squeals of the little creatures as each blow fell.

Everyone in our neighborhood knew about the killings but never talked about them, especially those who’d participated and cashed in. Yet a sickly haze hung over all of us. We were lessened because of what we’d done, just by living alongside it. And looking back, it seems that we were all living precariously every day as if awaiting a knock on the door by some higher judgment.

It finally came in the person of Mrs. Wyatt, a local mom who’d found some bloody animal remains in her alley and tracked down the source. The woman raised a passionate public stink about the prairie dog slaughter and without pointing her finger made us feel our collective culpability for the first time. And we all hated her for it.

We briefly shifted our aggression away from the local rodent populace to Mrs. Wyatt’s doorstep, where we began leaving assorted garbage and obscene messages. Our parents aided our take-down campaign by publicly badmouthing and then shunning the woman, who’d brought such discord to our once self-satisfied community by “making us all look bad”. She of course was the problem, not us. And so after a few months of harassment the inconvenient woman and her family moved away, and the killings carried on.

Thus at ten years of age did I learn an essential part of what it means to be a Canadian: that the problem isn’t what is going on but that somebody has talked about it.

Perhaps as part of the judgment hanging over my shamed young mind, that essential Canadiana kept seeking me out and admonishing me with the same fervor with which we had assaulted good Mrs. Wyatt. The deeper I gazed into our neighborhoods the more slaughter I encountered, and the same industry of rationalization and routine behind it all.

Murder had not been called murder when I was ten, but “a rodent control program”. The same safely-euphemized mental buffers have allowed the bigger crimes to continue alongside and because of our terminal Canadian niceness, as genocide becomes “cultural insensitivity” and mass murder is called “abuse”. And so when I began to understand Mrs. Wyatt after uncovering more than rodent remains on my doorstep, I was officially warned. Just prior to my own immolation and banishment, I was told that there really was no cause for any concern besides the fact that I was mentioning the unmentionable. Otherwise, things were just fine.


What prompted this reflection was a question put to me by an unsuspecting interviewer, who asked me how my view of Canada has changed after twenty years of exposing what she called “our rotten underbelly”.

“We’re a nation of psychopaths” I replied. “All of us. Dead children are dead children.”

Or dead prairie dogs, for that matter.

I’ve waited unrequited over those long years for a single tear of grief to emerge from out of the mountains of words, political posturing and Royal Commissions into our own home grown bestiality. At the end of the day, nobody is bothered by the heaps of little corpses rendered so by our own hands, any more than my Winnipeg neighbors were upset about our extermination of our innocent little  neighbors. What causes my people to become emotional is when I keep talking about their everyday carnage.

Those years have also brought me a strange resignation, not from despair but a blinding realism, an awakening to that of which I am part. My training on an Acute Psychotic ward prepared me to spot all the signs.

Caught up in the general madness, I absurdly appealed to the conscience of the conscienceless. I sought something that was never there. But even more horrible was my discovery that my own heart shared the same void; that the nightmare was reduced in my mind to sterile words like genocide, war crimes and legal liability. My heart, like those of my own dead and dissociated people, was in suspension somewhere.

Yet still somewhere in my memory echoes the unanswered scream of the innocent as their backs were shattered by drooling and laughing boys with blood-soaked mops; and of my own outraged despair as I find what the years of accommodation have done to me. For it has been the suffering of little rodents that has most moved my heart, rather than the screams of my own flesh and blood.

The carnage begins first in ourselves, for it emerges from there. Is that why there is no balm in Gilead; no healing for me or for my people?