There was a crooked man...who was also a very stinky man.

Top of the morning gents,

Nursing a fat lip.

Nobody swatted me across the puss, I smacked myself
with my own damn shovel. Dumb asses do things like
this, when we're playing tunnel rat.

Did I ever tell you boys I'm a dumb ass? I am.

Drifting snow, 24 below zero, wind chill warnings; 46
below. Colder'n shit, windier'n shit too soldiers,
but dead calm and quiet 30 feet underground.

Oh yeah, my fat lip.

Following divine providence, I found myself playing
tunnel rat. I volunteered to help my browner bro
clean out his sigluk (underground cellar) and haul up
a couple tons of whale meat, blubber, and muktuk.

Did I mention that it's a cultural faux pau to call
Eskimo food "stinky"? It is.

My hard breeding, drinking, hunting partner was
delegated to expand his clan's ice cellar, and he knew
this defective piece of shit couldn't refuse his
request for help. Like I said, I'm a dumb ass.

Only North of 70 lat will you find a time traveling
murderer who is now able to travel more than mere
decades, this weekend he traveled multiple millennia
back in time. Back to when Eskimos were subterranean
and snacked on good foods other cultures call rotten.

Good stuff Maynard, but I is done fucked.

I'm snacking on road kill, beach kill, and now even
long dead and buried sea mammal rancid kill.

I consulted my lunatic operator's manual and failed to
find the chapter addressing these berserker
transformations, but did discover that everything dead
and eaten by this habitually bipedal Nordic moron soon
reappears in this universe as one foul and offensive
turd. Egads, my shit even stinks like a retarded
river rat's Selawik butt pie.

We lugged tons of aging and fermenting whale candy up
the ladder to the surface, then with ice pick and
shovel we groomed the floor and far recesses. We then
dumped mucho buckets of hot water all over smoothing
the surfaces and walls much like pouring quickly
hardening candle wax.

After all the chipping and scraping, the instantly
freezing water created a perfectly smooth and
beautiful floor. I used an old mop to slurry the
rapidly freezing water around leaving a pert near
perfect finish.

I ain't fucking native, but I sure felt like one after
a whole day 30 feet under frozen tundra. With whale
muk and rancid crust scrapings in my beard and hair,
the Mrs. is accurate in stating that I 'stink native'
too.

Farm yard implements of destruction are like
extensions of my personality. Shovels and pitchforks
work the same underground as they do in the horse
pasture, and at the dinner table.

I do my best thinking when I'm toiling and soiling,
alongside peasants. All day yesterday while I was
lifting and hauling, shoveling and raking, mopping and
slurrying 30 feet down and 10,000 years ago, I
retrieved this non-fictional vignette.

Four and thirty years ago, Cully and I were delegated
the chore of burying a giant of a Billy goat,
Marmaduke. A big ol' goat that'd chowed down
everything in it's path, including poisonous branches
and leaves other intelligent farm animals avoided.

Typical of all kid Finns, we neglected this chore for
over a week, whereupon our paps discovered an even
larger dead Billy goat in the garage. He angrily
lectured that gastric contents of all mammals ferment
and literally inflate corpses like behemoth balloons.

Ya see, he exercised parental discretion via loud and
quite clear lectures instead of backhanded techniques.

In my old age, it's also the avenue of grandchild
rearing I use to this day. Just like bad shit, good
shit runs in the family and down through the
generations.

He wasn't happy with the 7 day delicacy lying bloated
in his garage, and was rather emphatic in his
instructions to get the fly buzzing flavor cell
buried, and pronto.

Being a Saturday, and on a farm that attracted
children better'n a pie eyed piper, benevolent soldier
boys ranging in ages seven to eleven marched in from
"way far away" to help me and Cully dig a hole in the
back corner of the horse pasture.

Ultimately digging 2 holes. I'll get back to this
later.

This crew of dirty diggers did do a bang of job of
digging a hole with their first valiant endeavor
yielding pay dirt to the tune of large pieces of
rusting sheet metal about 4 feet down.

We consulted the dad, and showed him our find. He
praised the good digging, and asked what we were
waiting for. I jammed my shovel into the rusty metal
and displayed our metal barrier. Dad jumped into our
goat grave and banged about looking for clues.

He found some; windshield auto glass. Pre-float glass
with anomalies and trace gas bubbles, shards not
cubes. The shape of the rusty metal and the presence
of auto glass determined we standing on top of a Model
A Ford.

My dad got fucking pissed.

He went next door and pounded on grandpas door, then
stormed in. Gramps originally owned most of Maplewood
Hill, even the property Maplewood Elementary was built
on including the old house he sold to Art Waite and
Ivy Joe. Serious redneck farmers we'll discuss when
you're in dire need of an expectorant.

Dad came back a few minutes later. His locked jaw and
red face even scared me, and I ain't ascared o'
nothing. He told us we had to put all the dirt back
and refill our super neato monster Billy goat grave
and pointed to another location for us to start
digging hole #2.

By the time those dirty boys finished digging a
handsomely deep grave, for the second time, they were
too pooped to poop. Our little arms and backs were
rubber.

It took all us boys and all our strength to drag and
slide this horrid Shetland sized goat up onto our
largest wheel barrow, and wheel it out to goat grave
number two.

Callahan and Tom Girvan were forward stabilizers and
power train, me and Cully were rear stabilizers with a
barrow handle for each digger.

I now understanding my father's devious methods. He
and mom nearly passed out gagging, yet laughing as us
four mukes wheeled this giant odiferous delicacy to
its foul resting place. I didn't chuke up, but I
chewed on bitter spit.

With noses plugged and eyes closed, we strategically
tipped and poured out Marmaduke the hugely bloated
stink monster we all used to ride and play with.

Fuck. Our hole wasn't deep enough.

None of wanted to pull him back out and dig deeper.
So we just sat in our dirt and pert near cried.

Until Cully had an idea.

We all stepped way back while Tom and Cully got in
their best stab and run positions.

Yup, they were gonna blow a goat.

These two brilliant and brave lads gave it their best
2-man jab and shoved the pointed spade into their
inflated pet's belly. Their stab and run technique
worked excellent, except for the coating of gastric
spattering that textured and covered them.

That goat exploded with a loud boom. Like popping a
grocery produce bag, with all the pieces in yer face.

The odds of regurgitation were 4 out of 4. We all
cheaved.

Cully was crying and Callahan was cussing; through
their own vomit. Me and Tom were laughing our asses
off, puking too.

That goat bomb did a remarkable job of reducing the
size and mass of Marmaduke, but weighed down our hair
and garments. All we had to do was shovel everything
back into the hole. Including an assortment of horror
movie slime.

Needless to say, the inventory of material in that
grave was of a mixed composite.

Oh, back to why we had to dig 2 holes.

My Dad had been duped by his own father into buying
the farm. And with the sworn oath that he'd buried a
bullet ridden truck in the property across the dirt
road where the new elementary school now sat and not
the farm where 4 boys were digging graves on.

Oops. Simple mistake.

Strange families do strange things. If my gramps
wants to bury old vehicles that have been shot up,
then dad burn it, he'll do just that.

If misfit boys want to wear fermented muck all over
themselves, then they'll do just that.

4 and 30 years later, seems we never outgrow bad habits.

I gotta get all this foul smelling laundry deodorized
and disinfected before my Siberian beauty comes home.

Besides hating a stinky man, she hates a stinky house.

She don't mind the bullet ridden truck.

Dudes, go native.

Karl.

Gentlemen. Invert your engines.

Top of the morning gents,

Every morning I gotta stretch out and work the kinks in various parts of my anatomy into compliance.

Like I'm the only one in this crowd that took a beating at the pleasure of numerous thugs and coppers, go-carts, motorcycles and vintage American junker cars.

Fuck ye.

This morning, my neck and shoulders weren't too awful bad, nothing a bit of yoga and calisthenics can't cure.

The Mrs. asked me why and how my body requires daily limber enhancing techniques. Fuck, I had to think long and hard on that.

On our morning walk to the bus stop I found myself entranced by the squeaking my boots made while walking on 22 below snow. The sound emitting from my size 13 Sorrell boots was exactly like the squeaking sounds Styrofoam makes. Know what I mean?

As the bus approached I noticed that on this particularly cold morning, the tires made the identical sound, whereupon I had a flashback of riding in the passenger seat of a Ford Fairlane, down Interstate 5 under the 145th street overpass. At a little under 90 miles per hours.

You fags that haven't taken the time to rally around the Killing Fields of the Pacific Northwest likely have missed out on the cleanest, fastest, and smoothest roads in the nation.

The freeways in the Northwest were built with ever increasing driving speed capabilities in mind. Meaning all the on-ramps and off-ramps were designed for vehicles traveling at speeds over 150 miles per hour. Even at 80-90 mph these roadways get really interesting and fun.

These high speed highways were built with new space age cars in mind, not junker cars driven by sociopath Dutch boys, nor feral Finns with time traveling capabilities.

Me and Pim almost always went up to Marysville for their weekly gun shows. For $10.00 we got a table and laid out all of our more valuable pistols and rifles including lots of replacement parts and legally questionably pieces.

Pim picked me up at about 7:30 am Saturday morning, we'd grab 2 gallon java junky jugs of strong coffee and a pouch of Redman chew from our favorite AM/PM mini-mart, then rally out of Lynnwood north through Everett, arriving in Marysville.

We'd set up our table and put price tags on our inventory, then take turns tending shop while the other turd squeezer would meander about and take a look at the small arms ordinance inventories all the other vendors were displaying.

Gun shows are so fucking fun. Some days we'd sell a piece, split the proceeds, then go and haggle and jew other vendors for artillery pieces that truly gave us a boner.

One morning, we sold nearly all the stuff we brought, so Pim and I would scout around and purchase under priced pieces, then resell them on our table.

In modern nomenclature we'd be called "Arbs", meaning greedy little jew boys capturing the arbitrage spread. The difference between the commodities (guns) prices we felt were below what we felt the current market demand supported.

Never failed. Some days we'd also sell all the pistols, rifles, and parts that we'd purchased just minutes before from the other side of the gun show.

Marketing lethal toys like firearms is a pseudo science best left to amoral motherfuckers. Present company included.

Pim used to reflect on the fact that Jesus trashed the money markets, and if he returned, would he trash our busy and thriving Saturday and Sunday gun shows. I responded by telling Pim that us monkey fucking humans would lynch him every time he reappeared. 'Cept I'd likely be the filthy human that'd shoot Jesus back out the front door.

This feral Finn ain't allowed membership where all you boys are headed. Discrimination is a good thing. Do you think heaven or hell would function properly if all us killers with poopy butts were given entrance?

Don't worry, you'll find me and Pim tending our table of guns, over and over, with each and every repeating earthbound life cycle.

After the gun show, Pim and I sometimes rallied out to my grandparent's place west of Smoky Point near the Wenberg State Park, the 7-Lakes area where you'll find 3 human skeletons bound up in the roots of a cluster of now giant Fir trees.

We'd fire up the sauna, burn some pine chron, down some good Canadian beer, then blow the living shit out of perfectly innocent trees with our new toys from the gun show. Cool shit Maynard.

As the sun set over the Puget Sound and the Olympic Mountain Range, we'd have to load up and head South back home, 'cuz our old Fairlane didn't have terribly good wipers or terribly bright headlights. I'd venture to speculate that the Fairlane didn't have terribly bright occupants either.

As mentioned before, Interstate 5 only gets interesting at speeds over 80 mph, which is the speed our Flying Dutchman preferred to drive at.

With 2 retarded occupants in our Ford, we were legal to outrace traffic flows by screaming all the way to Seattle in the car pool lane, better known as the HOV (high occupancy vehicle) lane. This lane is always clear allowing us to ignore most laws pertaining to moving vehicles, except those pertaining to the laws of physics.

As we sped past slower moving traffic, we sometimes encountered dumb shits failing to use their rear view mirrors, pulling directly in front of our speeding vintage POS (piece of shit).

Now add into your equation a letter to represent a coefficient signifying balding tires with the era of automobiles that didn't have ABS just yet.

Yup, you guessed it. Some lame fuck pulled a lefty into the car pool lane, pert near inches in front of a speeding car driven by two impaired drivers who's parents were born in other countries.

That squeaking sound of cold arctic snow and Styrofoam is the sound our balding tires made when Pim slammed on the brakes. Right before it exploded and pulled us three lanes across the highway.

This violent blow out effectively saved us from colliding up the ass of the car that pulled in front of us but also robbed us of our steering capabilities.

It also robbed us the ability to prevent motor inversion. Meaning along with the motor inverting, so did the car.

As Pim skidded diagonally across I-5, the car pitched violently, then flipped and rolled us on to our roof.

Both Pim and I tried to duck low as the roof caved in, thus bashing our skulls mercilessly together.

We hugged the front seat, and each other as we slid along side speeding traffic, upside down.

All we could hear was scratching metal and hundreds of screeching tires as traffic tried to avoid a Ford Fairlane, on it's back.

We skidded to a stop on the right shoulder with the tail of our car sticking out into the far right lane. This isn't a good thing.

The moment Pim reached to unbuckle his seatbelt; we were smashed by a speeding car clipping the trunk sticking part way in traffic.

The trunk exploded and our doors blew open spinning us like a top. Better yet, spinning us like a car on its top.

Our entire inventory of guns scattered all over the freeway derivative of a militia yard sale.

Pim and I also spun mercilessly inside this Ford Fairlane that was now best described as a moron blender.

We were churned like turds in mushuk. Loose teeth, blood and spit from our heads bashed together sprayed the entire inside of this Ford Product Centrifuge.

We had all our shit flying out the open trunk and doors alongside our over stretched arms, legs, knuckles and nuts. No shit, even my jaw and tongue were half tore off.

That car seemed to spin like a top, in traffic forever. It stopped abruptly when the car spun into the sand and grass, quickly changing the taste in our mouths from glass and blood, to ass and mud.

After the inverted Ferris wheel fun and trauma ceased, Pim and I quickly exited the vehicle and crawled into the grass in the median.

We just laid there breathing like rape victims. My neck felt broke, and so did my gonad package. My guts were pounded so bad I swear I had puke mixed with the blood and glass in my mouth. Pim just laid there and sobbed. Guess I did too.

We were hurting for certain.

The police and ambulance arrived in mere minutes barricading all the southbound traffic. This was a good thing, cuz Pim and I had to assist the police in retrieving a dozen or so smash rifles and odd pistols that had been run over by hundreds of speeding cars.

We quickly forgot about our injuries when we discovered the all of our day's work at the Marysville gun show had been ejected and spread all over the highway.

A wrecker cabled up our Ford Fairlane and was flipped back on its bent wheels, and pulled onto the back of a flat bed tow rig. Pim and I declined medical treatments, and accepted a ride from a big ol' logger dude back to Cosmo's junkyard.

We left the car at the King County Sheriff's impound yard, it was worthless trash. Besides, we didn't have a title of ownership to reclaim it.

The police retained ownership of all the run over rifles and guns, while Pim and I retained ownership of our knuckles and nuts, but not our posture.

We walked like broken old men for weeks, never truly free of the ever-increasing injuries we enjoyed collecting.

This morning, while stretching and limbering, I interrupted myself to sit down and type out this tale for you uniformed killers.

I'll finish my calisthenics as soon as I type my name.

Karl.

Indun Fride Bread, punching bags, and bullet dumps.

Top of the morning gents,

I thought I'd walk down murder memory fucking lane.

Again.

This stroll demanded the company of a crew of killers in uniform. You lot.

This metaphoric stroll is a rather convenient, yet highly illogical therapeutic methodology. Unfairly rapid dialogue not constrained by the unbearably slow pace of real time and highly trained, yet slow police minds.

Analogous to your VCR, I'll try to use my fast-forward and rewind buttons seamlessly so that you attention deficit soldiers will pay fucking attention.

University District, Seattle Washington. Two destitute and decrepit buildings in a hopeless rundown region infested with crime, yet merely blocks from the the UW campus.

What's interesting is 3 dipshits with rusty halos, hell bent on reclaiming and improving this zone. These 3 stooges actually believing in their divine mission to save the world. Dumb fuckers.

Yup, yours truly with two corrupted angels totally psyched to try every dumb idea I ever pulled outa my ass.

"Houston, we have a problem."

Crime scene #1: 4210 Brooklyn Street, Campus Apartment Building, and Manager: Don Heupel, my coworker and party mate.

Crime scene #2: 4710 15th Avenue, H&K Apartment Building, Manager: Skeeter Tenley, my coworker and party mate.

These two dilapidated buildings were purchased for pennies on the dollar ($1.8 million cash for both) with yours truly hired to renovate them, under the supervision and assistance of two damn fine criminals; Heupel and Skeeter.

The best way to vacate an apartment so we could renovate is to raise the rents way out of reach. Worked every time for every apartment. Upon receiving notice of a tripling in rents, even the filthiest scum will move out, hopefully into the street.

Children of landlords have little patience with the poor, cuz poor is a state of education, and a state of mind. The street is where we like them. They make easier targets.

Even if we divided the entire world's cash and resources evenly, we'd return to an identical disparity of wealth within 10 years.

Don't believe me? Just watch how fast my Eskimo neighbors smoke and snort their ASRC, UIC, and PFD dividends. Even with 13 retarded children, my uncle Alaq can blow 30 grand in 3 weeks on $100 bottles of booze, and $100 tablespoons of rag weed, coke, and shitty meth. $100 bill = 1 Alaskan dime.

This is consistent throughout all of rural Alaska, give a scumbag native more money, he'll only get more fucked up. Doubt me? Sprout some gonads and live in Barrow for a few years, you'll puke. Guaranteed.

Just ask 1D25's son. He'll set you straight. After he slugs ye.

Put this way, how would agent KMR0303, our favorite narc, sell over 500 bottles of whiskey every dividend season and not even make a blip on police radar. In the race to be the biggest drug dealer on the block, I'm one of the slower race cars. Imagine that?

I digress. Enough about proverty stricken intellectuals in Eskimo Territory, back to poverty scum existing in Seattle, circa 1986.

Any chance possible, we subdivided some of the larger 3 and 4 bedroom apartments into smaller 1 and 2 bed roomers and studio apartments. We also hauled all the heavy steam radiators out, patched the holes in the floor and tore out the old coal fired furnaces downstairs and converted those into 2 apartments.

You see, electricity is cheaper'n shit in Washington. So cheap, we chose to install electric baseboard heat in all the apartments sticking the tenants with the power bill.

The Campus Building originally had 40 units, 10 per floor. After we were finished, the Campus had 48. The H&K building originally had 48, 8 per floor. When completed we had 52 units. With an average rent of $600 per unit, the owner had a steady revenue stream of more than $60,000 per month.

Ain't no stock or bond can beat that ROI (return on investment).

Find me an investment that pays a low risk rate of return of 3.3 percent every month. Remember Rule 1 in property investments; never pay more than 6 years rents. This example is easy to compute, cuz we have exactly 100 units. Just like yer Physics assignments, get baked and plug and chug stacks of equations.

Even if we leveraged ourselves buying these 2 buildings (borrowed debt), we'd only be on the hook to the tune of about 1% a month, with the 2.3% as all gravy. Take a look at your own 15 year mortgages, an easy way to estimate your monthly nut is to rough in approximately 1% of your unpaid balance every month.

This is for forecasting purposes, but dollars to donuts; you're close enough for grenades, horseshoes, and atom bombs.

Aristocracy and landed gentry have always been expected to fuck the masses with basic mathematics. Works today just like it has for centuries.

You renters check yer rectums. If you insert both hands, yet still can't clap, yer tight.

While working upstairs scrubbing the kitchens and bathrooms, and caulking every seam possible, we heard this horrific screaming downstairs.

Heupel and I bolted down to the first floor to the apartment the screaming was coming from.

We pounded on the door, then used our manager's master keys to open it. We saw this big fucking Indun jumping out the window and running down the back alley.

We both got a good look at him.

On the floor was a really pretty college coed with both hands holding her groin weeping between gasping breaths.

Don called the cops, while I stood by the foyer entrance awaiting a patrol car. This wait took only minutes, so I led 2 armed coppers down the hallway to apartment 107.

After this poor girl was taken to the hospital, the coppers interviewed Donald and I. From our descriptions, the coppers had a pert near perfect picture of the guy I call Chief.

We had another fiasco the following week. A lady directly across the hall in apartment 108 called Donald to report homeless bums sleeping and pissing right in front of her ground floor window.

We sneaked out back and found a whole crew of filthy bums sleeping behind the dumpsters.

I had an idea.

We grabbed some industrial strength ammonia, climbed up the ladder in the elevator shaft to the rooftop, and sneaked to the ledge over these miscreants. After calculating windage and dispersion, I poured a steady stream of this gag inducing fumigant back and forth all over these bums.

It didn't take but a few seconds for the entire crew of human trash to explode into fits of coughing and eye rubbing, and staggering down the alley to another piece of real estate to hack and piss all over.

We only got to pull this stunt twice. We repeated this treatment a week later, yielding permanent results; permanently burned, yet long gone homeless trash.

Later that summer, a girl in 207 called Donald to report some drug dealers were smoking pot in the rear stairway.

She was perty dern close in her description. Not.

What we found was a crowd of shitty black junkies smoking crack with shitty glass pipes on the rear stairwell. I advised Donald to grab his hammer out of his tool belt.

I announced that we'd already called the cops and that they were to "get the fuck outa here."

When they told us to fuck off, I announced it was time I killed me a bunch of niggers and we raised our hammers and walked down the steps towards them.

It worked. Even a nigger on crack won't mess with two dirty construction workers armed with Vaughn framing hammers and tool belts full of cutters and shit.

As this gang of African slime retreated down the stairway, out the door, and down the back alley, they advised us they were coming back to kill us.

I never saw them again, but the replacements were met with a different tactic.

We had numerous problems with shitty humans invading any ground floor open window, and the garage in the basement.

Skeeter discovered a pair of drunks in the garage, yelled at them to get the fuck out, and got beaten to crap and mugged. We'd seen these impaired Induns all over the U-district, so Skeeter, Donald, and I prepped to hunt for them.

That same day, we found 'em drinking one block down the alley. One of our impaired Induns immediately took a swing at Donald and was met with a hammer strike to his collar. Fuck he yelled like a kicked dog.

Skeeter leaned over and stabbed him with his devious tool that leaks no blood; a piece doweling wrapped tight with a long of piece stiff piano wire sticking out.

This tool was fucking great. When Skeeter stabbed this guy over and over, the only visible wound was single micro-droplets of blood at every judicial entry site.

Donald and Skeeter delivered just deserves while I enjoyed pounding living hell outa drunk Indun #2. I was too busy with my stinking human punching bag to see what Donald and Skeeter were doing, until I saw them lift him up in the air and drop him into the dumpster. Our land, our people, unite; so guess what the fuck I did?

In this spirit of native unity, I dumped Indun turd #2 in the dumpster also.

We didn't have any problems for the rest of the summer. We'd wrapped up 2 floors in each building and had them rented out. If you complete renovation with the ground floors first, tenants and visitors enjoy exemplary show work, not the fucked up floors upstairs.

That Fall when school started, Donald and Skeeter had their entire first and second floors fully rented out. And to only pretty girls attending college paying rent for the entire semester in advance, up front. Those boys were good.

The rainy cold Seattle weather really bothers homeless folks, so we had to chase, or toss some more shitty humans out of the stairway and any apartment with an open window on the ground floors. Installing bars on the windows was a violation of fire code; no egress/exit. This meant we had to double up on our pesticidal duties to rid these two buildings of pests.

In November, on our walk back from the hardware store, I spotted Chief panhandling on University Avenue. This was the raper dude that needed mutilation, and constabulary detainment.

Skeeter ran to his building and grabbed two rifles, a tough pellet rifle, and a old 22 Papoose that when disassembled was packed into the butt stock.

We ran upstairs to the top floor elevator shaft, empty and unused since before the Great (?) Depression, and climbed the ladder to the roof top.

Donald had an Altoids tin with .22 caliber pellets soaking in rat poison and Skeeter was busy taping a paper towel cardboard tube over the end of his rifle.

That whole morning, we never got a shot at Chief. But we did get a shot at some black dudes sucking on glass dicks (crack pipes) inside their car.

Sweet shot. Donald shattered the driver's window allowing Skeeter to zip a bullet through the drivers left arm and shattering the pipe and passenger side window. All that happened next was the car burning rubber out the parking lot racing away and never looking back. Never returning either.

Some low lifers not wanting to pay for parking would wait for our tenants to drive to class or work, then steal their parking spaces. Big no-no in my book, so each morning while having coffee and bong hits, mixing mud and paint, we'd shoot their radiators until we saw green liquid puddles under their cars.

I wanted to shoot their headlights and windshields, but that would easily reveal our crimes, and sniper's nest. Besides, an overheated engine will only make noises miles away from the stolen parking spaces.

Not a single complaint, nor repeat offender.

The following April, Skeeter arrived one morning really excited that he spotted Chief right outside.

Fuck, we were sport big cheesy grins 'cuz we were on a mission.

We dropped our brushes and rollers and ran upstairs to the rooftop. This was gonna be so fucking cool. We got to shoot a member of a race of people who's existence was proof the Mexicans had anal sex with the buffalo.

We peeked over the ledge and there was our boy, Chief, just leaning against our building, smoking a cigarette.

Donald wanted the groin shot with his sick pellets soaked in rat poison. Skeeter didn't care, just as long as he could put one in the gut.

Both rifles made loud pops simultaneously and then there was silence.

Silence shattered by yelling and screaming from our boy Chief staggering down the alley.

Skeeter phoned apartment 107 and told her that the guy that raped her is out back yelling at the top of his lungs, and that she should phone the police.

She must have, cuz there were cops all over hell and back, violently scooping up a thrashing and screaming Chief without a single care for his injuries. God love 'em.

I still wince when I think how it must have felt to take a 22 bullet in the right tit, and a poisonous pellet in the ball sack. But then again, I only rape the willing and kill the dead.

The names have been left unchanged, but the actual participants may have been slightly manipulated to diffuse and obfuscate the truly responsible parties.

Fuck ye.

That's my story, and I'm sticking to it.

Karl.

Retards, gimps, and native children are all "mystical people."

Top of the morning gents,

Most of you won't ever meet any of the fictional characters from my childhood, but through this forum, free of the physical restraints of time and space, I'm capable of introducing them to you.

An old friend of mine from way back named Bill Pace was a clean and sober chap, yet he thoroughly enjoyed partying with my brothers and I.

No shit, this cherry nursed his brew for hours enjoying the strange company of musicians, motor heads, and congenital criminals from both Holland and Finland. Oh, and one from Ireland.

He never snarfed down any powdered products, and smoked hooch maybe twice. His altruistic expression was in caring for gimps and partying with the impaired.

Mr. Pace was an onsite staff person at United Cerebral Palsy, or as I put it, "wiper of gimp butts."

This guy was a real piece of work. Part naive, wait, make that mostly naive. He thought he was improving our universe by helping those least capable of helping themselves.

Bill worked decades at UCP wheeling mini-limbers and gimpoids up and down the hallways of this huge and funky smelling facility. Despite getting spit on by these selfish impudent retards and droolers he kept on feeding, changing diapers, and steadily went insane.

I ain't done yet. You need to hear more about this muke's selfless dedication.

While Cully, Scott, and Loren wailed away prematurely grungy audio torture, Bill Pace would slowly sip his beer and watch me and Callahan serve beers, industrial bong tokes, and fat white grawlers. He was fascinated with drug use, but shied away from engaging in Seattle variant alternative lifestyles.

Bill would sit in the living room with old man Baird talking about all sorts of boring sober topics simultaneously enjoying all the chemically happy kids mingle, meander, and get messed up.

Ya see, the best place to have live band parties is a bar, hash house 1, or Lem's Mortuary and Crack House. All of you should be familiar with these premises.

Cully and Scott could settle soil into hard pan with a few hours of severe sound pressure levels. We experimented with lining the foosball room walls with egg crates, mattresses, and filling the entire attic with Styrofoam worms. The sum of our efforts in sound deadening failed to camouflage why 200 hotrods and trucks were parked all around our houses. King County Sheriffs, Don Beuler's thugs (Mountlake Terrace coppers), and those suspicious gray sedans seemed to enjoy visiting us, and frequently.

They knew us, and knew where most of these party goers worked. On their quarterly visits to quiet this mob down, they were also strangely considerate. The only arrestees were the defective residents of said premises. All the other nitro-fueled partiers were kindly asked to pour their beers out, pocket their contraband, and advised to go home. The bartenders and band members didn't get such treatment.

On numerous occasions, Bill Pace and old man Baird were left to watch the house, while the rest of us were booked into the Lynnwood jail on charges of noise violations, and state liquor violations. Charges that almost always got dismissed, but effectively reigned in all those damn hyperactive first generation Americans, and one big Irish mother fucker.

As the years passed, the coppers were comfortable leaving Bill Pace in charge. Ya see, the coppers knew he was gimp butt wiper #1, and they respected his dumb ass dedication.

Dedication I have yet to reveal.

Ya see, it's a crime to eat vegetables, if you don't strap 'em back in their wheelchairs. And it's also a crime to pack yer Mr. Wobbly in the body cavities of these spoilt and abbreviated life forms in wheelchairs leaking cat piss. But, it is perfectly legal to encourage them to bone each other.

No shit, we'd place bets like dog fights on the farm.

Bill Pace was the popular request for horny gimps. Not for sex, but for sexual assistance.

Since mobility is job 1 for those lacking limbs, grabbing a quick snack of handicapper sex required the staff to help these droolers fuck. To help you visualize this, imagine two big guys shoving two miniature citizens together. Mashing nasties is the medical term.

I ain't fucking kidding. When all you coppers are crippled from yer nicotine related strokes, you can call my good buddy Bill Pace, he'll hook you up with some prime cadaver pussy, warm or cold. He'll even put you back in yer wheelchairs, and wipe yer butts.

The general public fears the handicapped. I do too.

My brother Cully's day job was servicing medical equipment like mechanical beds, killer gimp module controlled wheelchairs in facilities all over the killing fields of the Pacific Northwest. So did Ted Bundy, 'cept Cully probably never humped unconscious elderly woman in their appendectomy sutures.

Handicapped folks also enjoy drug abuse. I didn't say 'drug use' 'cuz that wouldn't be accurate. The word abuse is an old colloquialism and an abbreviated hyphenated term known as "abnormal use." According to my 2 doctor brothers, this term eventually became abuse. Didn't know that did you?

I used to slip Mr. Pace a few bomber joints for him to covertly deliver to a choice few of his choice clients. I imagined Bill and his droolers trying to hork down some pine chron out back behind the building, or on the freight loading dock.

I was wrong.

Bill was double dutying as sexual assistant, and aphrodisiac supplicant. These micro citizens saved their doobage for their scheduled sex with the prettiest drooler they can rope. UCP also facilitated assisted sex for gay couples.

Ok, lean over and puke.

Feeling better?

Viagra, Cialis, and Levitra were still a decade further down the time line trail we stroll each day, so the staff at United Cerebral Palsy allowed controlled usage of controlled substances facilitating micro boners on human slugs with big heads.

Viagra class drugs are prescribed to more than nicotine stroke stricken coppers, they're widely prescribed at facilities all over Washington. Everybody has the right to fuck, including gimps.

I never had the courage to ask Mr. Pace exactly how he assisted these little horny toads in splitting gimp biscuit. My disgusting imagination is sufficiently awful, yet shrouded in fear.

Bill did mention he had 2 other staff persons that helped out. Whew! I ain't tough enough to lift and hold 2 droolers at once and smash them together like a fucking accordion.

I don't have the strength to even walk through the front door.

As stated previously, Bill Pace did eventually go insane. He loved his impaired party mates, and was truly dedicated to his horror house of wheeled clients.

Like myself, Bill was greatly upset when Tobus shot DJ, but was truly horrified when Keely blasted his brains out in my front yard. We chatted at length about the 5 W's (who, what, where, when, why, and how) into the causality of my persistent distribution of good and bad products, and understood my preplanned disappearing act my father and I cooked up.

He even phoned me during graveyard shifts at KPD (old jail) late at night. He made astute comparisons between his clients, and mine.

No shit. For me to comprehend my FAS clientele I developed a context of understanding retarded drunk native inmates with retarded stoned gimps.

Reading and seeing how disgusting native kids behave at school in Kivalina and Barrow supports my thesis about chronic and culturally enforced fetal damage. When I make the comparisons to impudent spitting gimps, I understand and tolerate more of the Eskimo and Athabascan cultures.

The behavior and handicaps are analogous.

You boys need reminding that God is a comedian.

But we're all are far too stupid to laugh.

Next time you feel the urge to beat the piss out of another native punk ass retard kid, think of mini-limbed droolers and exercise a little compassion.

Due to the strict binge drinking schedule my native neighbors stick to, it ain't these brown retarded children’s fault they're so dumb, spoiled and nasty.

They were meant to be this way.

'Cept I ain't laughing.

Karl.

Alaskan drug abuse is indicative of insanity, not criminality.

Top of the morning gents,

I had another epiphany.

Subsequent to our recent lectures regarding epidemic mental illness so horribly exemplified in this state, I believe I may have a theorem.

Sexual mutilation has manifold psychological ramifications, and the senseless and vicious skull busting handed to Statewide's narc reveals how truly serious Alaskans are about their massive drug addiction.

We also know that Alaska leads the nation in suicide, FAS, and child abuse. Now we claim first prize in another retard race; chronic drug abuse.

Last week on NPR, the Mrs. and I listened to a news broadcast proclaiming Alaska is rated the highest of all 50 states in drug abuse; for all drugs, and for all age groups.

"Chance favors the prepared mind", but a learned mind doesn't have to directly experience insanity's precipitate to fully understand its externalities (side effects) on the body, and on our culture.

Every one of you gunslingers possesses personal experience of what makes a 'party', and what makes a 'buzz kill.' What passes for partying here in Native Territory is better described as a buzz kill.

No shit. Since when was it cool to have beaten women, raped children, and drunken men of a browner skin hue at a frat party, beach party, or keggers in Suburbia, USA?

These few examples of racial discrimination are a good thing.

The practice of partying with my pals way south of 60 is far safer than the mindless mayhem I've had to mop up after in my street and in my house up here north of 70 lat.

You boys in blue are nodding your heads and muttering "no shit Sherlock."

Every single one of my former drinking and hunting pals is now tangled up in meth and it's pissing me off.

How fucking great; another drug for natives to kill and die over. A subculture ill equipped to handle ethanol alcohol discovering a new drug that don't make your breath smell like a sewery (sewer + brewery).

Meth is a funny drug, very different from the cocaine rich suburban kids enjoyed back in the 80's. Meth is cheaper'n shit and lasts all goddamn day.

"Good deal" can be heard all over Barrow.

The rapidly expanding customer base is stimulating new supply side channels resulting in an astronomic growth in the number of meth labs from the Mat-Su Valley all the way up to Fairbanks and North Pole.

The invisible hand of economics always prevails, and is ALWAYS demand driven.

Here's the problem in a nutcase. Simply removing drugs and alcohol from the subsistence diet of our native brethren will only exacerbate our indigenous maiming and killing.

All these addicts are what are now creatively termed "dual diagnosis", meaning the root of the rot is still present in the form of lunacy and madness. Most addicts feel they are self-medicating something wrong inside them.

Well, they are. And the largest contributor to insanity is fetal exposure to liquor and shitty reservation quality drugs. Do you uniformed felons detect a cyclicle pattern here?

We're approaching the month of March, better known throughout Scandinavia as the month of madness. And they call it the month of madness for a damn good reason. They too have spikes in violence of all types. Including self-inflicted violence via rope, gun, or drug overdose.

We need not accept this phenomena. Inherently sick people don't need any fucking encouragement and especially any understanding or forgiveness from their loved ones and victims.

On my late night stroll with the Mrs. last night, we were bedazzled by a wonderfully bright full moon.

Double fucked we is. Uneducated and uncivilized folks I fondly call "closer to monkeys" believe the full moon has dumb ass powers and is reasonable grounds to further abuse their loved ones.

Most of you uniformed felons might take heed and oil yer gun and pay closer attention to yer duties. Explosive violence of any descriptor occurs with little or no warning. Especially during this time of year.

So keep yer heads up soldiers. Until we rehabilitate 20% of our state's population, it's best these rural village whack jobs stay high, stoned, ripped and wasted.

The bullet that's gonna kill us hasn't even been manufactured yet. But the knife and axe wielding homicidal maniac already likely lives right next door to you.

I won't wait until your funeral to say a few kind words for you. That's too late.

I'll express kind and supportive words while all you bastards are fucking alive and kicking ass.

Amen?

I'll be here 5 days a week, God willing.

All these shit-ass cuss words are a man's way of expressing his fondness for you aging killers.

Stay tuned each day to this same bat time and same bat channel. It ain't likely I'll run out of abusive ways to cheer you up. So fuck ye.

Keep yer powder dry and yer dick hard, and the world will turn.

Karl.

Yer always safe in Alaska when you carry an RA Security Device.

Top of the morning gents,

There's a retired chap that we all know, living somewhere near and around Shelton, Washington, a wooded location on the West side of Puget Sound.

Rumor has it, he may have been a public servant in a remote village where the soil's gone bad and likely left him smelling like a pubic rodent.

What a dumb ass. This guy spent over 40 thankless years North of the Arctic Circle.

His tenure exceeds the entire lifespan of a Squish. If you know what that is.

Funny fucker ain't I?

Does a soul some good to press a phone against yer head fer fucking 2 hours, reminiscing about the filthy aspects of public safety in Wild West Alaska until yer left ear is smashed flat, wet and sweaty, and hurting like a mother fucker.

Count yer blessings more of you nasty uniform turd squeezers ain't beaten to death, stabbed by air born marijuana wives like Linda Sauve...

Or get shot and killed by...


*a stray bullet exiting the driver's door of a municipal Chevrolet.

*a stray bullet that finally stopped screaming and lodged in a fluorescent light above the heads of mostly now dead Eskimo inmates. Hint: old jail, 45 ACP, gray eyed mother fucker.

*a stray bullet exploded through the ceiling above JPO. Hint: Wade Laws lived there. juvenile probation office, 22 garoot.

*a stray bullet woke everyone in the graveyard in front of the old jail, when a trigger happy kid from Janton, CA experienced a similarly exploding gun mystery.

*Scott Wade and I were digging a jammed shell out of his rifle. Yup, it fired and blasted mud all over Sara Magnum. 22 = 2 dumb asses.

Our phone chats have the unfair advantage due to possessing true and accurate insider knowledge cuz we both married Siberian beauties. Interracial dudes.

I goated this retarded (retired) old fart with the initials of David Craig into debating relative safety to our lives and limbs, dead zone NWAB? or MudFarm, Washington. All the zip codes we've soiled eventually became more violent, the longer we lived there.

We drew from straight crime stats from experience in Kotzebue and all its 13 surrounding villages, and here in Barrow, plus my own burgeoning police record.

My mountain bikes seem to leave me more often in Barrow, and I had quite bit of row with my retarded uncle Alaq.

I further countered with how often the Mrs. and I had to walk, escort, carry, kick and roll drunks outa the 29 unit in Kotzebue.

Probably the most potentially deadly zip code I held was Willow. After we wrapped up, cleaned up, and moved away, 2 truckloads of redneck biker trash arrived to do some abbreviations to the existential acturarial tables for Bunnik, Sara Magnum, and agent N606.

Rick Carlson, Rawhide, and a pile of militious armed Valley excrement were fueled up and screaming on powders, and primed fer murder.

I'll give you one guess who they were fixin' to kill.

In my absence, I'd installed a handy security device. It's called an RA. It's a security device tested for years in the United States Marine Corps and was a bargain at a fictional Army Surplus store.

The option package I chose came equipped with a 45 side arm, a sleek 44 special with reverse loaded or backward wad cutters tucked in a fanny pack, and a shotgun in a shoulder sling fondly called his "wingmaster."

Upon exiting their trucks and setting foot upon RA guarded soil, 2 shotgun blasts may have been discharged thereby notifying the aforementioned biker trash that the shotgun sings the song.

Outnumbered, the RA drone approached with long gun drawn and charged, and calmly advised these fine gentlemen that their target meat puppets and bullet dumps had long moved away.

Surprising these fine gentlemen from behind was an elderly neighbor with the initials of Dick Palmitier. He yelled a chiming agreement that "the folks yer aimin' to kill ain't 'round here no more."

Old man Dick Palmitier also held, but didn't aim his firearm. Safe bet both the operator and the firearm were both loaded and happy to dispense with the niceties and commence killin'.

Our visiting crew of redneck biker trash made threatening postures, and even more threatening promises. But not once did any hand or metal make any sudden movements. Surrounded by shotguns on 2 sides must've convinced our unwanted guests that any and all gunplay would prove messy'rn after birth hittin' the fan.

Shucks. Not one drop of infected blood was shed that day. I credit my RA security device. And neighbor, old man Dick Palmitier, an unforgivably mean old chap, but an armed chap just the same.

The RA is a real dude. Robert Anderson. He lived at our Willow house for years after our departure, working as grounds maintenance and caretaker. He also completely overhauled the bathroom/laundry rooms and shot 2 coats of paint on the outside.

I helped. A little.

I held the bong.

Kidding. I shipped that new Arctic Cat PUMA snow machine I bought from Joe Garoutte, from Kotzebue to Anchorage, as payment for such dedication. Good guy. Creepy fucker though. Marines aren't designed to get along with others on the playground.

Don't believe me? Just ask Tom Evans, he failed to phone prior to visiting our Willow house as a possible renter. No shit, RA smashed his windshield with the butt of the infamous "wingmaster."

I'm thinking of a heart attack. No such luck, just a really pissed off Tom Evans screaming at me from the payphone at the Willow Texaco that I was buying him a new windshield. Poor Tom. He lost his voice for a week, rendering him only fat, smelly, and annoying.

As you drive north on the Parks Highway, take a cruise down Lucky Shot Trail Road (mile 71 exactly, the milepost sign was my visual signal to pull my boot out the carbeurator), and you can look at the cabin and house set up on the right side, pretty red paint, dark brown trim.

You can pull over and take a smoke break there. Nobody is gonna blast yer limbs off. RA has long moved North, and old man Dick Palmitier has retired from poaching souls and killing the wicked.

Things just seem to get right peaceful.

After we move away.

If any of you give a shit, ya think Barrow will quiet down next year?

After we move away?

Have gun. Will travel.

Karl.

Fear and stress are more addictive than any alphabet soup of narcotics.

Top of the morning gents,

I remember a phrase from our dearly departed Trooper Nay, "90% boredom, 10% sheer terror."

He was lecturing me why a career in policy enforcement may not be my cup of tea. He also recommended I put my irritatingly sharp wit to better purposes. He asserted that I was designed for the opposite, 10% boredom, 90% sheer terror. And he wasn’t jerking my dick, nor blowing hot gasses up my dress.

Some evenings in his office we'd chat about all sorts of things. I already delivered my warrant arrestees to the jail, courtroom, and the public defenders office, leaving a half a day to kill until my flight back to Kiana departed.

On the days Trooper Dial was due to go wheels up to get some flight time in, assist in aerial recon for Search and Rescue, or simply to make sure my dumb ass left Kotzebue, I'd ride along with him.

Despite the stern notoriety these chaps were famous for, both of them were wonderful conversationalists. No shit, my most memorable experiences of remote Alaska were long talks over coffee and cigarettes with coppers. This includes you boys.

Mind you, any occupation I endeavor is counterfeit at best. I don't qualify to be an effective criminal or grifter, or a jailer, narc, or VPSO. These are all avenues I found appealing and all contribute to the composite, yet not structurally integral hyperactive story teller that annoys you murderous bastards daily.

Since the career finds the man, not the other way around, I throw precognition to the wind and let fate guide my resume. If any of you wonder why I can't stay in one city, village, or country for longer than 5 years, well, it's my nature. My literary contributions would sound contrived and artificial, had these experiences been made up, or pulled outa my ass.

The most vivid experiences I recall were all framed in Kim Nay's 10% sheer terror. I'm not one to get bored, cuz that would be an insult to my creativity.

Sheer terror is one way to describe the stress that I find relaxing. If I'm not engaging in scary shit, then I create disasters that evoke the excitement my hyperactivity thrives on. No shit, after only a few months arriving here in Barrow, I found myself longing for the thrill of operating effectively under extraordinary stress.

Wouldn't you know? Logan phones me and demands I assist him in flying shit loads of illegal liquor and pot through the Brooks Range all the way north of 70 lat, here in Barrow.

Flying with a severely stoned and unlicensed pilot, in junker planes satisfied my addiction. If we ‘d crashed, you boys would've likely assumed I was back smuggling contraband in and out of the Baltics and Russia.

I ain't alone in my addiction to overwhelming stress and fear of violence and death. I have a sneaking feeling I have company, you lot.

Way back about 30 years, I stoked my addiction to excitement with public performances. Hours before rehearsals or auditions, I'd be stinking of fear. It's pretty scary to play duets on stage in front of a large audience.

I had a secret weapon that none of you had; extremely talented siblings. Hence my duets, trios, and quartets up on stage were almost always composed of my own kin. The family of child prodigy Finns I left decades ago.

My sister Moira and I would practice horribly complex orchestral pieces over and over until our mum agreed we had the fucker nailed down and wired tight. You sorry bastards missed out, my mum was more than a drill sergeant, she was also our coach, chauffeur, and conductor.

As the performance date neared, I started stressing out. This gave me a boner, but also fueled our desire to truly master the piece of Baroque shit my sister and I were requested to play.

Setting up behind the curtains took considerable self-control. We'd hear the audience pile in, and shuffle chairs. Then Mr. Freng or Mrs. Dezell would do all the introductions and explain the evening's program to the audience while my sister and I would quietly check our tuning and sheet music. All the while we'd fidget and fuss over our all-black attire.

This is scary shit for junior high school kids.

Moments before the curtains swept aside and stage lights clacked on, my sister Moira would give me that 'look.' It could be a subtle nod, or a sly smile, but it did wonders for my acid burning armpit stinking stress. The moment we'd simultaneously draw our bows across our strings, we were in our zone.

Years later, we all took a shot at positions with other symphonies and orchestras. We're talking top shelf productions that toured Europe.

My oldest sister auditioned and was accepted a few years ahead of us, which meant Thea and I had to go it alone. Yup, she and I had to practice the living shit out even more complex sheet music, Classical music no less.

The music we had to nail down was a real bitch. We were to master pieces composed for three different criteria; concert band, choir, and then symphony. Concert band included loud brass and symphonies were grounded in woodwinds, percussion, and stringed instruments. Three different historical eras, and three separate performances with my sister and I obligated to play for all them.

The expectations for us were far beyond my adolescent nightmares. This is hard shit dudes. I still wonder why my folks pushed us so fucking hard. I don't regret a bit of it.

It's just a pity there weren't more parents like mine. See where I'm headed?

It was obvious most mortal humans couldn't hold a candle to my sibling's academic and extra-testicular pursuits, but Cully and I sure wished our parents were alcoholic divorcees allowing us more time to practice farm yard devices of detonation. As stated before, every single one of our friends came from broken homes; divorced, deceased, or diseased fathers equated by my parents as 'homeless.'

A home without a strict father and a pushy mother ain't a home, hence why so many of my very best pals waited and played in the goats pasture while Cully and I had to finish practicing, and our chores.

Bright kids aren't treated as fairly as dummer neighbors, my brother and I did our morning paper route, milked and fed the goats, then went to school. Do the math. We had to be out the door at 4:30am, back home for chores by 6:30, then off to school by 7:30. Some days we'd run late and skip showers, hence the nickname "goat herder." I ain't kidding, me and Cully could sure stink up a storm.

Like your author on drugs, my brother Cully continued live performances with various bands playing for various bars all over Seattle.

I never ceased my addiction to stress.

We loaded up the vans with amps and instruments, overhead projectors and psycho-tronic slides, and raced to the venue on the schedule.

Set up and tear down has to follow strict protocol and procedure to avoid feedback and phantom hum. Larson, Scott Wade and I chased and layed out cable, then duct taped them in bundles flat to the stage. Loren and Cully were responsible for plug in and tuning, while Mike Peterson was the sole agent of drum set up and assembly.

If we didn't get finished on time, drunk customers and skanky cunts would pester us and get in the way. This was an early lesson in alcohol abuse. I had yet to experience drunk monkey fucking natives.

Once all the equipment was in place, we'd sneak out to one of the vans to get stoned, powder our beaks, and down a few brews. Ya see, like our instruments, we had to get tuned up too. Now you see the niche I carved out for my best mates; supplicant of expensive candy. Fuck you.

Despite doling out a shit load of free powders and the such, I more than made up for this with the profits I yielded vending my toxins to the hundreds of customers in the bar, while my crew whaled out some seriously offensive guitar shred werks on stage.

This niche also cost me my residence. As the drug business fell further below the radar and beyond the reach of common sense, my competition became more and more intimidating. As the years passed, bar owners preferred their own in-house drug dealers, not the handsome felon that double dutied as stage tech support.

More and more, it was recommended that I leave my product in the vans. That is, if we wanted more gigs in the future. Ya see, the bar owners didn't ask me nicely.

As my pals all went to jail, rehab, shot their best friends, or committed suicide, I started feeling unwanted in of all places, the Killing Fields of the Pacific Northwest.

I may be a quick study, but I'm a stubborn dumbass too. I refused to accept the notion that all the death and destruction surrounding me was a result of my happy ass addiction to selling wholesale volumes of illegal firearms, cocaine, and the souls of lesser life forms.

When the new year of 1989 opened with my own brother shooting his best friend, and Keely blowing his brains out in my front yard, I started getting a fucking clue. When I submitted to a pistol whipping and thorough ass kicking at Franky's house, Higman's offer to move up to Kotzebue didn't seem so far away after all.

Did I ever tell you I'm a dumbass? I am.

Akin to the phrase, "out of the pan and into the fire", Kotzebue seemed like a geography and culture inverse to my artful dodger logic.

I'd never seen a whole reservation full of drunk fuck ups, outside of Tulalip and Puyallup. All my customers in Seattle were single folks, none parents.

This realization soon started eating at me. I have a conscience too, just not when children are absent. Seeing and visiting so many native puke shacks and party dumps upset me greatly. Namely cuz these druggers and drinkers were also parents, implying children were always underfoot, sooner to be underground.

The party is always over, when all the dealers are white trash niggers, and the customers are congenitally impaired ice nigger trash. Oh, and when kids are present.

Do see the epiphany I was soon to experience?

The circle would now be complete. I would find myself chatting with violent coppers and extraordinarily violent recruiters, namely Columbo, Nay, and Westlake. The double o' seven jokes from Dean sank in, and hard.

Who in their right mind would volunteer to follow orders from uniformed killers and vicious boys in blue?

Also, who in their right mind would volunteer for a 2-year narc op job, and for free?

Present company included, ain't no right minded folks anywhere nearby, as far as I can tell.

Ya see, my addiction isn't to any lame substance or silly beverages, my addiction is to stress, and fear.

You boys have no clue how scary it is to put all my trust into the hands of a bunch of sinister coppers. But I did anyway.

I wasn't disappointed. During all my discussions with my targets manifold and clients plethora, I truly believed you boys were laying low behind your rifles observing and monitoring all our conversational discourse.

Simply knowing Waller and Westlake, Columbo and Nay were my lethal backup, my stress dissipated and I felt free to boldly negotiate and schedule drug deals larger than any of the gigs I pulled off down yonder in the lesser 48.

On the scheduled evening I was to meet the Capones at Drake's Camp, I strolled down to the trooper office, stripped down to bare chest while Nolton and Nay wired me for bear. Those two did a tremendous job of calming and encouraging me.

I then walked on foot from the trooper office to Ken Hall's place, popped in for a brief chat, whereupon Chris Ciringione drove me to Drake's.

I maintained steady chatter by commenting on various assholes living at addresses that indicated our route and arrival. This was likely more stressful than any goddamned audition or performance.

But this time, I had a secret weapon: a crew of covertly concealed, yet extremely lethal cops covering my 6, and insuring that in case of another bloody gun battle, I'd be the sole survivor.

We never outgrow our security blanket. A metaphor for you lot, this crew of horribly violent killers, that backed me when I was bait on a hook.

Don't think I don't appreciate that.

I do, and I'm truly thankful.

If you think for a second I've recovered from my addiction to fear and stress, yer dummer'n I thought.

If things go well for me, we may read about another covert job where this feral Finn tangles it up with another batch of criminals.

As long as you murderous mother fuckers are more violent than the crooks I'm ensnaring, I'll live a long and stressful life.

Who the fuck am I kidding?

Like all my childhood pals that are all gone now, I just pray I don't outlive this crew of uniformed felons, you boys.

The thought of missing you lot is unbearable.

Karl.

Sons of Fathers. Your Turn. Don't fuck this up.

Top of the morning gents,

I've been thinking about my father, and grandfather
lately. I still enjoy the advice and affection from
both of them. Ya see, Finns usually outlive the
children they care for, even children from other
broken families, even if they're homeless, or
fatherless.

I never fail to shed a tear for lonesome boys I see
abandoned at the playground, or my front porch. In
family tradition, I also collect strays. Feral lads
of different skin color, but lads just the same.

Whenever I'm lost, or confused about issues pertaining
to child development, young men's responsibilities for
the sperm they splash all over, and why my native pals
missed out, I simply phone pops. My native pals
appear to have missed out on experiencing what makes a
good father.

My pops maintained special and private relationships
with all us boys. Me and Cully could never understand
why my mom and sisters took turns smelling funny,
acting viciously, and belly aching cuz they gotta pack
tissue and rags in their pants.

The stress started with my oldest sister, thus
triggering a bleed over effect with my mom and my
other sister following suit.

This series of awful events consumed the first three
weeks of each month, followed by a miraculous healing
and attitude adjustment. So much that my mom and
sisters would spend the last week of the month hanging
out with us and wishing to be included in our chores;
in the shop, out in the pastures, and even playing
with us, and our skateboards and go-carts.

My brother Cully would advise me, "Don't fall for that
shit, they'll gonna start hitting us and screaming at
us in only 4 days." Good call bro.

Sure enough, after a mere week of healthy cooperation,
we'd start all over again with the hits, slaps, and
hair pulling so typical of a relentlessly painful
uterus. Cully would joke that if he had an aching
pussy, he could justifiably beat the crap outa his
sisters, and his mom. 'Cept he asked why it's also
called it a Twat. My father would mutter, "bloody
hell." He ain't even a limey fucking brit.

During our chores, between loads of manure, or buckets
of milk, we'd ask dad why the girls behaved like belly
aching cunts. My dad would smile, then display a
sadness and explain that all women have a monthly
cycle whereupon they'd bleed away a single egg, losing
another chance to make a viable life form, hence the
depression and monthly funeral for each passing, yet
very dead egg.

Pops didn't like my joke about beating the shit outa
bleeding women, "at least I'd get scrambled eggs."

"Don't tell yer mother I told you this, but all women
are the same, they'll all go crazy 13 times a year.
They have no control over their bad moods. Less
control over their good moods."

His scientifically accurate explanations didn't quite
explain why my sisters and mom suffered so fucking
much, nor did he explain why they were notorious
menstrual monsters.

Me and Cully used to tag along with dad to the feed
store and hardware store, just to escape the
overwhelming rusty iron stench in our house, but also
these were the times Cully and I needed our dad the
most. Shit, one third of the family was on the rag,
ya think a lad is gonna feel safe around that kind of
hemorrhagic warfare?

Dad's are safe refuge from bloody awful mean older
sisters and a man beast of a cranky mom. I still
don't think these mean old gals were even aware of
their disastrous menstrual cycles. When we shied away
from them on that glorious last week of each month,
they all looked confused and clueless why we preferred
to steer clear of bitches that can bleed for a whole
month, and not fucking die.

Living up here so far north, and so far away from
healthy human beings, I detect a slightly different
menstrual cycle for brown women with pickled eggs.
Once a gal starts whipping her kids and abusing her
peers, we see a tidal wave of blood gushing stink
pouches all clamoring at AC for the last box of
tampons and queen size butt packing pads.

Menstrual synchronicity is the word for the day.
Don't forget it.

David Burnor used to hold weeklong drinking parties
and chief out seshes he fondly called "the mad women's
club." This was the historically accurate time of the
month us broken knuckle husbands banished our foul
tempered and smelling sisters to the bleeding hut.

Fuck, some ancient practices are a stroke of genius.
I wish we could re-enact the same scenario during this
century. Instead of a trail of tears, we'd call it
the trail of pap smears and at gun point march all the
miserably and bloody awful bitches out to the bleeding
hut, lock 'em in, then set the place afire.

I'm kidding.

We'd all celebrate their return to our families, and
our dicks. Ya see, my dad explained it this way. If
you continue to be afraid of bloody awful behavior
from a gal that Can't Understand Normal Thinking, you
might as well get used to kissing and humping men in
the pooper, cuz God's choices of sexual partners ain't
like a cafeteria full of options.

It's one, or the other.

If we chose to be queers, we'd at least forego all the
thumb sized Q-tips, and mattress sized panty packing
cotton pads. We also forego the aspect of femininity
we enjoyed the most, that last week of the month.

We'd also have to put up with the disgusting aspects
of homosexuality dad scared the shit out of us with.
When a lad is lectured on the fundamentals of gay sex,
it don't take long to view menstruation in a more
patient, compassionate and understanding context.

Shoot, a whole life time of limp wristed, gape assed
same sex fecus eating homos, or one good week every
month of love and affection from the pretty girls in
our class that haven't even started bleeding yet.

Me, Cully, and Callahan may have been naive little
criminals, but we weren't naive about life's truly
shitty choices in life partners and spouses. All
three of us thought long and hard on that criterion.
And it was frustrating.

Ya see, my dad was also father to all my boyhood
friends. If yer gonna help move livestock, shovel
manure, and make forts on the farm, yer gonna get
sickening, yet honest lectures from a rather brilliant
and bearded man. My father.

Ain't none of my friends missed helping out with the
chores. My dad insisted it was good for them. Since
all my childhood pals suffered needlessly from
divorce, my old man just recruited these boys, fed
them hard Finnish bread, goat's milk and cheese, and
while working the shit out of them, he'd lecture on
the physics of electrical fencing, the mass of a
single bale of hay, and the pounds per square inch a
goat's horns or a horse's hooves can deliver to yer
gonads.

No shit, we always listened.

The old man wasn't merely blowing hot air, he cleverly
concealed the moral of his stories within his tales of
horse back trail riding at altitude in the Cascade
Mountain Range, butchering food animals, and why a
four cylinder Triumph power plant was limited to
little more than 100 horsepower.

He also got a kick out taking all us lads out for a
weekly spin in his British sports car, or his Swedish
coupes. He'd yell over the roar of the motor why twin
SU carbs have flat spots because naturally aspirated
motors require vacuum induced air/fuel intake flow
ratios at pert near 13.7 to 1. Which subsequently,
only occurred from half to full throttle.

We didn't question his expertise about coefficients of
friction at standard temperature and pressure, cuz he
was driving far too fast whilst valiantly trying to
recover from over steer typical of rear wheel drive
British sports cars, under excessive throttle.

During the three weeks of ovarian violence, our dad
was our only friend, and hero. What is so sad, is
that all my boyhood pals all lost their dads.

Not a single one of those boys spawned in the Killing
Fields of the Pacific Northwest had a father that
lasted long enough to witness our voices cracking and
our evolving understanding of the care and feeding of
farm animals, and human females.

My pops attended more graduations for kids that didn't
share his looks, or culture. It used to make me
sicker'n shit with jealousy to see my folks grooming,
caring, and feeding such a plethora of foreign kids.
Thinking about all the exchange students that invaded
our house, sat at our dinner table, and ate and drank
our home made bread and wine still pisses me off.

This is a good thing though. I'm fortunate to be in
such a privileged position.

I'm also fortunate to know why.

The last time I visited the folks, I sneaked into the
garage, sat down on an old tin full of oats, smoked a
ceremonial bowl with Willie Nelson in mind and did a
pre-flight inspection on the old Triumph TR-3. The
British sports car that hasn't been crossed up and
sideways at 80 miles per hour in 3 decades.

Three decades is a long time. Meaning those boys are
now graying gunslingers. The smell of hot exhaust
gasses and smoking rubber ain't the prettiest smell in
the world, just the world of little boys that lost
their dads, and chose to do hard manual labor on a
farm.

These same stray boys that worked their asses off,
right next to Cully and I, while also listening to
lectures from a surrogate father who never played
favorites with the back of his hand or his affection,
nor his high speed exploits.

There's something wonderful about seeing an old man
coach and guide little boys on how to be little men.
Something wonderful, that starts when yer big enough
for britches, yet badly needed up here north of 70
lat.

It still breaks my heart to see so many stray native
kids wandering around the playground alone, and lost.

Looking back, that group of lads that lost their own
fathers, likely haven't failed to understand the need
for surrogate dads. I'd like to fly my folks up here
to facilitate the same experiences they afforded us,
but with new recruits with browner skin.

Sadly, it's no longer my father's duty to raise stray
boys to be patient and understanding of human females.
This duty has now fallen on other shoulders.

Namely ours.

I don't think any of us have grown big enough to fill
those shoes.

If you don't know what makes a good dad, you're in
dire need of more lectures.

Y'all best be fixin' to write yer dad a letter. Fuck
even a phone call. If yer pops is now dead, phone
mine, he won't let you off the phone without the good
advice you know yer needin'.

Karl.

Food, Drink, and Stink, but no think. From way north of 70 lat.

Top of the morning gents,

Paying close attention to C-SPAN and Juneau's Gavel-to-Gavel coverage may improve my debate skills and add depth, factual and statistical density in my writing. Paying close attention to the Cooking Channel, I can forever prevent my neighbors from confusing this blessed residence for a rich Mexican's.

If you don't receive correspondence from my Arcticus Superior Computing Station, it's likely cuz yer pussy ass lives in Washington close to yer mommy’s uterus, or I'm busy experimenting in new ways to negate our entire constitution in the name of the War on Drugs or in the kitchen messing about with new ways to make nasty ass tundra animals north of 70 lat, taste better.

This weekend, I refrained from composing any vignettes offensive and amorally clever constitutional rights violations offensive. I spent far too much time cooking, butchering, and earning a brown tooth.

You'd think my cooking skills would accelerate at the same trajectory as my steep learning curve. They do.

The Mrs. concurs with me. I'm like a retard child learning wonderful discoveries every fucking day. She'll watch me read recipes from my Kansas City Barbeque and Smoking book, ponder temperature, cooking time, and spice content, then simply state, "your so cute."

Yes, that gal has impeccable taste in men.

My newest werks: Caribou soup that don't stink like rotten butt, or pussy.

I sawed the rear limbs off a baby caribou my hard breeding, drinking, and hunting pal Arnie Brower beat the crap out of, then suffocated; bare handed.

Yup, that same fictional character Arnie is the same murderous son of an ugly Eskimo you all have met before. This tough Inupiaq unit is one lethal motherfucker habitually offending the life expectancies of hundreds of animals. Animals that properly prepared, cooked and eaten by your author on drugs, make damn fine turds.

Again last weekend, after downing too much blended Canadian and caustic fumes from the Industrial Gravity Bong, our man Arnie and I rallied out to gas well road at top speed, smacked a mommy and two baby caribou into doing cartwheels, exited the truck and proceeded to strangle the living shit out 3 newly gimped caribou.

Obeying Barrow's municipal code banning the discharge of firearms, we took advantage of our mutually shared penchant for murder, albeit with tools derivative of an epoch prior to the Bronze Age. Fuck you, this is fun shit. If you don't agree, put a sock in yer cunt.

After our brief and hyperventilating choke and cut murder spree, we tossed all three animals in the back of the truck and drove back home. The drive home was just long enough for our boners to subside. Animal executions are nutritious fun shit. If you ever tasted my hand-killed punniktuk and baby tuktu broth soup, you’d know why, but not how.

Merely tossing these meat chunks into a soup broth merely yields icky and gross native soup. The kind I smell whenever I enter Kenny and Annie's, Albert Monroe's, or David Burnor's house. Also the same kind of soup neither myself nor Sara Magnum will put anywhere near our mouths. Gross shit Maynard.

Sara Magnum used to whisper to me, “Gross man, their house always stink native.”

If an alien Finn pays close attention to the Cooking Channel, we'll see the world's best chefs prepare legs of lambs, legs of cattle, and gunshot piggies. The epiphany I recently discovered was substituting skanky ass game meats my drug buddies kill by hand for fun, with the premium meats we see on the tele.

No shit Sherlockmute, my badly battered brain bucket absorbed some perty kewl cooking tricks.

After ripping the hide off of a pair of darling little baby caribou legs I did what's called a 'rub'. I powdered them both with garlic powder, pepper, and salt, then let them set over night in the fridge.

The following day, I rinsed the legs off under warm water, then proceeded to dissect them following the fatty membrane segmented muscle groups, then trimming these amusingly small legs into their individual muscle components, whereupon, I re-applied some more of the same spices.

Hold your horse dicks, these ain't ready for the stew pot yet. Following my Southern Rub, I now have to perform a French sear.

Take yer largest fry pan, and melt a cup of lard or clarified butter on the highest heat, just short of burning.

I didn't have any lard, so I took a cup of shortening from me Bunnik's Indun Fride Bread deep fryer with all those delicious yet residual pastry and bakery flavors you graying gunslingers miss from home.

*Just like our Siberian wives, our mom's will always be near and dear to our hearts, despite spawning you violent miscreants. Most of our mothers are still alive, so ya mite want to send them a nice letter telling them that you miss and love them, unless yer a pussy still chafing from diaper rash. The Goulsbie conspiracy is real. So just like our beloved Sgt. Waller, phone your mom, or prove your literacy to her and write a fucking letter. Amen?

I melted my pastry shortening, then tossed my hunks of infant meats in. The idea is to almost burn these meats on all sides in lots of super hot grease and shit loads of spices. Every few minutes, I rotated them allowing each part to brown.

Pyro fun you can eat.

After all my baby meat hunks were nicely browned, we are supposed to let them 'rest' on a plate and cool to room temp, allowing me time to get a large stew pot of onions, carrots, and celery to warm and simmer.

Draining the grease from each piece, I dropped them into my stew pot and allowed them to simmer on low heat for a few hours. The leftover hot spicy grease is best bound fer the shitter. With all the goddamned Polar Bear Warnings all over my fucking neighborhood, dumping this grease outside will likely only improve my own flavor.

Note: At any time during these procedures, my house never smelled native. Bonus dudes.

On Saturday afternoon, my pal I fondly refer to as Super Dad from Unalakleet came over for a few rounds of bourbon, smokes, and cards. No cigs, they're bad for you. Fuck you.

During the heated card games of chance, skill and sobriety, we chiefed down some continental sativa, earned a brown tooth, and made fun of other natives.

I can't explain it. Living so far north exempts my merry band of killers from civilized behavior you whitey but no tighty fags call Politically Retentive.

Ethnocentrism, xenophobia, and jokes about pockmarked Indun scumbags is fair play. Fair play cuz the racial hatred is mutual.

You'll often hear jokes, tales and insulting pussy stories about subarctic subhumans at my bar and card game table. It's natural and historically accurate.

"Half a gas can"

"Athabascan Dumpster Divers"

These are all terms of non-dearment since the Yukon River was God’s natural barrier between Ice Niggers and Pockmarked Induns.

Ain’t nothin’ wrong with racial hatred, if yer skin is browner than mine.

For this Finn to wear T-shirts emblazoned with the slogan, “White Power” could be misconstrued as distrust and dislike of folks suffering from excessive skin melanin. But it ain’t, my distrust and dislike includes all folks dummer than I, including white folks with shit brown hair and shit brown eyes. Half-wits, not Half-whites, dumb asses.

All humans used to be colored. Oops, I mean 'of color.' Then the aliens or angels came and mixed it up with some terrestrial, yet short and shallow pussy.

If you buy that load of horse puckey, yer welcome to drink and smoke at my card table, providing you have outlandish and unbelievable tales why humans are so fucking adverse to the diverse.

Under closer examination, I see a feral Finn stealing all sorts of killer shit from all sorts of races and cultures. I serve food, drink, and smoke from all cultures of the world, yet I enjoy hearing my busted knuckle hunting pals make fun of brown folk existing at roughly the same status on the Totem Pole, at the bottom with piss and shit dripping off their faces.

Regardless, it's fun to hear subhumans make fun of other cultures, who are subsequently, equally subhuman.

I stink, therefore I am.

You boys stay nasty. It’s best that you only read my moronic drivel. It’d really suck if I was yer neighbor and had to smell yer nasty ass cooking.


Karl.

Partying With Shrunken Head Inukuns.

Top of the morning gents,

Darkness. Way too much of it. I'm too fucking far
north.

I never thought I'd ever experience the density, mass,
and weight a remote arctic environment presses on a
lad, merely from the absence of light.

All you sub-Arctic Siberian Mongoloid motherfuckers
know how spooky it is to blindly push aside stinky
hides and fish and carefully walk in to frosty
qunnichuks, storm porches, and shitty little cabins.

In pitch dark.

There's a secret society of featureless Eskimos that
lay concealed in shadows, here in Barrow. An
invisible gang of shrunken head Inukuns.

I got to drink with them last night.

Reminiscent of your camp upbringings, one candle or
lantern makes for disturbing optical effects, even for
a murderous Finn. This is your author on drugs.

Me and the Mrs. took a long stroll last night, a
stroll that brought us into old town site cross town
on the beach. In customary tradition, walk and talks
do a soul some good. Guess that's why 'Skimos "go
visit."

I smelled cigarette smoke and heard voices from inside
old man Ira's little plywood shack, so we opened up
the broken outer door, swept aside some truly smelly
hides and blindly groped to find the front door.

Bunnik held the draped hides back and the door open so
I could navigate through piles and stacks of good food
other cultures call rotten. I knocked 3 times and
heard the ancient customary greeting, "come in."
After finding a bent and jagged door knob, we walked
in and were greeted by an astoundingly large number of
faceless dark people sitting everywhere possible, but
still in the shadows.

Ira only had a single 60 watt lightbulb in his little
shack.

Bun and I shook the hands that reached into the light,
and we repeated our identities, "Karl and Bunny from
Kotzebue."

"Adza!" "I know you're Atiin and you're brother."

"Adiga!" "You're Bessie Ootoyuk."

I recognized some of the voices but couldn't make out
the faces, until Riley Wreck Kowunna climbed from a
black hole and gave us hugs whilst getting muk oil and
fish smear all over us both.

Bun and I found an unoccupied recess and disappeared
into it.

We passed around lots of bottles of low grade whiskey,
smoked cigarettes, and chiefed down a shitload of high
grade chronic in the customary counterclockwise
fashion established by Maniilaq and his stoner dudes,
about 10,000 fucking years ago.

Now, I know you uniformed felons can detect bullshit,
so I don't try.

The mysterious effects that occur whilst gulping down
cups of liquor, smoking fat chiefs and getting
Chinked, and fumigated with good tobacco with faceless
and shrunken Inupiaqs, is hypnotic.

I can't make out a single fucking word, yet I'm
pleasantly comfortable hiding in a dark corner of a
little shack on the shore from the Beaufort Sea.

Something strange and disturbing about achieving a
chemically agreeable singularity right next to a
groaning ice pack. I normally don't get extremely
impaired on multiple levels with non-Alien, yet
indiginous spooks, but last night was a refreshing
break from the safety and comfortable structures of
mental health.

Dudes, these Natives are spooky. They only come out
at night, and we got a month of Sundays ahead of us;
minus warmth and illumination.

I won't be strolling that route for a while. My walk
home was excrutiatingly long. The Mrs. glided with
her normal stride, I on the other hand ought invest in
a smaller pair of mukluks. For my lips.

I was good walking out of old town site, and across
fresh water lake under staggering northern lights, but
steering my way up through Browerville became a bit
dizzying and halucinatory. A quarter of a day with
these ambiguous aborigines is hard on chap's liver,
lungs, and balance.

Bun says Viking's aren't cut out for this kind of dark
holiday partying. She's right you know. I'm a pussy
in comparison to these old faceless slant eyed spooks.

My brief visit punched me off my rocker. This morning
whilst walking me Bunnik to the bus stop, I sleuthed a
deduction that the size 13 Sorrell footprints in the
snow, weaving all over my road and front porch may
have likely been someone else.

Drain bramage gives a time travelling murderer
objectivity. So much crime and trauma beyond the
grasp of emotional response. Like guilt.

When someone tells you, "Ya just can't seem to drink
it off your mind." (Rolling Stones) Advise them to
fly way north of 70 lat. and set a spell with my new
featureless imaginary friends from Siberia. My stoner
gang of shrunken head Inukuns.

Merry Christmas gentlemen. Imbibe a little. Ok
imbibe a lot. Just be careful on your walk back home
and pray your blessed wives leave the porch light on.

Karl.

Dutch Sociopaths Make Great Childhood Friends.

Top of the morning gents,

Reading what my alter ego has published just made me
think of something; my amusing tales of multiple
felonies on a daily basis are corroborating evidence
of unsolved unclassified pranks and stunts.

You all knew I was a dumbass, didn't you?

To put the rumors to rest, yes I got into numerous
scrapes whilst packing fuse and mixing buckets of mash
and cap in the killing fields of the Pacific Northwest.

Worse scrapes while working overseas.

I'll only disclose details about these detainments,
attitude adjustments, and tune ups in this fictional
forum detailing the exploits of rural lads that enjoy
absorbing kicks and punches as much as a fucking half-breed,
and stray lead worse than a goddamned bullet dump tangled up
with in yer dog lot.

That's us mates, the dumb ass human torpedos with targeteting
software specifically designed to identify, then terminate
local option violators no worse than your author on drugs.

My lot in life is an existential SNAFU, ya can't kill
the dead and ya can't rape the willing

A while back, way back, my 2 doctor brothers were
pestering me to disrobe and let them examine some
scars I keep hidden. Ain't happening. My dad even
chimed in wanting to see how my leg healed 28 years
after it accidently sucked up a non-random bullet.

They can all fuck off and suck cold air.

During this last month-long trip to Anchorage to visit
with my blessed angel Sara Magnum and her 2 little
girls, Gwendolyn Ootoyuk barged into the bathroom
while I was towling off.

She started touching my scars and asked, "Owwwey?"

I shushed her and speadily dressed, whilst this little
2-year old asked Magnum and Bunnik, "Apa'th got
owwies?" while touching her abdomen, hands, and legs.
How the fuck do I tell rational people that I keep
company with ruthless cops and drug killers.

You know, Pim still owes me an apology for marking me
up so nicely. He's flipped cars with me in them, and
fired rifles with me in the crosshairs.

One evening back in 1977, my sister Moria dropped me
off at Edmonds Community College for my evening
computing classes. I jogged from the parking lot to
my class room only to see a "Class Cancelled" sign on
the door.

I vaguely remember hearing something whistle past my
head on the way into the building, followed by a 'pop'
way off in the woods.

After discovering class was cancelled, I ran full
speed back to the parking lot to catch my sister for a
ride back home before she left the campus.

I didn't hear anything whistle past my head this time,
I felt my ankle explode as I jogged down a long flight
of stairs.

The Laws of Physics dictated that I roll, bounce, and
bleed all the way down and bash into a pile at the
bottom. Cement always kicks my ass, hard stuff to
summersault down, with one mangled limb.

The Laws of Physics also dictate that someone had to
put a lot of energy behind that pellet for it to smash
through a perfectly functioning ankle.

Another law I discovered: when the cops lean on a
suspect in a typical bombing, your partners in crime
may seek to extinguish your ability to testify.

Despite my sworn oath to deny, Hyperactive Finns are
hard to get a bead on, twitchy and quick targets, know
what I mean mates?

My sister drove me home, whereupon my father was a bit
intrigued why one shoe was clean, the other was blood
soaked. I was millimeters away from passing out, so
he helped me lift my pant leg and lower my sock only
to see two holes on both sides of leg pumping red
paint all over worse than any farm animal we killed
and butchered.

My dad assumed someone was retaliating for generations
of violence, starting with my grandpa. Nope, it was
one of my own best friends. Some of you know him.

I was rushed to the hospital to discover a doctor
can't repair a GSW (gun shot wound) prior to the
average intelligence coppers acertained the 5 W's.

They heard the "I know nothing" tale, then I closed my
eyes, and went unconcious. Who can talk when your in
overwhelming pain?

Seems this moron can. And in 3 different languages.

A lad's communication abilities improve when your
whole head is pounded swollen, your jaw and ribbage is
broke, and your well past your fear of likely
impotence.

As long as I'm made of flesh and bone, pain works.

It's true, sticks and stones will break my bones, but
it's Eastern European authorities that will always
hurt me. Best friends too.

I enjoy discussing all the things me and Pim blew up.
Some day, you'll meet him. Then you'll shoot him.

We really had a knack for Extra-Columbine activities.
But instead of killing ourselves after the carnage, we
simply flamed up the Industrial Bong, and got stoned.

Pim still denies shooting me.

Guess I'd do the same. Why let a little tiff over an
attempted murder get between friends?

I have 10 months left here in Barrow, then the Mrs.
retires and we're moving to a place called "Nowhere"
with neighbors with the same name as mine, "Nobody."

I'll try to stay out of trouble.

You buy that?

Karl.

No brains. No pains. That's us mates.

Top of the morning gents,

Flash from the past. One of my 'fictional' characters
from the killing fields of the Pacific Northwest
reached out to me.

Yup. Means a lot to those of us lonesome losers doing
God's work in ungodly territory.

Before I communicated with Columbo and Nay with the
details about Logan's smuggling gig, I blocked all
email addresses from folks that need not get upset or
injured from my dumbass undercover narcotics
adventures.

Since the sentencing phase is now over and done with,
I removed that block from a shit load of email
addresses.

Holy shit batman, I'm now receiving missives from
friends and loved ones again, which I forgot I had,
aside from this gang of uniformed felons and violent
killers in blue. You sons of fucks.

Here's something troubling. This Irish Mick
motherfucker reminds me repeatedly that I have a
failing memory about a lot of experiences from my
childhood. Albeit no more violent or painful than
living here in ice niggerville, just further back in
the far recesses of my badly battered and flawed
brain. Something this funny fucking Mick calls,
"Drain Bramage."

This pal of over 30 years thus aptly titles these
experiences as 'before the stroke.'

I don't recall ever having any stroke, but it's a
funny way to describe how humans delete and omit
experiences that are non-relevant to my questionable
health and shoddy well being.

He also claims that as children we were chased and
beaten by grown up thugs with baseball bats that were
fixin' to shave our heads bald with pocket knives,
then lynch us.

I do remember running for my life from a noisy mob and
hiding my injuries, red piss and bloody poop from me
parents. Alas, I still believe this was only a dream.


I'm drawing a blank, but I do pity those fictional
kids. They took a pounding and thrashing no soul
should ever carry alone to their graves. It is our
lifelong duty to prevent another scared little kid
from crying alone on the toilet.

Oh well, ain't nothing new. Seems we were put on this
planet to take beatings, imprisonment and torture,
only to live long enough to protect a few children.
Here's the weird part, children not from our family,
nor our race. What's up with that?

If any of you bastards in blue wonder what your lot in
life is, it's simple and binary. Climb Maslow's
heirarchy of needs towards self actualization (full
quid) and become serial killers, or terminate sicker
fucks with extreme prejudice.

Despite uncontrollable violent mood swings, I'm trying
really hard to stick to the latter.

The Mrs. keeps private nightmares to herself out of
fear I'll love her less and dismember the predictably
Native offenders.

She's partly correct in her assumptions you know. It
takes extreme self control to NOT perform those
horrific deeds of mass slaughter all you lads were
naturally born to do.

As far as loving her less, that ain't happening. Ya
see, I fear the same thing, so I keep my own childhood
traumas to meself too. Traumas we could never share
with friends and loved ones, just a gang of vicious
and graying gunslingers.

So, for the time being, I'll scrape old scabs and
scars to fetch these awful cerebral maggots, then
reveal them in this fictional forum for poor suffering
boys that grew up into this lot. You lads.

Boys that I feel, are unforgivable.

You sons of fucks ain't good fer anything else, so
hell, let's play with firearms, then engage with and
terminate humans undeservably breathing God's air.

Don't for a second think you're sorry asses will ever
be happy or healthy. Here's why.

One of the traits that determine if a chap will become
a serial killer; mutilating, killing and butchering
animals, with graduating levels of violence towards
humans.

Jesus Fuck! None of you monsters can deny your
membership.

Every single one of you has shredded livestock, beat
the daylights out of defenseless bullies till yer
hands were wet, and a few of you I suspect are in
denial about the true number of corpses you've sawed,
bagged, and buried.

That's why I'm so fond of all of you. Real humans
find you despicable, but not me. I don't qualify to
be a real human.

Have gun, will travel.

Karl.