Friday, February 04, 2005

Bury My Ass at Wounded Dick

Racing down I-5 at 80-90 mph, Pim slalomed through
traffic and I prayed. He was all excited to play with
our newest toys, our loot from a gun show up in
Marysville. Good place to dump stolen checks and
credit cards.

Me and Pim packed a few dozen old carbines, and some
soon to be automatics in the back seat and trunk of
his 75 Dodge Duster. DJ and Pim finished machining a
bunch of metal parts enabling them to circumvent
federal guidelines to the safe operation of firearms,
in territory occupied by the Fourth Reich.

I enjoy being the copilot, if Pim or Cully are
driving. We installed extra windshield washing units
in both Cully’s and Pim’s cars. Not because of the
constant rain in the Northwest, because we fed the
plastic feeder tube and spray nozzle tip inside the
cabin to the bottom edge of the dashboard, passenger
side.

No it’s not a groin soaking glass cleaner sprayer,
it’s another Ewing luxury. Ya see, after washing out
the plastic container really good, yer Jim Beam won’t
taste soapy. Smart fuckers eh? Press the toggle
switch, and out of nowhere, you get a piss stream of
whiskey. Open container laws in Washington were the
tools of policy enforcement before breath chemical
analysis. No empty Beam bottles in our Indian car,
cuz our booze is stashed covertly under the hood, in
the second windshield washer jug, with the browner
contents akin to whiskey, not bug grime glass cleaner.

Needless to say, being copilot was only fun in those
two cars, as long as we had sufficient eye cleaner at
the push of that cool extra toggle switch.

Pim and I arrived at DJ’s place, I felt like I’d drank
too much windshield soap, so to speak. Those boys were
already tearing apart the guns and passing tools, like
surgeons to each other and calling out for parts of
guns I was clueless about, so I sneaked to the back
room and examined the nearly mature hydroponics, the
quieter roommates.

Advanced botanical research is a cultural hobby past
down through the generations from Finland. OK, well
maybe the farming and criminal behavior patterns might
be inherited, but the chemical content maturing in
that back room would’ve possibly killed a small child,
and the entire afternoon of a drunk Finn.

I awoke to the cacophony of automatic weaponry, and
wet trousers. Fuckers were blasting away in the woods
next door, just blocks from Aurora Village, a now
non-existent shopping center on old 99, near lake
Ballinger, and that creepy golf course where lots of
people got killed. My grandfather scares the shit
outa me.

Like Charlie Daniels explained about us long haired
country boys, “People say I’m lazy, crazy as a loon,
cuz I get stoned in the morning, I get drunk in the
afternoon.” The whole crew started pulling up,
tearing open beers, and bitching for bong hits. My
trousers had dried, and my hangover cleared, so I
started cutting flower tops, lining up shot glasses,
and Callahan started a roasting ass fire in the sauna.

What? You never thought vicious sons of fucks never
smoked fat chiefs and got chinked with bourbon in a
sweat lodge?

Fuck you; saunas were invented by tall alcoholics
living north of the Arctic Circle, but on a continent
free of gonorrhea and syphilis. Before you punch your
computer screen, check your history. A medical
textbook called “Peoples and Plagues” supports my
claim. So fuck you, we swapped small pox and
diphtheria, for an assortment of sexually transmitted
diseases. Thanks North America, ya got the last
laugh. Which one of you first invaders and rapists
gonna come over and Q-Tip my dick with antibiotics?
So fuck you.

Since the whole gang was here, and we were waiting for
Jack Jorgenson to arrive with a QP of blow, Cully,
Pim, and DJ did a few Industrial bong rips and started
monkeying around with that stupid gimp-sniper device.
Pim stole a gun mount with the trigger actuating
assembly, and was mounting it to the slave steering
system you’ll spot under the seat of any flipped
wheelchair. Cully was playing with his killer gimp
joystick and stuffing cable through the firewall of
Pim’s 75 Dodge Duster.

Jack arrived with his usual flair. Something about
rich kids, they sure like themselves. Pity it ain’t
infectious ‘round these parts, north of 70 lat. He
pitched me the product, and pulled up to the
Industrial, a tall machined metal bong that still had
a fat char bowl smoldering. I ditched the coke,
except for about a cup of the stuff, and headed back
out to the living room, mirror and tooters in tote.

Goddamn Cully and Pim were still fucking around with
that gimp sniper gadget. I went out like an old farm
gal, and yelled at the top of my lungs, “hey you
assfuckers, cocaine dinner is served.” I even made
them wash up before I scratched out fat white
caterpillars for them to inhale. Jesus fucking
Christ, it’s fun to watch hominids absorb chemicals
(and bullets) through the holes in their faces.
Seattle folks are very rational people. We create all
sorts of rules to rationalize our love of luxuries,
and unjustifiably cruel homicides.

Now that everybody was tuned up, we were ready to flip
a coin over Bitches Beach, or Meadowdale Beach. Since
I yielded most of the authority, and common sense with
automatic weapons, I instructed we rally back up to
Marysville and party at Grandpa’s 7-Lakes place. No
arguments. Besides, I’m the big brother to those
mutilated mongoloids, and we’d be just footsteps from
the Tulalip Indian Reservation. I never said my band
of bastards never committed race related hate crimes,
just not in Alaska. Yet.

War is fun when yer a kid. It’s funner when you’re a
grup (grown up). Goddamn pockmarked Induns were
already at grandpa’s 7-Lakes place waiting for us. I
had some coke to trade, Pim had some guns to trade,
and Callahan brought up an arsenal of whiskey. I
wasn’t happy when the Induns showed up with fewer
dollars than previously agreed on. They weren’t happy
their pistols and shotguns were useless with regards
to DJ and Pim’s cool toys.

Mexican standoff? Fuck you; this was merely a
misunderstanding over complex financial matters.
Scumbags from Reservation Tulalip clearly understood
the inadequacy of boxed ammo, versus belted ammo.

Just for show, Cully turned on the red scope laser
light of the Ruger 22 pistol installed behind the
grill of Pim’s 75 Dodge Duster, and with his killer
gimp joy stick, he strategically moved the red laser
light over the pockmarked faces of our aggressive
party mates. He strayed off the face of one Indun
toward his shiny truck, and pressed the yellow button
twice. In as many seconds, two 22 caliber bullets
shattered the windshield of the aforementioned
pockmarked Indun’s shiny truck.

I rather prefer Cully’s version of playing war to what
I was getting a woody for. Besides, I was afraid that
stupid contraption would only shoot one of us. This
day simmered down just fine. We did some good trades,
lots of coke, lots of guns, and no dead Induns.

To this day, if anybody North of Everett asks you
about those crazy fuck Ewings and their ugly
non-Scandinavian friends, just smile and tell ‘em
“Yes, I partied with ‘em just last Monday.”

It’s Monday morning, cheers mates. Those pockmarked
fuckers can bury their own hearts, at wounded dick.

Karl.

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