I’m the guy who held a one foot long, chrome plated, butcher knife six inches from the chest of a WCB manager, with no ill effect what so ever. Reflecting in his eyes, I could see his pathetic life pass before him. A life of prolonged bedwetting, his high school years, locked in his locker.

This all took place outside the WCB building in Kamloops in full daylight, again, with zero repercussions.

How?

In February of 2014 I was finally driven to public protest on the sidewalk outside WCB. The liaison assigned was, the grand poobah of Kamloops, the Interior Operations Manager.

This fellow could have been cast as Mini-Me to Drew Carey.

The first few weeks of protest delivered me incredible winds of minus 17 Celsius. Originally this Manager would get my attention from fifty feet away. He would yell, while doing jumping jacks, wrapped in his ski jacket and scarf.

I soon learned that a direct stare through his eyes set his lower lip to a rapid quiver. The mere fact that he tried to ignor this twitch had me hone my approach. Soon, in less than a minute, I could induce his lip to flap like a freshly netted oolichan. My toying had him remain at fifty feet until mid-summer.

Once the heat of summer arrived this little twit was strolling up in his cargo shorts, water bottle and fungus ridden tallons extruding from Birkenstocks.

The day eventually arrived when he would not announce himself until only inches behind me. With my entire city-life inculcated reading body language for survival, that’s the day I knew things had to change or I will truly be walked over.

There on that sunny Friday he announced, next Monday, he is to conduct a major conference regarding my case. He requested that we meet on the sidewalk after the call for he enjoyed being outside.

I suddenly had him pictured as a billet of chum, staining my ocean.

There and then, I devised a plan which would leave him begging for the view through the vertical blinds which adorn his office of shatterproof glass.

That weekend, with the few dollars I had, I bought a long shiny, Hitchcock Special carving knife at a thrift store.

When parked in my key protest spot I could fidget just inside the canopy on my truck, with my back to WCB. Unknown to most, I could see everything behind me perfectly, reflected in the canopy front glass. This allowed me to see how people reacted to my protest when they thought I was blind to them.

Monday morning I could see the Manager exit from the far door. I was convinced he would practice his latest habit and was to be close behind me in a minute. I took my position, hunched over, fidgeting with my head just inside the canopy.

As expected I watched his reflection sneak up close behind me before announcing his attempt at a startling “Good Morning”.

As planned I spun around with the butcher knife in my hand, inches away from the empty cavity where a heart should be. I slowly growled his name, twice, in the slimiest devil voice I could muster. I then froze this position for several seconds as his sorry, gravy sucking life flash before him.

His cross-eyed glare was fixated on the flash of nickle blade poised afore him in my right hand. Then, with my left, I pulled from behind my back a big slice of dripping red watermelon.

I then laid the butcher knife, almost beside him, on the little plastic tray which I also bought that weekend. I offered him a slice of watermelon from several, splayed on the tray.

I pretended to clear my throat and began speaking somewhat normal. I apologized for wishing to take a moment to eat this first slice of watermelon. I suggested he could grade my anticipation through the tone of my voice.

I immediately turned away from him and began to eat the watermelon, hunched over like a caveman. This suddenly provided the bone handle of the butcher knife well within his grasp, me bent over, with my back toward him.

Through the corner of my eye I could see that he was attempting to restrain the physical momentum induced from adrenaline. I could see that his lizard brain held great desire to plant that knife, dead centre, in my back.

Within seconds I watched his emotions traverse from flight to fight and settle on a longing for his office, amid security and the sphincter pacifying buzz of electric locks.

As intended, he returned to his habit of hailing my attention from fifty feet away. Further meetings were held inside his crib.

Before I was finally recognized by WCB, I was tormented for seventeen years through what can only be planned machination.

Nothing positive would ever have developed if I had not protested on the sidewalk in 2014. I can prove that decisions did not begin to adhere to WCB policy until one month after my street protest.

Once WCB researched the poor effort applied in 2001/2002 my VR Benefits were reinstated in spring of 2014, fifteen years after injury.

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TIP

If you choose to publicly protest do so with the utmost politeness for everyone, even “Them”.

I am told by WCB staff that I am the only protester with permission to use the WCB washroom for the entire seven months. Your other option is to loose your patience one time and require an Advisor Rep or Lawyer to even step onto WCB property.

Stay polite with all, even those who drive by and yell out “Get a Job You Looser!”.  I explain the near death experience this kid somehow lived through in another scene in this play.

Also; Immediately distance from the many people who will suggest great violence and spew vengeful vitriol toward WCB. Firstly, referencing violence is a dead-end street. Second, I know several of these venomous folk were moles planted by WCB, trying to coax me to speak of dark intent.

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The desperation, which drove me to protest, finally did provide a lifetime pension in form of a Loss of Earnings (LOE). The Partial Disability Pension (LOE) began, 2016, with a 13 year retroactive payment.

That 13 year lump sum payment only further testifies to the many years of neglect which WCB heaped upon me, no matter my effort.

If you wish some facet of insight on how I found it best to deal with this bivouac of vile bureaucrats, please read on.

The most shocking vector of telling this story is how easy a humorous tangent can be woven, while still adhering to the miserable truth. What I mean to imply is that the institutions of WCB/WCAT will abuse you to the point of minute betterment, if you can just live through it.

I do not dare draw a connection of WCB abuse to that of the plight of any particular diaspora. I do however know that, throughout time, humour is the grease which lessen the detritus of torment.

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TIP

I truly believe finding the DragonSpeak Dictation Program saved my life. My Advisor to Injured Worker Rep was so negative she abandoned me to write my own appeals.

The ability for me to speak my entire sentence in full and watch it develop on the screen allows my thought patterns to flow conducive.

Due to random mistakes one must return and repair many flaws in verbage and structure but intent remains complete and focused.

Due to this injury sitting is a huge issue for me. To somewhat work around this I trigger 36pt type on a huge monitor and use a cordless microphone. This allows me the freedom to walk and talk, repairing type whenever I wish.

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