Friday, February 04, 2005

Blessings and Curses come in groups of Three

Top of the morning gents,

As always; virile, vigorous, and potent. Locked and loaded, ready to launch. I’ll brag a little more about my mountain bike and gnarley physique. Yesterday I raced about a hunnert neighbor kids to the Mrs. bus stop; beat ‘em all. Fuck it, I was done raking wind strewn garbage and sweeping the porch. I was done with me chores, so I can play a little if I promise to stick to the road and beware of the mores.

I really oughta take up smoking again, far more satisfying and relaxing then hard work, clean living, and healthy diet. I also miss some other monstrously delicious vices. I was reading in a muscle and fitness magazine that I gotta lay off fried foods and liquor if I wish to achieve a lower fat to moron ratio. Fuck men, that’d pretty much zero out my last few indulgences that I enjoy, because they are self-indulgent. Ain’t nothing better than a strong bourbon and the Mrs. “Indun Fride Bred” to feed my fingers here at the keyboard, whilst she reads over my shoulders and clarifies points I fail to elaborate upon.

“Don’t take away my ingredients”--Frank Zappa refuting the health risks of cigarettes and overly complex guitar werk.

Today, I’m gonna talk about trouble, the theory that trouble comes from within, not without.

Just ask any Eskimo; trouble comes in threes. Sometimes in twos, especially if your gambling Asian descendants stacked numbers vertically, instead of linearly.

Since my ancestors never gambled, and derived picturesque calculus out of geometry and sadistics, I see trouble as likely different than you gents, as an enigmatic, non-quantifiable yet three-dimensional alter ego that merely comes in groups of one, and with zero advance notice.

R&R Automotive was a service station and fuel depot, across from the coffee shop, just off the I-5 overpass for Mount Lake Terrace. With bribes composing of cold beer and packs of mogies, I could spend late evenings under the hoist, learning about gaskets, shocks, tires, and stolen deep cycle RV batteries, instead of the normal daily research into advanced botanicals, Sudafed alchemy, and deceleration trauma. Old man Bob Jones’ 3 bay garage, 4 pump gas station, served occasionally as a safe house and respite for Nordic criminals truly afraid of returning home. Ya see, somehow, some dead men of a much richer skin hue found the grotto, but no troll. Thank God cats have 11 lives.

R%R Automotive was a family business run by old man Bob Jones, and his adopted half-breed boys. If I hadn’t teleported to more ancient times, he would’ve adopted me also. He had me pegged long before actualizing my habitual offensiveness. No worries mates, he privately coerced me to flee so far north, all directions are southbound.

Forecasting the dismally brief existences of hooligan male hominids was old man Bob’s forte. He didn’t need a fucking crystal ball, or a lesbian nigger psychic to predict these future outcomes. He also didn’t need to stack his numerical series vertically; he just fucking knew everything around him died, and in a startlingly horrible fashion.

You Siberian Mongoloids have all heard the drill from our really old folks at the Senior Center; advising us the probability of living through multiple families, wives, and the likelihood of surpassing the limited mortality of our own children. Well old man Bob gave me that same fucking lecture, with a greasy face and much angry drama.

I shit you not, he even told me to my fucking face, that three generations of race related hate crimes will eventually get it’s ticket punched, with grandson #1 sucking dirt for retarded cross threaded business models with pockmarked Tulalip Induns and the wholesale cracknegros from the Central District. Dark skinned folks really shouldn’t buy high-octane beverages or powder from dirty white boys. Besides, my gramps merely believed an Indun ought to die for what’s important. Especially in regards to a disagreement between 2nd generation Asians and 1st generation Viking fuckers, and a newly forming Indian Reservation north of Everett, bordering a soon to be golf course.

Old man Bob Jones attracted hyperactive strays, feral lads from the killing grounds of the Pacific Northwest long overdue for a funeral. He adopted mixed blood discards from the res. All three of his boys were imported killers from the DSHS Group W bench.

Bright lads, all the right ingredients; smart, hyper, unstable from pre-cognitive domestic trauma, all complex in skin color and blood quantum, but all 100% pals of mine. We shared in the Indun tradition of the ‘everything dance’, meaning we shared any and all toxic substances, be they inhaled, or incinerated. My part-time trade and barter yielded quite a tray of treats for my mixed blood family of mechanics, happy to wrench on my cars, and arc-weld moonshine stashes in the fenders. I owe my gunpowder saturated business relationship with the Tulalip Indian Reservation to the Jones’ boys, that’s the spawning grounds they were child refugees from.

On dozens of occasions, I’d hurriedly weigh up bags of toot and chronic and stash them in some wonderful hiding places in the car, race the AMC Ambassador down to R%R Automotive for a tank of old school 93 octane leaded super, some STP fuel treatment, wash the windows, pitch Tib, Jeb, and Keely a chunk of herbage, then punch it straight off the Mount Lake Terrace I-5 on-ramp, and rally all the way North to Marysville to the Tulalip Indian Reservation. Ya see, we all have a little experience with bootlegging, gunrunning, and drug smuggling onto Native Territory. As with Eskimos; “The sale goes to the highest bidder”, those pockmarked Induns waved the most money, most of the time.

From Mount Lake Terrace up to Marysville is about an hour, worth the drive if you can top 100 mph, and if you bring Pim. Truly sick bastard had knack for belted ammo and a thirst for non-Danish blood. Don’t look at me; he ditched those stinking pockmarked bodies somewhere in Idaho.

The black dudes we simply left onsite. Each respective culture paints a different scenario for each bipedal mammalian structure we cooled, and each soul we harvested. Modus operandi for a time traveling murderer is actually fate a compli, that is, if yer looking backwards through non-linear non-logic.

If you studied physical and cultural anthropology and forensics under the tutelage of Professor Lou Tarrant, you’ll learn that clinging to life may merely be an obstacle to successful black market operations. The discovery, or not, of a dead loved one paints wonderful imagery for those alive stuck with mop up duties and sod pitching chores.

Trouble comes in ones. Only one of old man Bob Jones’ boys died.

As payment for all his hard work modifying Cully’s, Pim’s, and my cars, I offered Keely Jones a pass card. A pass card is something really special: it’s a free entrance to a Mount Lake Terrace party, all free booze, smoke, and powders. Easily a $500 tab if you just arrived from Kotzebue with Higman, had lots of money and wish to watch Scott Wade and the other brother play extremely complex music, with everything in the bar, mirror, and Industrial Bong, for free ninety free.

I enjoy watching hominids inhale chemicals through the holes in their faces. Keely did a champion job of duplicating Al Pacino’s face down beak packing, and a darling job duplicating Cheech and Chong’s monster doobie choke and cackle. Poor fucker did a lousy job of mimicking John Wayne’s double backed whiskey shoots and foamy beer suck downs.

Ya see it ain’t his fault he’s got a Siberian anomaly spot on his DNA, and born on a shit hole res. north of Everett. No worries, no host bar removes the culpability of over serving guests, nobody held his arm behind his back and poured the powders and solvents down his pie hole. But pour they did.
It was sunrise by the time we packed away all of Cully’s and Scott’s equipment into the green 66 Ford Econoline van, strange to see Keely’s car still parked in the front lawn. Even stranger to see him sleeping in his car with the whole side of his face covered in mud.

After Cully and Scott took off, I walked the property, let the dogs run around while I perform a post party inspection for wallets, keys, baggies and pipes. I instead found a beater Subaru, driver behind the wheel, driver side window all spider webbed.

The glass protruded outward a little bit, with Keely’s muddy face resting in the concavity.

Now I know what yer all thinking; why do I let drunks sleep in my front yard? I fucking didn’t, and as I approached Keely’s beater blue Subaru, I saw that the mud on his face looked more like PB&J and the damn dogs were all fucking spooked. Dopey the Doberman ran back to the house and sat on the porch shivering, wouldn’t budge.

All gunshot suicides look similar, good image to retain when recreating a crime scene. Not a good image to retain when you gotta tell old man Bob his adopted reservation reject son killed himself in my front yard. Hardcore partying is fun, until I mess up the chemical equation and experience personally how the wrong species ought not do the wrong drugs.

After the funeral I never returned to R&R Automotive, old man Bob Jones’ advice to flee so far north that all compass readings and directions are southbound, became a standing order.

Glad to meet all you gents, don’t let me grant any of you murderous bastards a free pass card, nothing in this universe is free, and there are no “do-overs” cuz us Vikings party for keeps.



Post a Comment

Links to this post:

Create a Link

<< Home