Gangster Ways
By Frederik Grootherder
Smashwords Edition
Copyright 2010
Smashwords Edition, License Notes.
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THE TOMMY MARKS DONILY STORY
THE MYSTERY MAN
NO FRIENDS, TRUE STORY
INTRODUCTORY NOTE
Tommy Marks Donily was a mystery man. He led two separate lives. On the surface he was a respectable business man, horse trainer, rancher, farmer and owner of construction companies. No one knew he was a crime boss whose organization owned thirty percent of the crystal meth business in the United States. He never did any of that business in his home country, Canada. Tommy did some real bad things, to some real evil people. Tommy was a boy struggling for some kind of identity, which leaves the feeling of both FEAR and HEARTBREAKING, associated with VIOLENCE and FUN, EXCITEMENT and SEX, WEALTH and GREAT POWER. Expressing REBELLION and GLAMOUR, and most of all INDEPENDENCE.
P.S. I am not a writer. This book is written in country boy English
Chapter 1
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I grew up on a large ranch around the ghost town of Armada, between the towns of Lomond and Milo, Southern Alberta, Canada. It was at the east banks of Lake McGregor (snake valley). The prairies, hills, valley's. Big sky country. When you looked to the west the view was the Rocky Mountains. That country where I grew up was so beautiful that I still miss it every day. Not a day goes by that I don't wish that I could be there again. I was one of the best kid cowboys in Alberta. Horses and livestock were my expertise. There was not an ounce of meanness in me.
I just loved farming and training horses and I loved the big open sky country of southern Alberta. I especially miss the Calgary stampede rodeo. Since 1912, my family volunteered and participated in bronco riding, chuck wagon racing throughout all the years.
It made me feel free and it made me feel like a grown man. This country I grew up in was where the strong survive and the weak didn't. It consisted of big ranchers, big farmers and big oil and gas companies. The people were so aggressive, either for the money or just to be the boss. Going to school there was no different. The older kids in high school would beat up all the weaker kids and make them say sir, yes sir and all that bull. The kids with the hare lip or simply not good looking were demoralized almost to the point that they would commit suicide. One day the school bell rang. Everybody went to the school except one hare lip boy who was being demoralized by a big spoiled bully, the son of one of the biggest ranchers. The hare lip boy was running to the school. I was standing outside the school, waiting for the boy and yelled at him come on. Everybody, all the students and the teachers were looking out the windows. The hare lip boy made it just in time to the school and ran to the safety inside. When the big bully came to the door I decided to fight him. I had just about enough of the bully's picking on and beat up the weaker smaller kids. They never picked one their own size. This particular bully was 3 years older and a lot stronger and bigger than me, but when he grabbed me I hit him three times right in the nose, breaking it. From that day on none of them big bully's picked on the weak boys again.
After school, I was thirsty for freedom. We had 14.000 consecutive acres of land and very few fences. I would hop off the school bus, throw my tin lunch bucket on the doorsteps and run to the barn. I'd saddle up my horse, Torchy. She was a thoroughbred horse with reddish hair, so when the sun shone on her, she was the color of a lit up torch. She was a rogue horse who couldn't be broke by men. Torchy was given to me just as a pet. I succeeded in making her one of the best saddle horses in Canada. I did it all with no whip, no kicking, no jerking, all with kindness. She did nearly kill me a few times, but we ended up trusting each other in the long run. Tip was my dog. Tip and Torchy were the only friends I was to ever have. We had great times together in the open prairies of Southern Alberta. After school I would pack my fishing rod, a knife, a can of Spork (canned meat), butter and grain for Torchy. I would jump up on Torchy and Tip would follow us all the way to Lake McGregor. On the way I would ride through big hills and valleys, visiting secret Indian burial grounds. The rocks for the tipi's were still there. The legend was that this was the great Chief Sitting Bull's camp. When I was sitting there and closed my eyes, I almost could feel the present of Sitting Bull while the coyotes were watching from the hills in the prairie wool hard grass country of Southern Alberta. The deer and antelopes would occasionally run in front of us. I felt free and that was worth my whole life. We arrived at the lake and I would always catch a fish within the first ten minutes. I'd scale the fish in the water and filet the fish, leaving all the bones out. I'd put grass in rocks and put dried cow manure over the grass. The manure would burn and I'd fry the fish with butter in the pan. On weekends, I would bring a tent and stay there overnight. When the rain hit the canvas it would put me to sleep like a baby. Later in life, even now, when I hear rain hit the roof of a house, I become sleepy. I hated to go back on Monday morning and put it off as long as possible. Most times I made it back just in time to catch the school bus and do my homework on the way to school in the bus. To me it felt whenever I stepped in that bus on Monday mornings that another week of captivity had started.
A good heart did not prevent me from being actively involved in fist-fighting. It was the most popular sport and form of entertainment in my community. But even if someone beat the shit out of a guy, he still had to give him respect, because he had the guts to put up a fight.