A Love Letter to Greg Renouf from your Nefarious Enemy Kevin Annett

Yes boys and girls, summer madness is in the air and the professional smear artists are gathering their crap to fling my way once again, especially now that we’re going after their bosses in a big way. So this is a fond note to one of them, from yours truly.
On a spring evening in 1958, Martin Luther King was quietly signing copies of his book “Stride toward Freedom” at a New York City store when he was stabbed in the chest with a seven inch long letter opener.

His attacker was Izola Curry, who screamed at him as she drove the knife home,

“I finally got you, you liar, you fake!”

King survived the stabbing. He did not press charges against Izola but asked that she “get some help”.

……………………..

Dear Greg,

It’s something of a thrill to be the subject of so much attention, especially on the part of someone like you whom I’ve never met or spoken to. Thank you, by the way, for all the free publicity! Like P.T. Barnum used to comment, I don’t care what you say about me – just don’t spell my name wrong!

But since we have never met, Greg – unless my 56 year old brain has missed something – and you do seem to nevertheless know a hell of a lot about me, I hope all your efforts aren’t misplaced – I mean, considering the amount of labor you’ve put in to learning all about “the REAL Kevin Annett”.

Ah, but what IS truth? asked Jesting Pilate. Or the elephant, to a dozen blindfolded people?

When one like me is talked about so much in cyber world, or in the foggy reaches of various fertile imaginations, I guess that any combination of truths is possible. And you do the combining so masterly, Greg. Whatever set you upon this quest of yours, to gut my reputation, is for you alone to know, Greg, and others to endlessly ponder. But your continual expression of public passion towards me does afford me a chance to reciprocate, and express with equal ardor my true feelings towards you.

But first, let me see if I follow your reasoning about me.

I’m really a fraud, according to you, based on some unnamed people I’ve “harmed” and some undisclosed evidence you can’t mention. Well, you’re in good company when you make that kind of unsubstantiated claim, because the churches and government do that all the time, too. Maybe you know some of those guys who spout the same line about me? Like RCMP Inspector Peter Montague, a.k.a. “Our specialty is smear campaigns”?

You don’t know Pete? Well, that surprises me, because that bit of “insider” knowledge you have about me – my “nefarious” past as a (brief) member of the (gasp!) International Socialists when I was in my early twenties – was only known by a few people in the world thirty five years ago, starting with the Mounties.

I guess you move in some pretty exclusive circles, Greg.

Then there’s all the hullaballoo you’re making about my mom and brother’s (equally brief) ownership of Western Canada Water. Yes sir, back in the 1980’s they were water exporters – well, they tried to be. I never swam in their effort. In fact, I told them I didn’t want anything to do with the bulk export of water from Canada, on principle. So I never owned a share in their company or made a cent from it.

Mom and Bill got booted out of WCW in a hostile takeover, by the way. Again, a long time ago.

Right. So what does all that have to do with anything, besides some odd notion by you of guilt by association? The world wonders.

But let’s get down to basics, Greg. If we’re to believe you, and the clique of smear artists whose ranks you’re joining, I have perpetrated the following “nefarious” (you  really like that word) deeds:

Besides being a general “con artist” and a moral degenerate, I have financially ripped off Indians (presumably, all those homeless ones I work with); used their testimonies without their permission; “harmed” elderly or struggling native people; forced them to make up atrocity stories that aren’t true; drugged eyewitnesses (I love that one); fabricated documents; made several Indian women pregnant and even messed around with a prostitute in a radio station at night (again, one of my favorites); beaten people up; exaggerated everything; and even, according to one of my more delusional detractors named Helen Michel, actually worked in an Indian residential school (presumably before I turned sixteen in 1972, by which time many of them were closed or closing).

Did I miss anything? You might want to consult the Montague File.

Well, none of it’s true, Greg. But in your world, apparently, I deliberately destroyed my ten year marriage, lost both of my children, sacrificed my livelihood and career, and have endured blacklisting, harassment, public ostracism and poverty for two decades simply so that I could do all that “nefarious” stuff and in return, endure the tender mercies of people like you.

Just one bit of advice, Greg. It’s not a smear, actually, to tell a man like me who’s 56 that he has the sexual prowess to do all night orgies with hordes of women. It’s called a compliment. So I wanted to ask if you actually have any spare copies of that alleged videotape of me getting high and engaging in flagrant delecto with that unknown and unnamed woman one summer night in 2010 at Vancouver Co-op radio?

I guess that it’s just coincidental that such a tale about me started circulating soon after I was unceremoniously canned and banned from that station after ten years as a programmer when I spoke on the air about eyewitnesses who saw RCMP officers taking native women out to the Pickton snuff film farm.

Maybe you can check with your buddy Inspector Montague about that one.

You see, Greg, life’s really a comedy posing as pathos, and the basic problem with you is you take it all way, way too seriously. Maybe that’s your handler’s fault.

After all, I know the Mounties have one of the highest professional burnout rates of any cop force on the continent because they have no union or grievance procedure. Female Mounties like Catherine Galliford in Vancouver get raped by their male colleagues if they get too mouthy about what they know – especially about the missing women. So it’s a stressful work environment to say the least, and I’m sure a low level flunky like you has to bear the brunt.

So it might be best if you change your approach to your work. Try doing like your fellow smear artist Lydia Whitecalf, when she took up an alias and started posing as a disgruntled “former supporter and admirer of Kevin who now sees the truth about him”. It’s a more convincing line, and you might garner some sympathy to boot.

But all that aside, let me say that I don’t bear you a grudge. I’ve seen your type come and go. And mostly go. And to quote Jack Palance’s cowboy character Curly remarking to a city slicker,

“I’ve crapped bigger than you, son”

Don’t take it personally, Greg. I never do.

So, drop the letter opener, brother, and get some help.

Yours affectionately,

 

Kevin