Monday, February 06, 2017

Riding back up Highway 99 with Trooper Nay. To Brockett.

Top of the morning gents,

God fucking dammit. I now got the mean town blues. Anchorage is such a diverse, bug infested cesspool. "Fucking whitey." (Brockett 99 Canadian Native Radio).

Me and bun wrapped up another 2-month Alaska Native Services mish (ANS). We had the all the old lady saw-bone appointments done and fucking over with. We fondly call these mondo fucking medical circle jerks at the "natiff hoshpital" as bun's million mile tune-ups. Ya see, when yer hybrid-tard like us and married nugger ye gotta drag the old bag o' bones to the clinic. Just like my hillbilly limousine veterinarian mud farmer family: I gotta get bun's eyes and teeth done. Then we trim the hooves, check her cow pies and road apples fresh and steaming for cysts, worms and infectious mucous discharge, then we gotta soft-tish inspect the ankles and knees. I dun watched in horror as my other doctor brother Sober Tobus reached all the way up a horse's ass just to check shit out. Last time I did that to bun she convulsed real gimpy and shrieked her upper partials at me. Then she recommended I use both arms.

She's a lot happier now. For a more natural feel I super-glued a pair of tennis balls under each armpit. "Wristwatch, Crisco." "Fist fuck." Frank Zappa.

You see, she's a walking fossil record of kikiktag-runt childhood trauma, indun adult PTSD and tendencies toward excessive and chronic native stuff. You know, half you motherfuckers are cops and know the bullet list: concussions, contusions and compound fractures. My God, she can't even remember how many times she's been beaten and raped, run over and tossed in the rubbish bin like an Eskimo doll. Simply put: from pretty lips to pretty tail-pipe, one piece at a time, she's mostly droid.

Aliens and robots will fucking love her, she'll soon have all their same naughty bits. Airport scanners and martians will scope out her nylon-steel knees, titanium hips and sport fucking wood. The over inflated silicone dos yabbos flesh melons are merely ornamental and for display purposes only. Old tikiaq blue hair has been mechanically overhauled and is now full ten on the fucking peter meter.

Fucking miracle the old nugger bitch is even breathing: her dusty soiled old ans indun chart is an archeological blend of territorial viral devastation, synthetic devices moderno-medico and no-teefer old wives' tales. She ain't afraid of no UFO's, she's from the BIA. "Horse meat at the indun boarding school was pretty fucking good, but I don't like rat."

I'm closing in on my exit ramp with our visit here on Earth with all you coppers. My life is ending: sooner, not later and I've tried to not weep so much no more. My bunnik is so sagely in her advice as to why old men well up and shudder so easy. She says Jesus is best seen through weary soul, watery eyes and trembling lip and I'm so there every God damned day. I've lost all my best friends now and you guys are still hanging around to view me and my dying bed. I pray I can die easy.

I oft scoff her superstitions, but just this morning she sure saulk me that I'm such a fucking pussy, "Yer buddy Kim Nay always come visit. That's why you always hear Gordon Lightfoot on yer radio on the same day that beat up eagle comes by for your treat can." "And why you cry all the time." (You guys too?)

Another issue to discuss. Bun's fucking hacked at them reservation disposal CSP vans. You know, the Anchorage Community Service Patrol fleet of native pick 'em up mobile roach coach minority vacuum cleaner drunk tanks. NANA has the contract to operate that nigger shit. They rally all around Anchor-butt hook-ville searching for coma-nates, blue lip ice-niggers and drunk as shit-ass aborigines. These white vans are an important program to save these little inukun drunks from freezing solid and mistaken for large dog turds and eaten by Alaska's homeless and hungry frickin' black folks pissing and shitting all over Scareview.

These fat white ASP driver fucks got cool as shit job. They must have fun profiling Galena-coons, shungnak shit-snackers, kobuk butt-fuckers, noatak penis holsters and noorvik numb-nut suckers. I don't think any homeless drunks in Anchoragua are from outside Northwest Alaska. Alcoholism is unique and specific to eskimo scralings and visited our adopted families long before our first boner. Seems the whole world of homeless Alaska midgets is our world. Mental retardation is like crap smears and fecal overspray: tag, yer it. Don't feel bad, my kids are choke and puke drunken zombie NANA-tards too. "After we hang a rat behind June Nelson Elementary, we drank down a case a Lysol. It was ral gud." (google brockett 99)

Back to our 8-week shit-ass trip to the white man town. I was lounging in the glorious sun on a park bench in Scareview scouting for jigaboos to shoot and an ASP van drove right up to us. Two big gumby and barny faggots heaved out and instructed bun she had to blow into some device. We both asked why and were advised of a report of a non-responsive intoxicated native female and bun fit the description. Then they lectured us about Jaclyn Goodwin finding her own private Idaho. She was a homeless drunk lost to family and friends, also not locatable in time for the NANA mobile drunk tank choke and puke van and found mutilated in a house full of gross drugs. My sober wife could be next.

I sure felt heavily armed, and angry but I told bun to go ahead and give a breath sample to these fine NANA negroes. It would've been hard to legally shoot these fat fucks and walk away, but I sure felt the need to make lots of noise and kill these goons. Bun blew a zero point zero and then informed these bloated jokers that we don't drink and that she hasn't consumed injun juice in 40 years. These two fat-fucks apologized for the inconvenience, then left me there all alone with an old sober native woman. Moreover a very pissed off and duly hacked old sober native woman.

Knowing me, my really great timing, I told bun that she'd just been profiled.

"Fucking whitey."

Living years in the Fairview-downtown corridor ye gotta be fucking smart, ye also gotta be tough too. I've tried various self-defense tools like big canisters of pepper mace, stun guns and every sort of pop-guns. Nothing works when I got three brothers on my ass or three homeless nates mobbing me like fucking zombies. Once everybody is within handshake, doobie and jug passage distance, self-defense is reduced to hand to hand and I'm 30 years past that fucking bullshit. So bun always got her nigger shooter. Ya-jay, bun sure like guns.

Wells Fargo bank and Alaska USA credit union were robbed on both sides of us and 3 darkies were murdered next door and the worst of the worstess: bed bugs. All the hotels in Anchorotten are infested with swollen ticks and mites that pop when ye smash 'em. Kind of like dead people, and the babies inside 'em. Me and bun phoned all around and couldn't find vacancies in nicer hotels and the bedbug website that lists all of Alaska's infested hotels, B&B's, roadhouses, hostels were packed with losers like us Kikiknig-runts.

Funny, to avoid blight, disease, drug violence and black on black homicides, me and bun gotta retreat back to the Quanna House. Me and bun will be stylin'. Medicaid travel on an 11 minute flight from Kenai to Anchorage, Medicaid voucher for cab fare from the airport to ANMC. Oh yeah, I gotta fill out all that Medicaid paperwork at the hospital...if I could just fucking find my Medicaid glasses.
Sounds absurd don't it? You all expect better out of me don't ye? Life ain't fair. And now you know, the rest of the story. I've just been profiled cuz Finns always pay. "Fucking whitey."

Despite her suffering seasonal arctic moods of murder cruel as fucking nativity, she also likes helping some of the sickest NW native mukes dig all around their homeless encampments for lost years, children's wings, husbands' halos, and even helped locate and refresh long lost memories. She tells me she resets their innate eskimo compass and find their back to NW Alaska to die and catch a ride-along with you guys all the way to the great Hereafter.

Bun's been helping non-natives find their way home too. Bun says Trooper Nay will be there in full regalia with all his guns and ribbons to hold my hand and to assist me through the cunnichuck that go out to front street and an awaiting procession of coppers and soldiers to steady me back up to boot hill and not be so scared. I still cry a lot, and I do my best crying when nobody ain't looking. 'Cept my very best mates: you guys.

And Trooper Nay. He's driving me back up Highway 99. To Brockett.


Monday, July 25, 2016

All's well that ends well. RIP PW13. AK too.

Top of the morning gents,

Me and bun are sure catching up with who's dead, who's in jail and familiar village faces holding cardboard signs all over Anchoragua begging for spare change. Yesterday we saw Richie Henry begging along side of the Sears Mall with a phony Veteran's plea for change scrawled on his dirty cardboard. Pretty fucking awful fact that he's not a veteran but is a POS niff. This morning we seen two of bun's classmates (meaning old no-teefers) all dirty and nasty panhandling with goofy cardboard signs alongside Ingra next to Fred Meyers. In front of Walmarts in midtown we seen dozens of ice niggers sleeping and drinking and trashing prime real estate with major tonage o' nate good stuff. Meaning Fort Yukon Luggage fucking all over. Bags of foul clothes, rotten foods, wrappers, beer cans, empty shittly liquor bottles and wads of toilet paper near bee hives that look like lumpy pee soup. Native food and lots of booze makes for runny shits. Remember, we're experts on native poop, we're from Kotzebue.

For me, it's not too difficult a transition from rural to urban, but a very different story for my adopted rural indigents. Even I tend to drink a lot more when I return to the white man town and the white man liquor stores. This is a really important lesson we all need to teach our darker loved ones partaking the mass exodus from the vill to the streets and dumpsters of Anchorage. Alaska can't handle any more homeless fucked up browntards. Since a LOT of fighting and finally closing all the bars and liquor stores throughout bush Alaska, most of our NANA regional immiktuks have migrated to Anchorage. Yup, lots of drunks that used to scrawg yer wives, children and dogs are now living the life of city subsistence. Meaning Brother Francis (bro fro), Beans Cafe and Downtown Soup Kitchen for food, clothing and shelter, while begging, sucking dick and taking it up the ass for booze. Yup, we really should instruct our migrating nates that the big cities ain't such a nice place for aborigines to live and die. And real tough on yer anus.

The worst drunks you ever met came from Washington: me and Higbitch. I cracked up bun and told her we should drive around and look for huge crowds of drunk zombie white motherfuckers. I've lived in Scareview for 6 summers now and my fucking god, it's nasty. We ought to have a big sign that says, "Welcome to Fairview. Niggers, Natives and No Trespassing Signs." I didn't make that up, I heard a black dude we've known for years named "nigger jim" wave and yell that to us, as he rushed into the 13th and Gambell Safeway Liquor Store. Reminded me of something Harold Wells told me, "ye can't have nothing nice in the village."

Wells was telling me all about growing up black in the ghetto-hood. Niggers and natives suffer the same mistreatment as any poor colored folk: beatings, robberies and rapes of elders and children who have zero defenses until they dial 911 and you cops show up. Sounds real fucking Eskimo don't it? These are the same asshole browntard nates consisting of the demographic body odor as the scum-niggers y'all coppers beat the hell out of and jailed. The same demograph that's pissing and shitting all over this nasty place we call Detroit Junior, "Anc-hole-orage." Harold Wells' radio moniker was PW13 and worked on the dredge sucking up prehistoric sludge and greens from the bottom of Devil's Lake and pumping the bilge muke all over the tundra surrounding our fine drinking water source. He'd radio in asking for some stupid white guy who made really good coffee downstairs at the old jail. I'd dispatch back that lots of morons worked here, but no good coffee. He'd laugh and tell me that the whole town listens to our radio chatter. Guess nobody disagreed with my shit humor about morons working at KPD. A Mexican Breakfast is coffee and bonghits, and yes, I do make a really good Half a Mexican Breakfast: fucking rich coffee.

One thing Wells told me struck me as pretty fucking brilliant. Before oil, Alaska got rich off the armed forces: infrastructure, supplies and wages. Bases all over the place like the Defense Early Warning System (DEW line), the not-so secret NIKE thermo nuclear missile launcher up on the hill above Anchorage, and bases all over Alaska. Almost all of which are long boarded up and packed with garbage and every fucking village me and bun lived in has military wreckage heaped all over. Galena, Nome, Barrow, Kotzebue and especially AssAnchorHole and Shitbanks. These garbage dumpsites were the drivers of Alaska's economy. Fuck, no more.

Oil replaced these previous revenue drivers and wage payers. Ya see, back in the day, all us fishermen and soldiers paid an income tax, sales tax AND what's called a head tax. All us out of town fish processors, rotating medical staff and military personnel paid out pert near 20% in local and state tax deductions. One time only taxes like a head tax is a flat $100 fee deducted from yer pay at the first of the year or from yer first paycheck. My pay had a deduction for the PAB (Pribilof Aleutian Borough) which paid for schools. I also had Fed taxes and SOA taxes withheld. I look forward to those days again.

Sometime in the early 80's an elected retard dildo buttfucker thought it smart to eliminate taxes on out of state workers like my brethren in the military, the fishing industry and the oil industry. Real smart. Now that layoffs abound and the wages statewide are in similar decline, it's a bit late to skim the cream off the top of all our paychecks. I also like sales taxes: on everything. Ya see, when I drew pay from holding items for the mob, selling blow and stealing at an astounding wholesale level I spent my dirty money everywhere possible to clean and wash it and repaint, remodel and decorate my crackhouses and mortuaries. A sales tax would've captured a tasty 10% skim off the top and would've harvested some of my loot for better causes than lining my pockets. Black markets are eventually spent on cars, stereos, drinks and pussy. Sort of crash course MBA for you non-money moron motherfuckers. Taxes are good at scraping the upper crust like us and diverting mucho dineros to the bums, natives and homeless like all my nugger in-laws.

Ya see, I don't point a stinky finger at others, I point it at myself. I've evaded so much tax regulation it should make you sick. My father tells me that I've cheated the IRS out of 10 times that much, "so pay the bill and be rid of them." He's right you know. It's time I pay a little into the system instead of extracting from it. When I buy shit, tax me. When I draw pay, tax me. When I snort blow, chug brewkies, puff expensive cigars or burn a hooter, fucking tax me. It's only fair. Like the song from Ten Year After, "tax the rich, feed the poor, till there are no rich no more."

Well maybe not that far.

So many out of state workers and out of state visitors have come and gone, gotten rich and not paid a speck of tax revenue. Fuck us. My home town of Barrow and the north slope paid for everything that's been built in Alaska during the last 40 years. That's all gone now, so Alaska's economy will deflate back down to how it was when bun was born. Dudes, we're talking territorial grimness and getting medieval on yer ass. Serious hardships await anybody still standing and sucking on our tits like a faggot res-bitch. When bun was a kid there weren't any fat people: starvation was the fucking norm. Food was hunted and cached and wages were earned. Food was the super-unleaded premium value top shelf item and traded, gifted and celebrated exactly like the stories you heard from yer elders. Now food is free and fat people roam the res and good hunters drink. Bun seen dozens of Eskimo clans digging through Air Force garbage and lugging food scraps all the way home. Sounds yummy. If me and bun stick around Alaska, I could get used to garbage grubbage. Walk to the dump and back, then chow down dude.

The litmus test or canary in the coal mine is already ringing the alarm up North. Chatting with my friends still living in Barrow trying to unload their homes, they can't even get what they bought their house for. My tenure up on the North Slope was exactly half-way through a 30 year mortgage. Yup, on year 15 ASRC no longer needed our duplex for crew housing for slope and project workers. That was an eye-opener dude. When the state's largest oil field service employer no longer needs housing and is laying off TONS of workers, ya might get a fucking clue as what the state is looking at. We started worrying about a huge depression in Barrow so we put the house up for sale. Boy did we miss that bullet. We bought the place for $220K and sold it for $255K. We made a meager $35K but grossed a dozen years of rents at four thousand a month. Not too shabby eh barts? 

That's all nice and groovy for me and bun, but what the hell is the rest of Alaska supposed to do? Ain't none of you rusty shooters read tea leaves nor gaze into crystal balls to steer us into our inevitably Michigan state of mind. Meaning real broke. You fuckers remember the 80's when we all got laid off from the PD and took work elsewhere. I got my first lay-off from KPD when lemon pecker-head brain onion Jeff Smith was shitty manager. Mike Dennis at the District Office liked my work as inventory clerk so he hired me as janitor and maintenance at the main office for the school district. My job was emptying out the print shop and all the offices and storage rooms packed with old school shit and lug it all down to Roger Nordlum's warehose. I even emptied out a half-dozen connex containers filled with fucking every imaginable piece of bullshit ever used in the history of the NWAB school district. Nearly a hunnert truck-loads driven by Albert Monroe, Howarth and Sommerfelt were loaded by me and unloaded in Nordlum's warehouse all winter and was the site of a huge junk sale and auction the summer following. Maybe that will be the big money maker for Alaska: junk sales, flea markets and picking for food at the Kotzebue K-Mart. The city dump dildos. Imagine me and bun digging for scraps of food and sharing them at the senior center with you crippled lot.

Our retirements and pensions are looking good now, but the state has a debt of $15 billion for our programs we paid into. All us PERS pensioners are guaranteed our benefits because of a 25% hold on the Permanent Fund. Yup, all the retirees have claim to a quarter of the Permanent Fund due to poor money management by folks in Juneau. All your contributions went in the General Fund and got spent on highways, hospitals and schools with the idea that our oil would never run out. Oops.

Thinking that the Permanent Fund will bail out the rest of the state ain't happening. By law and contractually the state will be paying our monthly checks and covering HUGE medical expenses for all of Alaska's Public Employees for years to come. As the big AK Depression comes along, we've already started looking at affordable places to live. Spokane, Washington is rolling out the red carpet for all ye graying gunslingers. Nice big hospitals (both native and non-native) are awaiting your plush medical, dental, vision and audio benefits, and happy to tap your Long Term Care options with brand new old folks' homes.

As the mad rush of baby-boomers who can't see or smell their own aging processes and are dying in piles, we're beating the tidal wave and investigating senior centers all over the Kenai Peninsula. You should too. Most old folks' homes have a minimum age of 55 such as the Cooper Landing and Sterling Senior Centers, but the one we like the most is the Soldotna Center has a minimum age requirement of 62. Shit, I gotta wait 7 fucking more years to join the blue hair club. So, we've started looking at Washington for a nice place to grow old and die.

Speaking of dying old folks like us, when ye get on in years, ye start to think of better places to die. Ye all know the bad places to die: on the toilet or far from yer wife and alone. Dying alone totally sucks dudes. We'll feel the brain freeze or chest crush and fall on or faces crying without the woman that's held our hand for fucking most of our life. Years ago and a continent away I used to secretly pray that I'd make it home so bun could make me my dying bed.  Dying in prison don't have that certain cool panache that us Finns foolishly dream of. Quite the contrary, it's sickening and so, so sad. One fellow convict and cellmate of mine died in prison and he asked that I remember him and tell his tale. "Sing of the dead Karl." "I'll hear you." Alas, narcs like me seldom get a choice of where we're gonna suck a bullet or hang. I don't mind dying in Alaska as long as bun is set up well, comfortable and close to me. I pray she doesn't have the heartbreaking chore I fail to drink off my mind: the chore of burying loved ones alone. Our wives may already know this, but tell 'em you love them anyway, "tomorrow might not be here for you."

Full circle mates, I left my old self and Washington wrecked and during a horrid depression, now we'll soon leave Alaska and our bodies in the same shape. The sign on the border with Canada and our tombstones will simply state "Last one leaving this fine place, please empty my honey bucket."


Sunday, July 17, 2016

Driving and crying.

Top of the morning gents,

God bless my wife she sure is funny, today she wanted to "go ANS and see natives." Yup, the ANuS is where I always find 'em. I don't have the guts to correct the Mrs. that the new native hospital is now called ANMC. Alaska Native Medical Center for all you nigger shooters. Some things are best left alone. My bunnik is rounding the big 66 this September and trying to continually correct NANA elders towards proper "tunnik" wordage is a high risk venture and possibly a "gussuk" fool's errand: could get me chopped up and eaten. I've totally accepted my titular acronym of SFWM, stupid fucking white man, earned it and wear it, loud and proud. Despite my complete lack of Nativity, mud lives matter and this norse-mutt is solely authorized to write about deadly hybrid folks like us.

Me and bun parked in the designated native elder slot. They're just like handicapped parking but without all the blue gimp logos. We ditched the gun under my seat, walked in the front door and plopped down near the check-in desk at Quanna House. We just sat and watched a long line of injured sick booger decorated village arrivals argue about Medicaid Lodging squinting at all the paperwork with real thick Medicaid glasses. Lots of screaming boogered kids in Medicaid diapers reeking like rural skinky butt-sex that put a hurt on my nose. No sweat, poop-stench don't bother us, we're from Kotzebue, down with the brown and senior center bound.

I'd collected shit-loads of hot sauce packets and just for fun I tore them open a little bit, then handed them out to all the hyper-anxious screaming little kids. Shortly later the crying included moms and dads who'd somehow gotten fire-ass hot irritants all over their shit too. Bun looked at me and thought out loud "run nigger, time to book." After a hunnert years of marriage us old Indun primate silver-backs read minds. Bun sure hates kids and dogs, but real pretty, smart, laughs at my shitty humor and is the only human that waits for me to return when beatings, gun shots, dog attacks and overseas narc jobs have gone horribly wrong. She's also the only human that sits with me in the ambulance, ICU and the emergency room.

During my extended black-site retreat in jail, I've held onto sacred notions that all you coppers were waiting for me too. Notions that upset me so bad that to this day, I hide my crying in secret. I do my best sobbing in the private so nobody can see me, 'cept you mates.

Four and thirty years ago me and bun walked out onto the Kotzebue Airport tarmac, boarded a Mark Air jet and flew all the way to Seattle. Upon arrival bun startled my brother Cully by pulling a loaded 357 magnum revolver out of her purse. He commented "What's up with the fucking gun?" Bun responded we always carry guns due to Karl's work and two of her childhood friends were torn to shreds by packs of dogs, so she always likes shooting strays. But to his continuing dismay he further inquired, "Yeah, but on a goddamned airplane?" Oh shucks, guess me and bun are air marshalls too. Way back in the 80's you just walked onto jets at the ol' OTZ terminal, so guns were no biggey. Bun sure likes guns.

Nowadays, I've got to remember to ditch our pistols before entering banks, bars, courthouses and post offices. I've also got to do the same before entering ANMC. At the entrance to native bars, they got bins for backpacks etc. I just clunk my vest in one and pick it up on the way out. Hell, to reduce my symptomatic PTSD I only drink club sodas and coffee but no bong hits, so I won't get a writ fer MIW. Now that I drive again a gun is essential for aggressive drivers that wave with missing fingers and horns louder than gunfire. Aside from a presidential motorcade very few cars on the road are armored so fenders and windshields only add shrapnel to well placed shots to the headrest. As the old Eskimo slogan goes, "white man, big truck, little kookoo." Even white women can drive big trucks and SUV's and if you can gag through their smell, unfold their elephant biscuit labials, you'll also find a teeny tiny penis. Exactly where my side-gunner aims, right in a bitch's uch. Bun always tell me that white women all got AIDS and only think with their dick, better known by old native women as "the little white man in the boat."

After visiting with our blessed chief of police me and bun had to drive all the way back to Los Anchorage. A redneck truck-butt-fucker with no mufflers was roaring down the Glenn Highway burning plumes of motor oil pissing everybody off and in the back of his truck were 3 nasty dogs barking at all the passing cars: with no chains holding them in. My wife bunnik rolled down her window and let loose a super loud thumb and fore-finger whistle. Fuck me, one of the fucking dogs turned his head our way, lept out of the truck and was instantly run over by a dozen cars in the thick blue smoky exhaust wake. That pitbull exploded and turned into nuts and butts juicy road-kill burger and Jesus fuck there was guts and red paint all over the highway. Bun stated that dog is now a good dog. Bun sure likes watching dogs launch airborne and blow up. We sure laugh.

Old Induns can grow fangs and in wolf packs cut off all yer goony googoos and chow down on yer eyelids, cheeks and gonadular grapefruits. I've seen feeding frenzies on surveillance video from behind the Kotzebue Senior Center and seen a fucking hunnert zombie elder native woman feasting on fresh human organs. The cutest and smartest boys and girls from June Nelson Elementary disappear behind that horrible place. Late at night the dark parts of any senior center are extraordinarily dangerous: except for all our half-breed retard kids, just look at any Alaska highschool yearbook, only the dull and ugly graduate to the age of breedhood. All the cute and bright micro-nates are long gone and are now airborne asspaint stool samples in yer akka's kuktaq (old lady poo stew honey bucket). I've hauled easily a thousand honey buckets from 'round and under houses 711, 676 and 369 to the old dump. Me, Marty Hall, Harley Bronson, Scott Wade and Big Dumb Dale have seen tons of half-eaten excrement that resembled numerous missing native children. Instead of posting their photos on milk cartons, put 'em on 5 gallon buckets. Smart pretty native kids fly through an elder Induns ittiq faster than shit through a goose.

Every time we walk through the native hospital bun hugs and cries and laughs and shares tall tales with really old blue hairs. I also gain material for these am cop talks. Cop talks that are now old murderous man talks. Death may be not proud, but I'm proud to work with you soldiers. Tears of joy mates. Without all you graying gunslingers I would've never survived to tell these tales. Pert near 40 years ago I met bun and started drawing pay with you old shooters. Now we're looking headlong into a grave recalling a fucking lot of pain, misery, suicide and homicide with detailed personal clarifications and crime scene photos from you rusty killers. Of course bun adds language expertise, old Eskimo context and her wonderful nightmarish sense of native humor. God bless my wife. She sure is funny.

Audiigaa, we sure laugh.

Karl. .

Sunday, December 15, 2013

Ten Commandments Fer All Ye Retarded Commandants.

Top of the morning gents,

Even a broken clock is right twice a day, and yup, Euro-trash often tell me I'm "daft as a two bob watch." So forgive me if I'm repeating myself like a fucking broken record. As stated heretofore: retirement is a bitch. It's also a really hard time due to widely varying latent adult maturity levels and my absolute NAZI financial security we've implemented so now we gotta clip our buddies that crapped out and never chased a drug, pussy, mortgage portfolio nor academic potential. Retirement is a process of isolation and locking in a bulletproof and ironclad spousal companionship for the REAL long haul. All the way to the bone yard, squirrel canyon or boot hill. Give it a fucking name but it doesn't include dysfunctional assholes.

Watch out for inbreeding sibling traps, scam-niggers, stoner rip-offs, incestual ambushes and wallet moochers. Some folks that you've hated for years will become real nicey-nicey and fucking camp yer porch. Weird in-laws, old buddies and bucket neighbors magically remember yer email address, phone numbers and goddamned ghetto-vil house number. This will not do. Water seeks its own level and the world is perfect exactly as it is: I like life now. You fucking better start liking life too.

The rumors are true I've been a major fucking dick to my best friends from the Edmonds FAS mud farm, Lem's mortuary and crack house and even most of my tundra nigger buddies from Krotchebue and Barrow. I close down relationships as fast as I establish them: few folks get the existential picture I'm painting. You play with me and grandma ye might get raped or run over, shot or beaten up. Or worse: relapse. Our silver playpen still contains hazardous materials and people. Me and bun travel, wine and dine, bar hop, pub crawl and sponsor commercialized marijuana despite minimal chemical graffiti and carpal tunnel wrists writing you lot. The physical demands of retirement kill small children. And pussies.

Some of our best douche bag friends and coworkers that zeroed out in the financial world now look at you AK PERS TIER 1 buttfuckers with much lust and covet licking chops. I fucking get emails from up-river monkey-niggers, tired UAF pussy and all yer ex-wives with invites and offerings of freeze-dried poontang that smells like black girl seal oil. When word gets out that yer retired, wealthy and can still tear the shit outa delicate floral petal arrangements as well as mammoth uch, half the NANA Region will send you scratch and sniff greeting cards. Greeting cards odiferous and entrancing as the Kotzebue Jail: after gumby hatches aborted eskimo cow pies out his yard long distended anus.

Being retired well is never childproof. Remember when yer nugger wiffs started shitting out chimplets and y'all stopped hanging around party animals? Same thing with retirement, ye gotta stop hanging around working people or families with kids, retirement is far too dangerous. Don't hang with folks that are already having money problems. How many bozos have cashed out their pensions and now looking at all you old retards for a handout? Fuck that shit.

Me and bun are always running financial analyses on all our beer garden buddies and gooner grower dudes. Alaskans are such thieving fuckers. When bun walks down any street in Nome, Clam Gulch or Soldotna her heavenly milker milluks swim upriver defying gravity whilst rattling her jewelry, pocketbook and change purse. Fucking a-hole Alaskans only see dollar signs and start inflating their suck ass nigger lips in prep for mooching. I fucking hate moochers. Bun will deflate yer swollen cunt face with a rock and rip yer lips off when she sees ye puffing up yer ass-sucking cheeks: "Don't even start. My tits are dry!" It's also her email signatory mantra. It's no coincidence we avoid family AND village friends that can't keep their hands in their own pockets. And off my dick. Fucking aunts, daughters and single old women become evermore needy and demanding.

We already spent pert near $100K on Sara Magnum's cosmetic teeth and face, travel and schooling in Seattle, now we're discussing investing in bun's beauty: I'm thinking of wheelbarrow sized breast implants with real bourbon reservoirs. Silver hair, perfect teeth, slim figure, tighter cooter and bigger milker jugs and bun's good to come. I mean go. Fuck, I'm thinking whacking material again aren't I? Goatboys are us. Pimp yer wife, she's yer ride. New headlights and tailpipe make every man's heart fonder and dick longer. Fat dicks make post menopausal women feel really sexy. Then worried. Bun's most recent thought was I could get a penis reduction operation. Funny old nigger ain't she?

Now I hurt granny biscuits with only half my dick. Tall finns wear inflated cushions around their dicks to prevent lacerations and tearing of the most vaginally deep kind. On the good side it sure is erotic parking only half the limo in the carport at the Old Nugger Pussy Hotel with luggage stacked high and dry outside in the parking lot and all yer baggage has to hang out in the hallway.

I surely hope I'm making fucking sense. Illiterate FAS mud farmer flogged toddler finns like me use colorful colloquialisms racist, stunning imagery sexist, gross exaggerations uteral, fecal putrid alliteration and ironic inconsistencies abound to illustrate the awful fact that the hot chicks here at the senior center USED to be loose. Not no more. Every gray cloud has a silver lining, Post menopausal pussy smells way better than the roller coaster ride and blood spatter bleeding hut. Yup, me too. I let a monster into my life: an evil being that used to bleed all week yet NEVER fucking died.

My grandfathers advised me to never let a bitch break your adolescent heart, when yer my age they throw themselves at yer feet. Women are just like fucking dog doo: old ones are much easier to pick up. Deepest pussy I ever pushed the bottom out of was a petite drop-dead gorgeous tiny beauty from Ukraine in her early 20's, that darling little cooter peach telescoped all the way between her lungs prompting her to sing quietly in my ear oh so beautifully then cry out to comrade and country. Call me Alfie or Dr. Zivago but she was one of many tearfully pretty muses and alas heartbroken swollen breasted angels.

I fucking hate myself. Just last night I wept whilst dreaming about legions of naked nymphs that absolutely loved and adored me. I wept like a baby to be honest. Some jobs shorten my lifespan. I get acquainted, fall in love, arrested, detained and suffer extreme rendition. I'm an addict for romance, dubiously legal yet fresh pussy and heartbreaks: same shit different contract. Have gun will travel. I've enjoyed so much love and affection from the most beautiful women in the world and ironically fortunate for me, the darkest and prettiest one married me.

Us retired old farts got the best smelling bush in the Bush. The old gray mare she ain't what she used to be, but this retarded neanderthal sure enjoys riding her. I'll sell her to the glue factory next year.

Last year I ran into Tom Evans in Anchorage. Man sure looks different, walks different too. He lectured me and bun that being overweight plus nicotine equals double amputation. Fat fucker walks on special olympics high tech prosthetics from the knee down. Old Dispatcher #3 now books on diabetic gimper dude tennies.
As always bun shared she was retired Tier 1 PERS whereupon Evans whined he'd cashed all his out and was a "cripple surviving on disability." How depressing. Real winner that guy. Don't be that guy.

A friend in need is a pest: merry welfare and a happy food stamp ye fucking dildo. Lose the nicotine, lose the weight and you'd be surprised how much farther yer dick sticks out. And how wonderful it is to have functioning feet, toes and testicles. I've kept my weight exactly at my high school number over the last decade and now my pill cabinet contains only aspirin, vitamins and fiber caps. A few crumbs of gooner bud. Lots of KY too. Doc Sollenberger took me off ADHD amphetamines, numerous diabetes and blood pressure drugs years ago, now I just have to work on my drinking habits that are too fucking Alaskan and not enough Norse. Drink to yer health, but avoid drunks, inebriates and spin cycle dry alcoholics and twitchy bitchy nigarette smokers. Pot smokers, now that's an entirely different picture. OPEN sign on my door if yer offering green beer and green tokes.

Steer clear of silver back gorilla grunt-rut bitches whining fer dick. Drunks, whores, skanky stinkies, anal bitches, and most party goers are there to poach married men. Few people poach married women. Ick. Besides, any old gaper broads showing interest and asking if you have a twin brother or son, they're already applying bag balm to yer donkey putter.

Menopause is an easy read, makes women look evil and glowing. Down here on the KP we got lots to choose from. The Kenai Borough contains more old folks than the rest of the state, so even the druggies are old rotten blue hairs, the place is just filled with short sharp shallow grisly chewy pussy. Sort of like Palmer, but more money. Nice trucks and SUV's, pedigree dogs and ugly old white women y'all never lick nor pork. All the old KP clitoris look a lot like snapping turtle beaks that are so brittle they'll shatter on yer cervical jackhammer and glue gun.

Be ready to kill dickheads by the dozen and forgive yourself in advance. In our old age, some assholes are too rank to arrest or set up in a sting. Best ye just dump a shot gun blast in their upper torso, rob the house and grow rooms, then burn the entire nigloo. No fire crew can douse a house fire containing burning tires, sizzling man roast, pressed rat collection, dog legs and feet. Toasted nigger nuggies dude. As elderly cops and criminals, we need to choose our unclassified felonies with great care and at least keep them to no more than once a week. This means having to throw perfectly good guns on the piece of shit and walk away.

And I mean walk. Or bus, bike or cab. A car is more traceable and trackable than a cell phone. Working server admin and computer lab rat monitor we had to pencil in code assigning unique IP numbers to any available modem identified operational on our network. A network consisting of 2 Cray Supercomputers and with only 7 in existence this mug was hired to loosen up old school 'puters and get them talking to each other. As in re-writing some of the text in Hyper Text Telephone Protocol: the http part of every web address. Now servers, routers and towers in cell phone nets are used in targeting locations for almost anything, lighting your house as you drive up the driveway, parking and taxi cab apps and drone assassinations.

No shit, our old work at UAF is now used in highly sophisticated ways to keep the net up to date where you are. Location, location dudes. At all times yer cell phone is located 3 ways via GPS, hence term triangulation that determines who gets a drone missile up yer fucking ass and who's phone call is dropped to another tower, your cord free micro-modem is sought out by another router and server. If my name shows up on your old school Y1K Nokia cell phone, throw it away and run. Someone's fucking dying.

I'm no longer brilliant, that damn mouse wins me through the mazes too much and all the doctors simply thank me, shake my hand and wipe their eyes without telling me what PTSD, STD, VD and early onset concussive Alzheimers means. Bunnik is proud of me still. She tells me unbelievable bedtime stories of her husband's service to her village, town, city, state and country. Fucking stories that only serve to give me nightmares. When you have dementia like me, everybody is a stranger everyday. One guy I see every morning sure looks like Jesus. Scars don't match up though. Nigger needs a fucking shave too.

Silly me, I'm such a fucking soak and stupid old git. Despite recalling all yer gun oil body odors and tobacco liquor voices, I must beg your forgivess, for I can no longer remember your names.

I simply repeat to myself that Christmas is always just around the corner, bar's open and you soldiers are really proud of me. But one thing we all know: I don't know much anymore. Don't hear much neither. When
I reluctantly listen above my roaring tinitus, I occassionally hear someone near and dear in uniform weeping, then passing away.

I'm schizophrenic and so am I and it's sincerely been an honor and a privilege working with you all.


Friday, October 11, 2013

Despite tattered uniforms, broken bones. Growing old ain't fer pussies.

Top of the morning gents,

You can tell I'm old. My friends in uniform fart dust. Being old is better'n dead though. Suck it up and take it like a man, growing old ain't fer pussies. You uniforms need to start thinking and acting like the last fucking generation of American prosperity with decades of stagnation, decline and world wars to look forward to. My kind of universe. Fuck ye.

Listen up fucks. Before my forecasted civil war and we ship all Africans, Mexicans and Natives back home, take the time to floss, walk, eat metamucil, vitamins and of course yank yer crank. Daily. Besides, I just flossed and flicked out bits of Soviet tobacco, cully bud resin and silver mongoloid pubes. Call my Nordic loud mouth "Cuntsmoke."

Statistics show a significant increase in longevity if your gums and choppers are in primo shape, ye walk yer dick off and most important: ye crap big, smooth, shiny non-stick brown trout out yer ass, and pee lots of vitamin yellow beer foam. We ain't kids no more, you can stop eating from the garbage pile like gumby, drinking rot-gut liquor like Ham or Blanchard, smoking shitty nigarettes like Jewell, crapping runny brown water out yer fucking ass like Downing or week old cement blocks the size of Wallace loaf constipate. Taking a healthy shit is the 907th wonder of the world and oughta be SO smooth ye yield zero Eskimo evidence on yer TP. On a good day yer crap smear oughta come back negative.

You'll have to school yer rancid marsupial pussy spouses on our culturally pedestrian old fart lifestyle most healthy: lose the purses and handbags. If ye ain't got yer shit pocketed, then ye better keester her shit up her penis holster. 3 little kittens may have lost their mittens, but accessories are fer cunts (literally), not maturely frosted booty. When yer no-nut brown spouse misplaces wallets, purses and gloves due to old bitty drain-bramage, us men will have to carry the damn things. That's fag shit. If yer bitchy niffwich insists she tote so much crap, put it all in the backpack on the wheelchair in the foyer, then tie the old no-teefer salmon cruncher to Werneke's garbage truck. Ye ain't racist if ye married nugger. Real fucking dumb maybe.

Scorched Earth to Retard: Don't mess up yer schedule, daily routines are habit-forming, especially when they're healthy Charlie Daniels kinda habits. Get stoned in the morning, git drunk in the afternoon. Or as Sgt. Waller phrased it back in 1889, "wake and bake, strong coffee, shit shower shave, then gun up." Fucking around with yer sleep cycles is just retarded. Four percent of your cones and rods are dedicated to circadian cycles. Something we inherited from our reptilian and amphibian lineage akin to gills at 12 weeks. Prenatal OTZ bar hopping and rotating KPD shiftwerk will fuck yer shit up: great-grandchimps too.

Us old retarded folks do really well with good regular sleep, woof down vitamins and stay happily married. This part totally sucks: "happily married" as in a long term relationship...monogamous and healthy: sexually, physically and psychologically. Yup. me too. Strike three. I married a native.

In the year of our Lord 1980 I came to Alaska to run away from stupid shit. Even before the turn of the century I took work overseas to run away from stupid shit. You guys should've at least said something. You funny fuckers simply stood by and watched me fuck up and suffer. The stupid shit is right here. It was me. My brother Cully once said, "You'll never know who Karl's gonna care about." A whole culture of misfit scraling ice darkies north of mason-dixon. Fuck me.

Now hold on a second fuckface, I ski full-length mirrors with my big nose and snow board frosted snot peaks followed by a champion breakfast of Industrial Bong cocoa-puffs. I awoke one day in Krotchebue adopted by an army of cops and funny minded monkey talking Eskimos. In an epiphanic moment of clarity and dumber'n shit career move, I turned all my guns on my own kind.

Whose uniform am I wearing? Why are all these fucking cops in my phone book and email contact list? What happened during the years of empty space on my resume? Figure it out nigger head. Extreme rendition, frequent beatings and lots of drug abuse makes for a really unstable graying gunslinger. I suffered more shell shock from my years of triplicate passport shredded narcwerk, than my years of narcommerce.

Yes, my mother was also retarded (that's pretty funny) and God could have made me bright, but I fail to grasp the humor. So fuck, alas, I laugh at my own dumbass and the silly notion that I could ever make a difference in villages AK run by nigger mob rule.

Fuck! A life of community service working with you cops preceded by a life of really good Mountlake Terrace drugs and Edmonds venereal disease. Yup, the community service decision was real fucking dumb. When I served the Lincoln Administration, I was the biological Dept of War agent that delivered all them rail-car loads of poopy diseased blankets to all them pockmarked Induns. Then in later iterative reincarnations, I'm testi-lying in court against coke head drunkbake assholes just like me. Hell, stupid me. I do narc jobs pro-bono. Free. Volunteer of America. And Apartheid Alaska.

We need another Lincoln, or someone just like him: Hitler. My narc work is close enough: a war on human rights. My kind of war. Civil war never ended: just our uniforms. We ain't from Alaska, but Alaska loves fleeing war criminals, exiled soldiers, confederate cowboys and lynched lawmen.

Enough about serving in the wars on drugs, colored folk, natives, liberal midgets and lesbian buttfuckers, I'm bitchin' at y'all uniforms to age like professionals. No shit, floss fuckheads, drink lots of metamucil or fiber caplets with yer fucking vitamins. And walk yer dick off.

One thing I've not told any of ye. Most restaurant food is low in fiber and vitamins but on the plus side high in fat, salt and sweets. When we retarded, we had only 2 people to cook for. But I ate for 6. Big servings and all the leftovers. One day I ran out of weed and that was the last day I grazed on shit ass leftovers. Stale moldy dried out foods taste yucky without pot.

Say goodbye to the kitchen ye wrinkled coonass neegroids. Eat out, drink out. Save money. No dishes, no native food smells. Cooking is so weird with no kids, no pets nor dumber nugger grand kids to dump gross food on and send 'em home sick. Fuck leftovers. If bun don't got a whole 907 niggerhood to cook for, I handcuff her to the sewing machine. I'm learning to enjoy cafeteria food at the senior center. If I'm way-baked I'll woof down frozen microwave dinners with a side order litre of Finnish White Wine. Vodka niggers.

Also, get a couple pairs of good hiking boots. Aside from the Sorrel winter boots, invest a small bundle in combat tenny runners or extra tuff walking shoes too. Pavement don't need monster boots even down to 10-20 below. But I mean it, get some good traction and sole between you and 'crete dude. AssPhault cruisers or geriatric felony fliers are for fucking dork-ass blue-haired gomers: those huge bright white shoes old granny crusted tourists wear are gay as shit.

We burn up fucking shoes. We always inspect our footwear for blow outs, worn heels and defects and pick native butt-nuggies out the tread, then we flee the senior center and book it to Walmarts or Fred Meyer, grab a new set of skins and ditch the toasted nasty shoes in or next to the shopping mall garbage bin. I like wearing my new shoes on the walk home: feels good and I get to show them off to the older residents in the native wing. "Neener-neener nana neeger."

And another thing: ain't nobody got dick rot here at the senior center. We only wear condoms fer blow jobs cuz diane henry down the hall once told me I haven't lived till a native gal takes her teeth out for me and she keeps a condom under her upper dentures. She's a real professional there dudes. Deepthroat yer donkey, eat yer load. Rubber and all with only alligator gums. Felt like she keeps a condom up her ass cuz when I pulled out she farted prophylactic bubbles filled with retarded Octuck sperm all over her wheelchair.

Yup, I laugh at stupid shit too. She don't fart dust like all us, but like yer wives.

Mind you. Good for the goose, better for the gander. Adding up the infidelity of yer nugger wives, you guys all got truckloads of savory sweet white pussy coming yer way. When ye get back home to the senior center smelling peachy and snatchy and hangin' WAY low, simply remind her of the times she was screaming, grunting, farting and sweating underneath our coworkers and her in-laws both before and after you got married.

Hell, just look at yer nugger runtlet chimps: some look like mudrace halfbreed buttfucker clans strangely similar to Erlich, Westlake, Schaeffer, Baker and Tom Peters. Hence epidemic OTZ/FAS AKA Kiana Herpes and Noatak HIV AKA butt-ugly child syndrome with their wandering Inutard infant eyes (and asscheeks ikriq) so far apart. GIGO...garbage in (the pussy)...garbage out. Them guys dick everything that stinks. Even little boy butt-pussy. Go native ah?

See? Fair is fair. As heavily armed round eye gwylo nazis: we got about 17 sets of heaven sent biscuit to catch up to the number of lovers and rapists our nugger wives have scored compared to the surprisingly small number you white cops have sacked. Call it your bucket list that may soon be overflowing: as soon as Cathy Trr and Nurse Medicate (catheter chemicals up her pisser, poo cavern and clooch) make their floor rounds: douche and wash colonic and narcotic.

As yer wife nods off and returns to coma status, just whisper "sleep tighter sweetheart" and come join me. I always spit out my pills and stuff them in old man John Ward's colostomy bag, then squeeze the contents back into his abdomen. Hell, I'm already climbing out the facility window to sneak a toke with squish. Fuck, senior homicidal moment, I forgot I was gonna suffocate someone with my pillow.

Or my diaper.

After yer wives' first stroke simply tell them these big-boobed young ladies are assisted living attendants that double duty as angelic Florence Nightengales for our overgrown fart hammers. After menopause, she'll thank you from the bottom of her deep throat. Contrary to modern anglicized myths about elderly eskimo women: you can pack way more meat in her mouth-than her cooter.

Good is bad, right is wrong. But you cops decided which is right, I'm your very own warrant-less assault on sub-human rights. I cake this universe of text with rendered bucket honey I call the crossroads of the occidental and the oriental. Analogous to the genetic intersection between Europe and fucking China. More simply: where you'll find white donkey bags slapping brown slagger biscuit and shitloads of cross-eyed retarded brown chimplets. Rapeville dudes, taint of the universe, land of the anus colored folk: Cuntfart County, NWAK.

Ya see, growing old ain't fer fucking pussies. Neither is my shitty writing. Ye gotta have a HUGE sense of humor, lots of KY, BIG heart, gentler half of your penis and even bigger understanding of the care and feeding of elderly Eskimo women. Thou wives shall smoke bone or smash their windpipes and burn 'em up at 7-Lakes.

Watching all ye soldiers fer the last 300 or so years, we sure struggled with issues regarding faith. The money comes and goes, then it sticks around and attracts even more. But I see divorce, desertion, depression and anti-cyclical death 'round ya'll and yet you're still reading my stupid shit so that means you all got hope. Also means a lot to your author on drugs, liar in uniform and long dead gunslinger.

My side of the mountain and our side of the state has always been a magnet for dying uniforms, racially and culturally confluential and ground zero for stampeding people in fucking tidal waves upon the shores here at the wrong end of the North American continent where the worst civil aspects of colliding cultural masses are adopted and retained.

Hope is good. Unless yer a fucking soldier. Ye got wars to fight. Chimplet AK will forever be an extraordinarily violent epoch moment of no hope. That's why ye coppers are here: dead-ended ghosts in tattered uniforms follow migratory wars tectonic, exterminations wholesale, extinction a compli and nativistic subduction.

I absolutely love writing y'all, but brevity is the soul of wit, so I best floss fangs, take my vitamins and shut the fuck up.

aBorIgiNaLly yOuRs,

chArLey gOrdoN itO





































Thursday, September 12, 2013

How can a soul ever un-see shit?

Top of the morning gents,

How do you uniforms un-see something?

I'm trying to un-see some things. Things that hurt to not think about too.

After a hunnert letters, books and upsetting council, Irish Mick Fuck Commander Craig Sir! advised me of an old SAS/OSS mental exercise to distance myself from the images we can't even talk about. In a nutshell, convert yer nightmare memory images to b/w then reverse telescope the horrible blood on canvas portrait away from us. No kidding, take the color out of the horror, then let the image flee from you, forever getting further and further away. As time goes by, you no longer will feel so homicidal and burdened with Jacob Marley's iron chain weight of guilt. From a psuedo-conterfeit-christian view, I need to understand the bigger picture that these long gone souls are in a better place. Or fucking hell.

Craig's lectures parallel my wife's sagely advice to wrap a painful and hard memory inside a soft bookcover and then walk over and physically set this parchment wrapped nightmare on the bookshelf, then take SaraMag, Harley and that retarded Mendenhall boy out near Squirrel Canyon or past the lagoon up above Lucy Nordlum's Camp Ivik and shoot birds, barrels and bottles.

Works for bun, she can no longer remember how many times she's been molested, raped and beaten as a child by elder InuTurd Asshole Wrinkled Dicks. Makes ye hate all elder natives, don't it? Raping shit-ass Ice Niggers: all of 'em. Most times I fucking hate my wife's entire race, culture and the way her monkey relations fuck each other for the last 10,000 years too.

On one of my many bouts with poor impulse control, anger management and employed overseas and risking predictable incarcaration, I spent idle hours healing, days hungry during months of scheduled and vigorous questioning. My remedy was to simply remember, recall and re-live fishing off b&r docks, poaching fucking everything upriver near spud farm. Ya see, even under extreme duress I would fill my soul with silly old visions, smells and sounds with my fellow agents VPSO Mashburn, Fields and Ramoth. Despite my caucasian arrogance, those boys never did give a shit that I wasn't Alaskan, brown, kind nor illiterate. Fun job, cut down a few hangers, lugged out old-aged croaker niffukuns and shot a lot of foods. I grew up, found my balls, but this tin Finn-man never found his heart.

Good times. Not. With images of lifting shitty Eskimo rope a dope neck stretch suicides and gallons of gastic juices soaking my duly sworn brown shirt, I just can't seem to drink it off my mind. One of our own: Officer NUSH dispatched an AK arrestee sapien, numerous canine detainees and even killed a patrol car door: all with 9 or 10mm. He and I have discussed these job-related moments of no hope. He'll be alright. Me too.

Maybe not. Maybe not ever. Just take a look at me. Now take a look at his dad. When me and kim are in the same room, same page and same sentence: we're drinking, we're smoking. We ain't livin'. Just visit yer dead and loved ones at the senior center (God's waiting room): Nicotine, alcohol and AK midochondria flavored lippy brown biscuit are now no longer so damn dangerous.

On another job I seen a boy freeze to the sidewalk. Hard as a rock and glued to the ground just as solid as the homo-erectial corpse Richie Reich and Scott Whalen chopped to shit, licked and humped full of pink sperm, then froze inside the 1974 Dodge Homosedan outside Midnight Sun Cab. Scott and Richie are in hell and happy as dikes in Aushwitz.

I was on a job in Soviet Moscow, walking maps, pavement artistry and surveillance pursuing a target that my SUPO/US handlers deemed to a be very bad guy that I should get to know and love. I stepped into a bodega shop fer nigarettes and a kid bolted past me out the door. The shop owner started yelling in Russian "Stop thief!" Two coppers were ambling nearby, heard all the commotion and ran to intercept this kid. They didn't arrest him, they beat him really hard with PR-24 type truncheons, killed him, returned the stolen merchandise to store owner, took their generous cash tip, then left.

After my evening meeting with my handlers, I walked home and found the boy frosty and frozen solid to the sidewalk like a little porcelain cherub figurine broke-winged boy angel. Despite massive head injuries and frozen solid, the poor kid looked at me like he was related to me. Even dead, and again this morning in the middle of this page of text, his eyes still see me and I haven't gotten over it.

Poor kid, little boys are always the last to know they're dead.

My chechen pals Yousef and Oleg Seleznev from the UAF shooting team had put the finger on a real bad muslim player. To my evil supers the finger meant green light go and he was scheduled for execution. My job was to find him, photo him and report back. If I could get a fecal, hair, urine or skin samples, dirty fucking underwear, hairbrushes, or toothbrushes: anything his organs came in contact with, then I would've greatly please my SUPO and US bosses.

I found him. And his vicious partner. I moved in with my UAF shooters to kill them, then capture and interrogate them. In the shittiest ethnic neighborhood in Moscow and in the worst piss soaked apartment building I've ever seen, even worse than 29/41 unit OTZ, we kicked their door in and shot the whole grovel to pieces. But zero body count fer my AK sick 907 scorecard.

Within minutes I got an encrypted email from my SUPO team leaders that my targets sniffed us out and were booking it back to safe-keeping. I phoned my bosses with their probable vectors. Seconds later the LEO Russo version of BOLO APB was issued and these two monsters had been detained. One problem: they were now in police custody and I couldn't get my hands on them to torture the shit outa them.

My SUPO/US bosses simply ordered me to improvise.

I like that word 'improvise', makes everything perfectly clear. So we killed them both. Including the court service officer that was escorting them to the courthouse. Reports of car bomb destroyed the court transport van, all the occupants and the entire side of the courthouse. Investigators merely had skulls to gather to match the inmate roster. And the driver in uniform.

For me, it was the beginning of the waiting time till I book.

I was sitting in the Moscow State School monkeying around in the compurter lab when I got nice congratulatory message mission accomplished. They also advised that 2 extra skulls were onsight and radio silence from my UAF partners.

This kind of mistake stings don't it? This mistake hurt as bad, maybe worse than that little kid on ice.

We built the bomb with 4 five-gallon buckets filled with fertilizer soaked with heating oil and attached a simple string of blasting caps hooked to a stripped down garage door opener. When I hit the remote control button to open up the garage, the whole building opens up. Nice huh? This car bomb didn't require bb's, nails or scrap metal, ours was an impact explosion distorting the integrity of all metal and concrete structures within burnt ear-shot, including the sand-niggers inside.

I saw the blue Ladda sedan next to the old rusty Vauxhaul coupe easily within range of my vantage point. On orders, we had to put in duplicative redundancy to our plan, so the old Vauxhaul was merely filled with buckets of fertilizer/diesel mash. No fuses were installed on this car, the concussion of the primary blast is sufficient to detonate the second car. With all the commercial ordinance available: C4, new plastic shape charges or even trinitrotolulene (tnt) our orders were to utilize deceptive materials and to direct any subsequent investigations away from us. Mind you, it is SO much easier to send in regular uniforms to blow shit up, but the residual signatures would be obvious, damning and stupid. So we made our fireworks look poor, muslim and chechen. Eskimo Tech bitches.

I put in my bright orange sponge ear plugs and when the van was right next to my double whammy, I ducked below the window, held my garage door opener up to the glass then pressed the button.

Can't undo that manmade disaster.

I dusted off, peeled off my workclothes, put on my best shoes, slacks, sports coat and long black dress coat and with camera in hand, I lit a French Galoises nigarette and went with the crowds to gawk, rubber neck and take pictures. I took some fucking great pictures, then walked to the tram and headed back to the campus and our dorm rooms to await further instructions.

After the message that my MIA UAF shooters had accomplished something extraordinary, nothing. Not an email, phone nor fucking smoke signals. Quiet is scary thing, but quiet is still a good thing. I think. Exfiltration was the plan. Not silence.

During the weeks prior to my arrest I simply carried on as the MBA fraud and computer hack. I never knew one of many Private Mannings would download large text files classified, then deliver them to Julian Assange whereupon Wikileaks would post the most interesting parts of my life online for all to scoff, dismiss and ridicule. It wasn't a leak in the cables from me to my employers that would ultimately betray me and hundreds of my colleagues, it was our own soldiers selling info to the enemy. Fucking Russians pay good money for FAT classified files, especially when it concerns pre-emptive terror attacks on their soil. Russians simply paid a spy to betray our country. That's what spies do. Russians scooped up a whole shitload of guys that lie, cheat, steal and commit murder for their countries. Me included.

Now I'm a transparent bookcover behind blue eyes and ex-fil was postponed for 9m3w2d. And until a trade of equally high-value moron could take place. I was also being held for the two extra skulls. Odd how we pay for our sins. These two Chechen UAF shooters were my guys, not citizens. I swear, both cars were unoccupied when the prison transport van approached the courthouse entrance.

I tried to explain myself but they kept punching and dunking me in the playtime pool o' poop. Poop don't bother me, trained by the best. I'm from Kotzebue.

On my return to OTZ/KPD the chief of police hauled me in and asked me what the hell happened during the last of my dozens of flights rendition. Then stopped, then asked all the other officers to leave the office. Man, I got all choked up. I fish-faced, hemmed and hawed, did the throat bob and with runny eyes, I said nothing. He looked away, at the ground, then blinking out the window, asked if my team made it back.

Holding back tears hurts way worse than holding back piss with rope, clothes pins, hammer and duct tape. Sort of pain that rings fresher'n busting a knuckle by missing the head of a nail.

If I'm behind the wheel or walking somewhere I'll fall into a type of emotional and focus robbing pit. Man I wander like a gloomy black cloud grieving zombie if I'm not steered by an aged spouse with worse periods of lost time than any of us.

I'm bigger'n most. Tougher'n most. But just ask me about coworkers deceased and I simply turn to shit. I ain't even fit to drive a car or own a gun. These spells of paralyzing grief are awful. PTSD is simply one long male menstruation, hangover and depression lasting longer'n a troopers' funeral.

You boys likely all have the same ailments and never speak of them outside the squadroom. I'm different. I'm the fair child that pointed the King Has No Clothes.

And the man in uniform has a broken heart.


Touch me. I'm sick.

Top of the morning gents,

I sure hope me missives offensive are received in good health, wealth and beauty. Even if yer wives are mean as shit and menopausal akin to super pussy glue. Menopause. Fuck what a nice word for a decade long visit to the Bleeding Hut up at Pike's Spit. 15 years ago, I phoned my fucking dad and asked him what menopause means. He replied "son, now you know why I drink in the morning." Real funny fucker.

No shit, you niggers are in fer a nasty stretch. Real nasty. Nasty enough to kill small children and force yer sex life back into fresher no-baby tighty whitey pussy.

I know the ages of most of yer cheating wives, bitches and sour cream filled donut holes, and may God have mercy on your soul: if you don't shoot them soon. In Barrow, whoever passes out first: gets it. So this morning would work best, or MeanOldPause will rapidly shrink yer no-nut spouse's pussy from a silk purse back into a sow's ear. Midwest wit fer you older Irish Mick Fucks.

Hold on, as I dig through my KPD diaries and notebooks...gag a maggot, I'm looking at nude photos of nasty departed June Nelson with Alfred Allen on her in the meat wagon before she got too cold. Ick. Alfred Allen should be put on a leash, in a dog box and bunk it with Cecil Hawley. Imagine the butt-baby with those two rectal horn dogs.

Menopause. Wow, we are SO old. Pert near dirt dicks, worm bait and petrified pussy. I can never again date women my own age. Hags look just like my grandma. After menopause, yer dumber wives might wish to become a tampon but never white, tight nor outa sight. They'll stay brown, loose and in yer fucking face.

We're still young. Oh, right. You thought you were less than half-way through life and that middle-aged implies you'll live to the age of 104. Ain't happening negro. I'll likely live as long as my clan o' violent alcoholics, pedophiles and child abusers: somewhere between the lifespan of an incest abortion in my septic tank or my uncle Marvin under twin truck tires all the way to great-grand-motherfucker.

Oh, too late. I already am a GreatGrandMotherFucker. NewsFlash: I got little itty bitty inukun runt bait that call me "Awmmaw." I've been promoted from Appa to the Eskimo term: silver haired rapist. Back in my former rank I used to tell the grandkids to "be quiet while I go upstairs and fuck yer grandma." My ugly nordic face makes her pussy dry, but my dick will defrost and season her long-rotten eggs.

I ain't kidding, kill yer partners. Permiscuous infidelity before menopause earns a big ZERO in the Musta Makki (Finnish Black Market) forgiveness balance sheet. How sweet: fool around then dry up and seal yer pussy with Super Glue. Kewl. Reason them old bitches at the Kotzebue Senior Center are so mad? Takes a shoe horn to git yer dick in 'em yet the butt is already pre-moistened due to hot flashes and diaper rash. Attitude and non-detergent motor oil is on yer dumbass itinerary. For the next God forsaken decade!

Yup, and if y'all got bastard kids that look like any of our former KPD/AST coworker fat pukes or if our wives still git Kiana blisters, Noatak burns or bits of sheetrock in their cooters: shoot the bitch. Hell, I will. Just ask. Won't even fuck 'em. That costs extra.

Way back pert near quarter century ago in the old KPD jail, Lt. Eunice advised me to leave the police department if I wanted to stay married. Cuz ye ain't a cop if ye ain't got the 3 D's behind you: Divorce, Desertion or Death. I told him that I wasn't married whereupon he told me to get used to hangovers and stinky women. Single men with my resume and at the ripe old age of 28 tend to stay single and not likely to ever marry and die of alcoholism. Or venarial disease.

Eunice is a fucking genius. Cuz I did.

I fucking don't mean I'm dead yet, but damn, the devastation alcohol and the clap has had on me...fuck me in the goat ass, I don't even qualify as scrap meat. If I ain't walking my own rotten nigger ass into Samuel Simmonds, Manilaq or Harborview Medical Center's STD Gyno-Death-Pussy/Stinky-Dick Health Clinic, I'm walking in one of my little brothers. Mental illness and penis rot run in families. So does stupid shit behavior.

Wearing a condom feels like I'm fucking a tarp. Something no heat-seeking moisture missile would want to repeat. So I don't. In my career as impersonating a human being I've never practiced firearms safety, food safety, nor sex. I've a sneaking feeling none of us have EVER practiced safe anything.

Touch me, I'm sick. Growing up as your fictional character Flogged Toddler Finn, I grew to enjoy the process of filling the freezer. Sigluk to you ice monkeys. But I also tended to treat myself in health ways analogous to the animals I slaughter. And the folks that can't see me anymore. I smoke, drink, do drugs and then take vitamins. Do you smell a dumbfuck?

Walking talking contradictory human facade. REAL intelligent dumbfuck. "If I'd known I would've lived this long, I would've taken better care of myself." (anonymous) I'm fit and strong, and can outrun you and all yer kids, but likely wouldn't survive another trip to Noatak or Galena. It's been 20 years to the day and their maggot infested version of Pussy Bubonic plagues us all.

Since puberty I've been in some sort of treatment or other. I got popped for a coupla MCA's and coupla MIP's fer weed. A coupla assault arrests, theft and littering. And detonating a pipebomb at a school function. I fucking got court-ordered to hang out with old cops at AA meetings, then long sessions at Snohomish County's Drug Abuse Council. The crowning of my psychopathology was befriending Dr. Marilyn Grey. She forced me to read entire en-psych-clopedias and then return with a brief written report and oral syposis of what I found sick twisted whacking material. She recommended I should reinvent myself everyday and renew my membership to the human race. Fucking genius also convinced me I was bright, beautiful, capable and lovable.

Makes ye barf don't it?

I still try to remember her council. Then I go right ahead and illegally buy and sell guns of all sorts and alcohol and drugs to minority folks I like. And if I really like them, I'll park a car bomb right at the entrance to their fucking church. Or courthouse. Then go to jail. Again.

Ya see, I'm feeling menopause on my ass. My wife looks way different: I can't see my reflection.

No shit. A life of Sundays is VERY good for crippled albinos like me, but damn, now I simply walk. I smoked up dozens of shoes in 2011 in Nome, 2012 in Anchorage and now chiefing up shoes here in Soldotna. I just walk everywhere. No car, no car payments, insurance, repairs nor gas. All monies that now support marijuana growers, local bars, pizza joints, fine restaraunts and hotels along the Kenai River.

So I walk. Fucking miles everyday. If yer ever down here on the Kenai Peninsula you'll fetch me and bun in our Vibram soled AARP felony fliers doing the big 8-mile loop powerwalk to the Soldotna PO, Jo-Anne's Fabrics on the Kenai Spur Hwy, the liquor store at Carr's-Safeway, Sal's Diner and Maverick Tavern on the Sterling Hwy. Simply put, I miss the stress you asshole cops call "action." And friendship.

Me and bun spent most of 2012 cruising all over Los Anchorage. For simplicity, we usually grab a euro-style hostel and simply dump our 8 pieces of luggage, shower and dress up, then head downtown for any meal at any time. And Rainier Beer. I forgot how I loved it as a kid on the mutilation farm. Good crisp 3.2% grocery store beer. Every idyllic childhood should be soaked in good Rainier, mine was. Now my seniorhood is also. Damn I'm predictable as an Eskimo in a liquor store.

Every morning, me and bun shit, shower and shave, then rally over to King's X to look for natives, wash down a beer and tonic water lots of lemons, then book right down 5th Avenue to hit Polar Bar, the Kodiak, and then downtown to the Panhandle, the Avenue and then Gaslight one block over on 4th. The REAL Unipaq bars like the Hub or 515 have been condemned and torn down. The Inupiaq patrons from those old bars are also gone. They were given a douche, then buried. Graveyards got standards too nigger.

The Kodiak Bar surprised me and bun. We avoided Mad Myrna's: loud, proud, up front and homo-sickee as an overflowing honeybucket fer breakfast. But the Kodiak is WAY more GAY. We're hip, cool and down with the brothers, but I still fucking hate ass packers, butt bandits and bearded men that ask to lick out my ear hole. Or something. Yup, I'm a real Archie Bunker when it comes to tolerance.

I'm trying to be broad-minded. I'm not. Obsolete humans like us fossils Tikigaq-Suomen instinctively avoid such terrible cultures that exclude pretty naked girls and mix poo-ass, light lofers and man-wood. Moderno HomoSapiens have advanced so far beyond me and bun, they even embrace e-coli, brown trout and skid marks, mudflaps and speed-bumps all mixed into one organic stinky tossed fecal salad. Gross.

So after a few weird and touching visits to the Kodiak, me and bun avoided it like the plague. Besides, every time me and bun get drunk on Queer Beer and pass out in a gay bar, we have the runs for days. Go ahead and laugh. I may be a very pretty man, but I'm one funny fucker.

Enough about fecal freaks.

I want to tell you about my year in Scareview, the new African Native settlement on top of what was a beautiful community formerly known as Fairview. I ain't kidding, that little Kivalina camp used to be called ANUS, or Alaska Native Services. The remnants of that haunted hospital are difficult to detect. The main buildings are long gone but the dormers and smaller cinder block buildings are still there. Sadly though, they've been infested with vermin quite similar to acorns.

I'm code talking like an asshole. I mean RuralCRAP. This organization is a community activist group of proud white faggots that is converting lots of Anchorage into rezzed out reservation shit-holes. The old Holiday Inn is now low IQ housing, so is the Henry House, Inlet Inn and Inlet Towers. Even the Red Roof Inn is now called the Red Skin Inn or more aptly, the Red Nose Inn. When they're mission complete, I won't be allowed into Eastern Anchorage. But bun will though, if you get my racist drift. Norsemen like me refuse to march the Trail Of Beers like a fucking midget asshole drunken Inupiaq, I walk like a Norwegian: the tall blond alcoholic.

I still love my Extreme North Arctic village existence in Barrow North of 70 Lat, but travelling all over Alaska absolutely kicks ass. As stated in earlier posts, I mentioned the roundabout goofy experiences me and bun have enjoyed since official retardation. I've likely ranted on too long about the plight of African Natives Unipaq, but I ain't kidding: quit yer job, rent out yer house and join us on this forever treasure hunt, beer garden and barbeque and Helsinki Cannibis Shoppe. Since real Alaskaholics winter in Alaska and I'd face a 10% cut in AK PERS monthly pay and a 100% cut in annual PFD if we Go Outside for more than 90 days then fuck it, stick with us, drink some beers, smoke my illegal cuban cigars and we can be "AK to the max."

I still remember Albert Monroe saying such hooey. Sure lost lots of drinking partners, you niggers oughta step up. Call it just a glich in your sobriety. Kidding. Albeit, it would be weird to smoke a homegrown bomber joint with y'all, but I'd love your company. Alas, I no longer wish you boys would drink so much, smoke nigarettes and do hemp drugs, unless y'all share with ME.

My plans are to boogy out of Soldotna at the end of May and find a hostel in Anchorage for the months of June, July and August. Summers in Anchorge are a lot of fun. Besides, the winter rates end in May on the Kenai.

ANMC for bun's million mile tune up and I book over to ANHC. Even with SOA PERS Medical Insurance, native hospitals don't take wiggers like me. So at ANHC I'll get the usual: blood draw to check that all the numbers I know are blasted wrong. 8 year hangovers can't be good.

I miss the food and drink dates with bun downtown. But this time I want a room at the Sockeye Inn on Fireweed so we can walk all over midtown and explore every single outlet and venue alcoholic and caloric. There are a buttload of gook shops fer sushi, Romano's fer Italian and pert near a hunnert other food adventures. Not so many bars like the old downtown but plenty of snobby watering holes fer this Finn.

Another reason I like Anchorage is their mass transit. Me and bun bus to her appointments at ANMC to see if her bad knee should be cut off at her neck. Or some hack medical shit-ass advice. We simply toss a few senior sheckels onboard and gondo dude. If we need to run down Clam Gulch or Soldotna for weed I just grab a rental car fer a day and rally. I like driving. I miss it too. But every day I drive is a day that I won't walk anywhere. Me and bun put on 25 pounds each month I drove a rental car.

Shoeleather express dudes. Plus the doc says I can put off eating Viagra for a few more years if I keep the 200 pound scrawny donkey on the 6-3 crooked frame. As I've lost weight since my heaviest at KPD the doctors have pulled glyburide, avandia, actos and lycinipril. Last few years I even dropped ritalin and metformin and now eat aspirin for my daily hangovers, vitamins fer the heck of it and green beer/green toke dudes to moderate my IQ. Can't be too sober nor too smart 'round you dickheads. I haven't eaten hard drugs in quite a few years. Miss 'em too.

I really should get my butt up to ANHC for other shit too. Since turning fifty back in 2011 I'm supposed to get a colonoscopy. Scares me to death. If I had a pussy, I'd be shoving shit in there all the time, but I'm not macho enough for a coat rack up my ass. Plenty of room up there though. I crap bigger than most. And it's where all this brilliant text comes from. Can't you smell it?

I also had a heart attack ten or so years ago. I can't recall any single instant, just a big blank of missing time: 9m3w2d. EKG and tricks doctoral determined I'll be fine with minimal damage to my heart: as long as I stay away from faulty wiring, electric fences and cattle prods. The Doc also recommended I avoid soviet prisons too.

So at the end of May, I'll be in ANC and likely at one of the hostels amid our luggage, pro-grade old people shoes and KY Silk. I always leave a laptop running in the hotel room, but I never carry a phone. I mean never. Talk is cheap, cell phones are invasive and are a "tell" that yer impotent, inept and immature. The reason I'm so darned good looking is I'm completely device free. If you need to talk to me and bun: fuck yourself, then send me an email. Phones are so....for faggots. Me and bun are evil, cursed and heterosexually both suck my dick. While you homos play with yer phones, I'm busy ejaculating WAY up inside cooter bunnik. Or your wife.

Yup. I'm a dandy. My wife will give me a kiss and then whispers "foreign object." Since menopause hun-bun has had a few minor emergency room visits due to my selfishness and impatience. I like sex. My body likes sex too. Most of all, the penis extraordinaire I inherited from my finno-esti grandfather also likes sex. On occassion I like to put a little rape into my marriage. Bad angles, cruel depth, poor lubrication and pushing the bottom out of an old gal with far too much weiner will likely leave even baby-making dark pussy sore, swollen and bright red and purple.

Sometimes resulting in urinary infections and Dr. Gyno visits. The good doctor closed the door and asked bun, "What happened to you and WHO did this to you! Were raped with a foreign object?" God I like my dick. Both weapon and great conversation piece until I go Berserker and skull fuck my very own wife. Her glass eye stays on the bed stand for days, cuz bun always keeps an eye out for me.

Fuck, I still jerk a load off everyday in the shower. Old swimmers' trick to raise testosterone and sperm count levels. Constant depletion of yer donkey bags stimulates MORE boners and again, more depletion and has a seriously positive effect on yer muscle mass. And yer dick size. Today: yank and attempt to tear yer dick out by the roots then spend some time with a shop vac hooked up to your now larger purple kookoo. A cop's wife somewhere will appreciate the larger you.

Poor menopausal bitches. Worse than mad cow. Despite vaginal dryness and mean as shit disposition, yer bloodless prunes will spite you regardless. Instead of being a human being and let you hire a nanny just to suck on teenage sugar pussy, these old hags prefer you pack it in her ass. In the mind of old dry native bitties, her shitter is still better than allowing us to shiver inside a gorgeous young girl.

My eyes are watering and my penis is blinking rapidly. I gotta get back on topic.

I'm here to bitch about my OWN menopause. Ya see, I been in good company with me bunnik, but I'm a victim of my own fatal Finnish finality and doomed angelic maturity. Despite Dr. Marilyn Grey's advice, I'm having a hard time reinventing myself and renewing my membership to the human race. Fuck I'm trying. I'm now a kind human and no longer horribly deadly and desire to be welcome in any of you all's camp fer a drink and smoke. I seen all good people turn their heads each day, but I got nowhere to walk away. My feet are hurting, my wife is shopping for burial plots in Point Hope and I'm standing in the middle of this page just dying fer some witty masculine harrasment or powder burns. Yup. I'm a soppy spastic and I surely hope we passed the audition. You feel that tragic depression too?

I don't have single friend. Oh sure I got bunnik. But we've been off-grid for so long we're getting really lonesome.

As Finns age, our peer groups drastically decline. No shit, as I age my friends leave me. Almost as tragic as Native males youthfully deceased or gone missing, I flail about and try to fly all over God's tortured creation to visit me best mates.

Flying back to Kotzebue, Point Hope, Galena or Barrow is always a forever tear-jerker. Everybody is busy getting old and not missing us. Shit, those that recognize us dwindle towards extinction so fast it makes an old Viking cry and elderly Eskimo women sob and wonder if we're invisible. We wave and yell hello and folks walk away and continue their daily chores without looking up.

Bun speculates that we passed away years ago and that this is all our post-mortem imagination. My dick still works really good, so she may be right. So I guess that handsome karlNbun couple are just ghosts.

Huh. I sure hope you boys make it down to the KP or midtown/downtown Anc and visit me and bun. At least legitimize my wretched existential isolation.

I'll lie and tell bun I seen some of my old cop-mates at Walmart's or some shit. She believes me. You shouldn't.

As I'm older, I sure miss working with you coppers.


Things to do in Nome when yer dead. West LA Fadeaway dudes.

Top of the morning gents,

Long time no nigger. I've been busy. Fuck you.

Ya see, I'm in the custody of a fine female aborigine that spoils me. And allowed me to retire wealthy at the age of 44 thank you very much. Analogous to our dedication to our kids, I've dedicated the rest of my chemically truncated and physically abbreviated lifespan to the care and feeding of elderly eskimo women. I'm the authority on such matters. Ok, maybe I'm merely your author on drugs and an authority on self-deprication and abusing you murderous lads: digital graffitti you bitches. Atchikongmun ye ain't AK enough, until you fuck the Yukon River and piss in a native woman.

Way back in 2004, Hun-Bun was working AP/AR/PR in the Acct. Dept. at the tribal college in Barrow and I was employed as a CI by my old alma-mater AK Statewide DEA and moonlighted as a bootlegger and meth handler fer NAC, Cape Smythe, AC and Logan Air. At the semi-annual HR DefBen/DefContrib meeting at the college, a PERS pension rep gave a presentation on the SOA Tier system with Tier 1 consisting of entrants before July 1 1986, Tier 2 entering before July 1 1996 and Tier 3 entering afterwards. Hun-Bun was chatting with the HR pension gal and she suggested she run Hun-Bun's DOB and SS# just for shits and giggles. Lo and behold, she exclaimed loudly that my wife could retire with a full pension and benefits. At age 55. Next fucking year!

Aht-tie, my wife can retire, but we have to replenish the funds from earlier cash withdrawals. So began the full throttle brown bottle work. I fucking busted balls humping booze out to the villages and even recruited my old boss and professor from UAF/SOM to pirate liquor across the Arctic Coast. I put all my skills as a true AK-49 bandit back to work and reeked 80 proof misery and dispensed 100% havoc upon mixed blood Ukpeagvik ice monkeys.

Fuck I worked mad hours, if you courtview me, you'll see the misdemeanant culmination of highly illegal and dangerous flights through the Brooks Range in a freezing fucking cold bush plane packed with meth, booze and buds, driven by a dumber fuck than the guy wasting your intellectual capabilities and insulting your finer sensibilities with language abreviations offensively arctic and niggardly acronyms en-Deering.

After my release from prison in the Fall of 2001, I have had an amazing run of luck, I got back to Alaska via Eastern Europe on September 10th, the day before the Earth stood still and the Twin Towers came down, Porter hired me to sell the Bush Pilot Bar and Restaurant in the FBX Airport, I also got a temp job restoring an old dairy farm for my father. In Feb 02 I got hired on as the finance director for the city of Galena, but the best part is after years of separation I finally found my 907 nigger ass at home again and within the sheets vaginal, supports emotive, restraints uteral and pillows mammalian of me blessed Hun-Bun.

During my tenure as a fraudulent MBA professor, TA, RA and server admin over yonder Nordic soils and Russian but truthfully working for the secret police agency acronym SUPO I sure missed Hun-Bun and longed for the 4-letter curse word: marriage. Intelligent Suomens with harsh Finno-Ugruk dialects in the intelligence business absolutely loved my MBA thesis dissertation on Nordic-Russo energy policy and expertise in illegal narcotics, bomb making and firearms, but the clincher was a resume that included tax evasion, bank fraud and persistent corruption of law enforcement officials. In the late 90's I was offered another very special job. I'm a cereal retard, just call me Special K.

Yup, if you Google me you'll see that in my line of work, I get paid to work in jails as both jailer and inmate. Some days I'm doling out the torture, other days I'm literally drowning in my work as an electrician and human punching bag. In the sacrifices you've made for your country, some of you lads built IED Belfast Irish car bombs, some of us drove them. Or better stated, doing God's work overseas as a good Christian In Action can be extremely fucking loud!

SUPO. What a fucking dumb acronym for a shivering Finn standing bare naked in Soviet snow. No kidding, here I am standing butt ass naked with a hunnert other naked contractors from all over Christ's Clandestine Creation, in formation freezing and watching the butt cheeks of now deceased spies shivering. Then not. Russian winters are quite similar to Kotzebue and Barrow. You don't always have to burn, beat or drown a special agent, frostbite suffers all life-forms hominid and also saves on torches, clubs and poopy sewer submersion bathwater. Trained by the best sick arctic fucks on Earth's coldest black sites AK: this spy that came in from the cold also lost toenails, vertebral and pancreatic integrity, not to mention fertility.

On September 9th, 2001 I was cut up, burnt and beat up, leaking out my ass, starving and sick, yet sitting handcuffed, dirty and stinking and crying on a train hastily transferred across Estonia and Lithuania to the custody of the top supervisor of Finland's Special Undercover Police Organisation. Nine months, two weeks and three days of torture wasn't the hard part, it was my immaculate flight back to my POOP (point of origin on my passport) Fairbanks, Alaska covered in bruises, cuts and loose stool bacterial. Yeah, ain't none of you soldiers grinnin' now are ye? Fuckers broke more than tooth and rib, I'll spend the rest of my life in mysterious rage, unexplained fury and recently inherited a Viking's thirst for spirits so great, it casts it's own shadow. Call me a lucky motherfucker, but I didn't win shit. I'll suffer the indignities and infirmities of old age, now, not later.

Fuck me in the goat ass, in NARC years 52 is the new 80. In dog years I'm 364 years old, but in Eskimo years I've got so many rings on my tree trunk dick-stand, I had to upgrade to dark women ripe for the plucking and prime for the fucking. Which is why I truly believe I was destined to harvest cubic dollars for me bunnik's pension. I am now famous for large deposits both financial and vaginal. On Halloween of 2005 Hun-Bun formally retarded and I fell into a now legacic 8-year drinking vacation.

Synopsis of felonies thus far. In 2006 I did get fired from a job in Kotzebue. I worked as a welfare case worker for the SOA. I stand rightfully accused of data theft. Since poor-ass welfare recipients never get monthly statements from the USDA Food Stamp ATM Debit Cards, the shitty niggers and ice tardmonkeys never notice fraudulent charges for ATM access fees, service fees and CSED deductions. I even set up inept retarded phony billings across all cardholders statewide for shyster sales taxes and stupid gay as fuck IRS skims. Robin Hood was a bone smoking faggot, as a Viking and a Ewing clan member in good criminal standing, I steal from the poor and give to nobody, except my sex slave scraling bunnik.

I fess up to that crime: guilty. I still have the old credit card processing machines alongside my FBI passport and ID laminators and presses, AST phone taps and clips, SUPO parabolic mics, KPD narc tools, VPSO winter gear, DEA digital recorders and NSB PSO medicated hemoroidal wipes. Yup, just ask Eskimo NUSH, cheezy acronyms, bad luck and deaths come in 3's, but goddammit, I never enjoyed such unbridled theft, corruption and graft as the likes of me emptying entire village, rural and bush economies. As we speak, I'm trying to hijack the "pick, click, give" PFD charity program and am attempting to route monies to an anonymous LandesBanken Green Dot checking account in Helsinki.

When Inupiaq, go native you fucking browntard oochuk boys. Even NorseTards have a code that y'all can live by. Drink your carbs, smoke your fiber and fuck yer meat. Oh, and please part yer asscheeks ikriq and allow me to steal entire cultures horrid and ancestries nasty or all the PA and lighting gear from the Rec Ctr, KIC Eskimo Bldg and the AC Marina from inside your ancient childhood memories as Worst Alaskans living on a kikik-spit that's almost a tagruk-island.

Like that don't ye? I have illegally parked inside a hunnert Amer-Indo-wrecked-ums and lectured to my prettiest cervical students in Braille that I'm of obsolete DNA Crow-Magnum: tall and slender, hurts where its tender. My fart hammer is multi-lingual and my womb-broom smells like Siberian Mongoloid pubes Butt-Eye fuck in 6 languages. Amen?

Keep yer eye on the ball. Selling the bar to NANA paid me $72K, bootlegging, work in Galena and for my father did a lot for my post traumatic murderous disposition, but also allowed me and Hun-Bun to top off her pensions, pay off old notes, bills and mortgages and finance this spectacular mission of legendary confiscation. Near the end of 05 bun started drawing her PERS pension and a few years back we rented out the Barrow duplex to the Native Owned ASRC for $50K a year. Just last year, 2012 at the age of 62 Hun-Bun started drawing Social Security thus laddering a 4 legged pension portfolio: PERS, SS, ASRC rents and the fourth leg, my ongoing treasure hunt and drunken bucket list whilst I walk like a Norwegian on 2 grand a week. Fuck you.

Throughout 07, 08 and 09 me and bun drew pension and rents and worked contract gigs back up at the college in Barrow and my herculean labors at KBRW cleaning and sorting out TONS of fucking paperwork, billings, invoices and soliciting grants from all the money wells from big oil and deeper pocketed rich Fairbanks pussy that mistake me for someone else.

In May of 2010 we packed up everything and tore ass down to the Kenai Peninsula to caretake a beautiful log home in Soldotna. We spent the summer there doing a complete janitorial and landscaping process that gits a farmboy wood. No shit, I was the lawnmowing great grand motherfucker from hell and the carpet steamcleaner cunt supreme. Hunnert dump runs, metric ton bonfires whilst smoking some seriously top shelf marijuana and living up to my reputation and lineage consisting of a long line of tall alcoholics. By mid summer that place was better groomed tham my Willow house. When the owner came back and saw the new residence she nearly cried, called her realtor and then insisted we do it again to her other log home 30 miles down the Sterling Highway in Clam Gulch. Kewl.

So we did. But this was a far more interesting mission. Three generations of antiques and valuables, extreme hording and so many drug addicts it'd make even a native barf. I mean constant partying and menopausal crack bitches whining fer dick.

Dropping like flies, one old nigarette smoking broad was re-arrested for being ugly, another DUI and VCOR on a fresh crystal possession beef. Another stroked out, went to the Central Peninsula Hospital, never came home, she's living in the Old Pioneer Pussy Facility in Ninilchik. The owner drifted to Florida, then Seattle, then I don't know. Me and Bun were left alone in a home that wasn't ours. So we cleaned it. I mean we cleaned everything. We burned dozens of old sheds, shacks and dog houses and then mowed so much brush and lawn that I destroyed two lawn mowers, one weed whacker and a hunnert gallons of gasoline. Outside, me and bun scrubbed and washed everything on premises, then cleaned, sorted and disappeared fucking everything clutter and fecal in the house.

As with all house overhauls, clean means empty of trash, debris and junk. So I raked every metal bit of garbage that I couldn't burn and bagged it all up and made a fuck load of dump runs. Truckloads of old clothes and furniture, old bikes and junk computers went to the Salvation Army and Bishops Attic. Yes, I kept the STACK of charitable donation receipts for myself. I also kept some other items for myself too.

Nobody ever came back. No nothing. I phoned around, zip. So me and bun simply finished up our Christmas sewing and baking for this Clam Gulch neighborhood of cross-eyed hillbillys Alaskan that starve when nobody feeds them. Hun-bun cooked, sewed and baked for every single pot grower, cabin psycho and zoo headed drunk and meth chef. No shit. Seven days a week all through Fall and Winter of 2010 bun went into overdrive and burnt up fabric, smoked up yards of material and wore out sewing machines amidst the horded masses and cooked thousands of dollars worth of steaks, roasts, hams and breads. Every day, some poor sod buster with dirty kids in tow, would drop by for showers, haul water, use the laundry, drink my booze and eat bun's baked and cooked goods like King Henry of any number plus take home orders by bucket or pallet, then leave an ounce or two of something illegal on my table: I wouldn't have it any other way. Fuck you very much.

The car don't run on meth or bong hits, the liquor store don't take weed and the grocer always demands cash. Not my cash. I wasn't paying to feed this whole nation of Calm Gluch bums. The landlord did though. Ever heard of Oxford Assayers or Roy's Coins in Anchorage?

Ya see, in this now clean, landscaped and inhabited by good ghosts: house of ill repute I collected boxes of treasure. Lots of old jewelry, watches and silver and gold coins. So once or twice a week I had to drive in town to load up on Costco Wholesale level commodities and vastly larger levels of Helsingfors liquor, I'd first pop into Oxfords or Roy's to sell a portion of neglected loot, make a deposit, pay some bills then overload the truck with a half-ton of foodstuffs on bun's list. From September all the way through the holidays bun sewed and baked. She'd wash and repair these gomers' parkas and winter gear, stitch and hem fleece hats and neck and face warmers for Alaskan faces so abused, beaten and ugly: it's best they stay covered.

Fuck you, Martha Stewart is a pussy. Elderly Eskimo women can burn fuels like coffee and bong hits, tea and tokes and also burn up miles of thread, fabric up the fucking ass and still remember not to burn a single pastry, glaze nor gravy. Don't shoot the Finn, I'm the bartender and by kyping a fucking free sat connect, I kept a steady stream of space music echoeing night and day. I'm the butler and I also service the crystal glassware for drinks and smokes. And toots.

Pert near March 2011, the bills, circulars and junk mail starting exceeding the woodstove. Weird shit for time share condos, utilities, borough taxes, auto, home and life insurance payments due and collection agencies: lawyers and shit. But to make matters worse, some whining shrill cunt from welfare fraud named Michelle Nolan phoned asking for MMR info regarding a bunch of stinky old menopausal crack whores that were on food stamps, disability and medicare and get this: they were delinquent in their paperwork and were subject to loss of benefits. I fucking died laughing, without poverty all around, I wouldn't be so stinking rich. Think about it. Here I'm feeding the fucking nation of Clam Gulch proper with gold, silver and watches distilled from mountains of horded loot to the tune of over $30K and I'm surrounded by crack infested dead and dying old white pussy.

And nobody, including the old cocaine frosted elephant winded labian flapper cunts knew of the treasures stored in boxes of junk from floor to ceiling. Except now, you guys.

The mailbox out front can be scary. The one I feared was packing more and more with collection notices and hospitals threatening suit if these crack nigger white cunts didn't muster up some dineros. Even the Dish TV/phone/internet service was disconnected forcing me to fill the house with music from my trusty AM radio. So from 9pm until 4am I'd play 650 KENI Coast to Coast late night radio with Art Bell. When I'm forced to switch from high res internet space music over to low fidelity am radio: check yer watches fuckheads, time to book. So we did. I wrapped up all my cleaning and sorting and pilfering, then looked back at what was once a dung heap liability yet now a magnificent log home and real perty asset entirely devoid of refuse and treasures and stinking old white cunts, put the car in drive and headed north to pester one of my best mates constabulary working where bad folks go when they die at the end of the Iditarod Trail.

Nome Or Bust DickHeads.

As stated heretofore, if in a bind, just call a friend. So I called agent Octuck, told him me and bun are airport and bus station bums, bored, retarded and got bucks. Dude was a champ. A monied guy just like me. When rich bastards combine forces, really wonderful and good shit will fucking occur. Hence why I shy away from you pukes that whine about money, cheap gits and tightwads really piss me off. Besides, by gushing cash out my ass, we effectively flooded the Nome economy with grocery, beer and gold and silver dineros. But alas, your lordship giveth. And he taketh away. Nome turned out to be far more profitable than the old crack whores' horded treasures from Clam Gulch.

In this game of wealth, stick to the road and beware of the mores. Meaning stick to what you know, hump it hard, cum a load and drive it home. Even if it's in the anus of the universe: Nome, Alaska. Unjust enrichment or ill-gotten gains: give it a name. parasitic aristocracy fuck you very much. Strident criminal MBA pedigree motherfuckers are responsible for cocaine, slavery and outsourcing jobs away from yer half-tard mud-race miscreant runt children. I hear rumor that some white devil blue-eyed gussuks are personally responsible for untold and phased array of waves of assaults on shit-ass poor fuck-stains and their tiny little wallets and smaller brains. And when in Nome, I just got warmed up and found my stride. I was about to mine the miners young, old and dying wretched.

At dawn, everyday, me and bun would quietly walk downstairs leaving Octuck and some pretty naked girl sleeping onward towards his odd bastard vampire assassin shift-work at NPD and also hopefully enjoy serious misuse of that pretty naked girl's cervical and colonic tissue. Then suck nuvuk oochuk so hard her fucking head caves in. Octuck gets a lot of complaints from women about his sex: it hurts. Figure it out nigger-fingers.

Racist, sexist foul mouthed and spoiled rich Scandinavian test tube baby: janitor in a drum. Yup, I clean up, clean out and only eat my own sperm. God bless tasty girls that are oh so sexy as playful 6 pack inverted carry biscuit handles, thumb and four finger binocular penis holsters parallel. My mouth is watering I'm such a sexist pig that truly loves pussy. And the life support systems that's connected to the backside of the pussy, I kind of like too. Almost as much as money. Which is what I'm trying to focus on, instead of sweet Georgia peach fuzz pie and hot cherry bendovers. Fuck it, sex on the brain here too. Next paragraph, after I slug my sausage, scrawg a nut and spooge a load.

All better, where was I? Oh, mining miners and climbing through rotten old houses in Nome and scoring ching.

Every morning me and bun walked from Octuck's downtown to Polar Cafe for breakfast, Northwest Campus to check emails, then hit EVERY bar, restaraunt and liquor store for more grubbage and mead. I walked my fucking dick off in Nome, I shook hands with everybody, slapped backs and spilt beers on every square inch of God's large intestinal sphincter. We mapped and surveyed fucking everywhere plotting the ripe abandoned houses and whom deceased used to piss and shit there. This is what's so fucked up. So many speculators, drunks and gold bugs come and go in Nome, all they do is padlock the front doors, leave town, then die.

Dead people love to give me all their shit. One old cousinous cancer gal was in Chemo at ANMC in Anchoragua and asked me and bun to feed her cats, take care of her truck and clean her house. Ever sniff old lady cat piss? Yup, just like the Clam Gulch Crack Dump: generations of junk, heirlooms horded and everything pee soaked. Pretty fucking awful, but the few days me and bun spent hauling trash, washing dishes, sweep/vac and mop jag, I collected 4 Crown Royal bags full of old silver quarters, half-dollars and lady libertys that scored me $41 an ounce on the London Fix down at GRC, the rare metal buyers on Front Street. Pert near coupla grand: works for me.

Up next to the Methodist Church thrift shop, old lady Perkin's house had been abandoned for years. No heat, no power and broken windows. Yet now inhabited by lots of native boys sneaking in and out and hiding in their fort in the backyard connexes. Observing their sneaky behavior bun wisely deduced that those native boys were up to something in their forts. So I went out behind our cabin, brushed aside the willows and branches and went to speak to these boys. They were inside old lady Perkin's house running around yelling and laughing playing army man and almost ran me over. I told them that we shouldn't be in here and that we could get in trouble playing in some old white woman's home. They said they had permission, whereupon I told them that she died in here and was a mean haunting old nasty ghost of a white bitch. That worked. Those little native boys blanched and paled, then rather politely went outside and across to the church playground. I looked around, saw lots of old lady junk, frozen exploded food cans and an indoor chill despite outside sunshine warmth and clear skies. Dank as a wet diaper too. So I locked and slammed all the doors and went back through the willows and branches and into our cabin.

Bun asked me what they were doing and told her about them little scamps running around raising a ruckus and that they find treasure. I also let her know that I locked the place up again.

For weeks all was quiet in my OME niggerhood, me and bun hit every bar and burger joint, gook shop and native dive. Fuck, a lot of homeless NANA negroes are dying on the beaches and streets of Nome, Alaska. Breaks my fucking heart to see the Native Corporations shit on their own shareholders so fucking badly. Same for those thousands of Eskimos that are giving Anchorage some serious fucking native fatigue. Goddamned shit ass OTZ Inupiaq unnuk-cutters are paving the streets with Eskimo ass paint and slippery little native dukee turds. Worse part, the largest Inupiaq village in Alaska is Brother Francis Shelter and Bean's Cafe, that wretched Choke and Puke Soup Kitchen and take away alcoholics' moldy sandwich Barf Bag Ahkah.

Nome is so kewl, they won't even call out the IHS Save the Natives White Trash Lesbo-Dike Bitches to care for and house these walking dead drunk zombies. BIA! Humbug! Just let them fucking shovel head ice niggers freeze, let Manilaq sort em' out. Like I said, Nome is paralyzed with no-teefer brown drunks and just like all our regional native corporations and nonprofit healthcare conglomerates: fuck it, the whole world is really sick and tired of stinking aboriginal corpses intoxicated and soiled. Wake up fucks. NANA is the worst offender: serious nigger neglect here bro. AFN means I ain't fucking native, but all over Anchorage and Nome I see dead natives Kikiktagruk all the time and I ain't got shit fer sixth sense yet have a complete lack of imagination.

Fuck I get worked up. I just wasted a lot of text on a waste of skin. 'Struth mates. I'm a thief, I'm honest and I could've been born bright but I used to laugh and point at suffering human beings, now my eyes well up, all my scars and joints ache and I can barely conceal my weeping. Old veterans never die, we just smell that way. PTSD doesn't mix well with witnessing a hunnert of my very own OTZ/selwikmut neighbors: native human beings suffering unbearably in apalling living conditions, abject malnutrition, unjust poverty and alcoholic agony. Even long fossilized monsters Finn fail to hide their tears and choke up convulsively.

Back on topic. I ain't here to bitch about my watering eyes, diabetic neurapathy, arthritis, heart and IQ disease. Me and bun were at the Nome USPS and chatting with some familially short little sober Nunapichuk Unipaqs. They told us to pop by and visit their mum Sturgis Iyapana, an old blind Inukun Tikigaq woman from Point Dope. She lived a block over from our cabin, so we walked over and bun went in to say hi and have tea and eat real icky food. I mulled about and scoped out the unnuk shacks on both sides of the Iyapana house. One was packed full of wet and rusted sno-go parts, wheeler hulks and boat motor cadavers. Just plain shit. So I meandered over next door and pecked about. The door was so dry that I just booted my way in. I scanned and snooped all over and just found a dry, cold house with soft wood stairs. My first step was balsa air and went on through, so I crept up the stairs just stepping on the nail heads and joists. The only thing of value upstairs was a kitchen drawer that was still filled to the brim with silverware. Goddamn tenants only just left a hunnert fucking years ago, so I bagged the whole drawer up and carefully descended the stairs, pulled the door back in place and met bun who smelled like lots of good native foods other cultures call rotten. And Finns compare to eye-watering black girl pussy. Even if there was a Heaven for Natives, I already know what it smells like.

Walking home I showed bun my drawer of tableware. She balked, then looked closer with her trillion power glasses and said they're all sterling silver. Yard wide grin and yard long Mr. Wobbly in my pants! We ran like giddy kids all the way to Nome GRC on Front Street and took home a check for 66 troy ounces of silver. Sometimes despite concussion plaque, heartbreaking depression and broken feet, I feel so proud of myself.

I was telling you about them kids that were messing about in the old Perkins house behind us. They honored the old lady's ghost and stayed outa the house, but all summer them kids were in and out of those old rotten connexes, playing cowboys and indians, army man, and squirrelling away toys of all sorts, stolen cute little bikes and God knows what else. One time our buxom Irish Belle MTF toke break partner and 420 safety meeting coordinator Rose Madden was bitching about a rash of petty thefts, burglaries and shoplifting all around Nome. In her animated style, she spit, hiked her bra and shifted her basketball milluks into a better position, then speculated that it was probably a bunch of fucking punk rip-offs. Since she gestures grandly and communicates so well with her big heavy boobs I listen. She also got big burgandy thumb-sucker nipples on silver dollar sized launching pads that stand way out when she coughs on a spicy pine toke, so I pay attention real fucking close. And then I realized what she was saying and my head started spinning. I immediately wanted to bolt out and dig through them little ratfuck kids' fort.

And I did. After Rose finished chiefing breakfast with us, she stretched her rain coat over both those big dairy melons, grabbed her umbrella and splashed out into the Sunday morning Nome downpour down Bering St. to open up the bar. I immediately spied up and down the backyard for any trace of human activity on a really pissy rainy and dark gray morning. Nonesuch. So I booked around back through the willows and branches and sneaked into them rotten connexes. Holy fuck. Them kids had stashed half the world's toys, electronics, bikes, skateboards and every kind of silly kid gadget known to mankind adolescent. I did a cursory inventory and found lots of high dollar stupid kid shit, but in the NHS gym bag I found ziploc bags filled with jewelry, coins and dozens of them little vials of gold flake and picker nuggets. Yeah, no shit, my bruised and seaping heart was hurting it pounded so hard.

I did a thorough double check on every single stolen item them kids kyped, a detailed search, but faster'n shit, then booked it back around and into me and bun's cabin. Instead of mining the miners and whore extortion like Wyatt Earp, I robbed the robbers. Is this ethical? I may have just violated some criminal code of conduct. Should a larcenous senior citizen vanish so much wealth from a bunch of thieving browntard niff punks? Thank you, I thought those same exact thoughts: sort the loot, package everything quickly and Gold Streak all non-ferrous evidence down to Oxford Assay.

After melt and assay, I had enough money to pay my mortgage a coupla years ahead. I still haven't moralized what I did. I stole from the poor. Again. Gosh, I can't even muster another cuss.

This has become far too easy. My bank is fat and my bones don't hurt anymore, meaning something is wrong here, so I smoked a bowl, washed down puniktuk with a gallon of beer, then went to check mail at the Nome USPO. David and Rachel Craig sent me and bun a hand scribed letter via angel mail and said that it is now time to look North again and catch the Midnite Express outa Nome. As I came downstairs and had a smoke, somebody spoke and I went into a dream, I pissed meself, then re-woke surrounded by now deceased coppers, dead blessed Eskimo brothers, troopers and spies.

I've been here before. Whenever I feel the warmth and wholeness of being at one in my wife and with the universe and such a familiar sense of well-being and financial abundance you soldiers know I'm finally ready to stomach Nay's formaldehyde boat drinks and listen to his endless Gordon Lightfoot. Hence the sunset clause in my civilian contract.

Can you sense NPD closing in? I didn't. I never got the KNOM Amplitudinally Modulated PSA from Laralai Kineen that me and bun were already DOA and gone to be with the worms. West LA Fade Away dudes. John Barley Corn and Jacob Marley's hellhounds have long been on my tail.

At these crossroads alcoholic and amoral, felonious and actuarial culdesacs, its probably a good time me and bun eat a coupla my SUPO vanishing pills. So we did.

On orders, secret agent Octuck gave me and bun a ride to the Nome Airport but took the long way out past Wyatt Earp's Roadhouse Saloon. That's where Patrick stopped his red and white Chevy truck, pulled out my old 1911 .45 and pointed it at us. Wiping his eyes he asked us to look after his brothers. Then he shot us.

Looking out my window across from Nuvruk, my monthly PERS/SS/ASRC payments are whole gold bars, God looks like a Viking yet sounds just like Oscar Murray Kotzebue Weather Service. Oh, and KOTZ is only a local call away.

Pagalasivi gents, I sure miss you guys.