Friday, February 04, 2005

Counterfeit Money, Passports and Gonads.

Top of the morning gents,

I received a strange package yesterday. Sort of a scary blast from the past, like a long submerged body floating to the surface of my bath water, a forgotten skeleton leaping out from under my blankets, or finding a poopy caribou hoof in the bottom of my soup. All you coppers know that camouflaged flinch and secret “Yikes”.

Yesterday I experienced all of these combined with a pucker factor that could crush a lump of coal into a fucking diamond, provided I pack barbeque briquettes the full length of my large intestine, and yank the hemp rope draw string I stitched in as my replacement asshole tighter’n shit, then tie it with a Bolen knot.

You know yer in fer shit when you receive a package from overseas, and it's wrapped in your own packing style. From a mile away, I could recognize my containment and concealment thoroughness, same you bastards see when I ship you stolen firearms to be used as drop guns, Cubano Havanas, and dead meat whale candy some of you’ve enjoyed this week.

The contents of this package are highly illegal, even in the hands of this murderous Finn lacking clearance to wipe my own ass with my neighbor's face, and were supposed to be kept in covert storage on foreign territory where the soil hasn’t gone bad, but may glow a little.

Since it was doubtful I’d return to pick up this package, I hid it with some colleagues of mine at our worksite in Arctic Finland. The intent of sending this package is more important than the contents.

I’m surprised the United States Postal Service doesn’t open every single goddamned Global Express package; this one pert near misses the letter and the intent of every verse of the Patriot Act.

The message behind sending this package to me stated I'm being scolded for shirking my criminal obligations and well, trying to hide in Barrow.

Playing with Alaskan newspapers like personal playthings can come back to bite ye.

Especially murderous folks who enjoy locating and finding, namely pinpointing where you are, and WTF (what the fuck) yer doing. Leopards can't change their spots; I love my name and face in the press making it pretty fucking easy to find my dumb blond ass.

The Mrs. and I sorted through the blank passport cards and plastic laminates, we also sorted and stacked the assorted state drivers licenses smiling to see 2 Alaska blanks in the pile. I also inventoried the Russian, Saudi, and Finnish passport blanks, hair dye, surveillance equipment, and audio recording devices.

The Mrs. seldom fails to appreciate my most vile humor including my quip, “Hey! Now we can go by the assumed names of Mike Hunt and Jack Mehard.”

"Adii Karlukmun, you eat your mom with that mouth?"

She didn’t really say this shit.

My internal dialogues seldom shut up, but I do remember responding in the affirmative, with the conditional addendum that I get to lick my own ass afterwards to get that horrid taste of my aboriginal birth port outa my mouth.

Funny fucker ain’t I?

Everything was there, exactly as I left it years ago. Who ever the fuck mailed it from Inari, Finland (occupied mostly by Native Finno-Ugriks that look a lot like Octuck) is beyond me.

To the layperson, this is a covert deployment site utilized only by two IRA scabs from the UK, Yusef, a Chechen petroleum engineer from UAF, Nadia Chepkasova, an analyst from Ukraine, plus an incurably handsome felon from Kotzebue.

Point of interest, Inari is coincidently and conveniently close to Murmansk, Russia; the open market of radioactive isotopes for the Middle East and the Korean Peninsula.

Dudes, in the black markets (Musta Makki), illegal drugs are so old school. Nowadays, WOMD’s rule. The only profitable smuggling is with unstamped cigs, tracking and targeting software, illegal alien humans, and SADD’s (small atomic demolition devices).

Why lug a truckload of mash and caps (diesel soaked fertilizer and pipebomb detonators) when I can more easily stash a backpack, briefcase, or fortified automobile in front of your house? Imagine a suicide bomber or car bomber packing heat to the tune of 20 megatons. Any radical ragfuck can build a bomb; it takes an Alaskan to deliver one.

When the Soviets sunk their largest attack class nuclear submarine (Kirsk) close by, it was the same aforementioned Scandinavian field radiation detectors that went fucking berserk. Also the same radiation detectors that went code red after a team of Chechen spooks sabotaged the Chernobyl power plant.

Even a well-dressed Alaskan can’t get passed those sensors, goddamned sensitive. Americans are concerned with the Russian invasion of troops; the Scandic blond pretty boys are concerned with the Russian invasion of lethal fallout. Oh, and the smuggling of nasty nukes through their territory concealed within the fortified luggage of Alaskans lacking morals.

All a con needs is a believable distraction. Nothing can fuck up Russian capitalism.

In the middle of sunken glowing submarine rescue attempts, my phony visa and passport were mundo perfecto, providing I deployed my Marlboro/Jack Daniels decoy techniques. This was my finest hour. I kicked ass back and forth dozens of times, made bank dudes. This carcinogenic Cancer thrives under dark clouds of fallout. Silver lining? Fuck you, these dark clouds were nice and warm, even the rain warmed us, despite the winter cold.

Fire alarms and sirens may draw arsonists out of hiding; authentic radiation alerts are the perfect cover for some bad people to rush hundreds of hot parcels to my British and Chechen colleagues. Who coincidentally, also lacked morals.

I’ve completed my muk and blub chores for the week, I hope you boys in blue of Siberian Mongoloid descent enjoyed yer early Christmas treats. I now have to contemplate what to do with this Krytonic box of felonies.

Any of you coppers want a Polaroid model #203 passport camera or a Polaroid Indenticard Machine? These come with a shit load of blanks nullifying your Alaskan residency with some other ass licking queer state or cutting and pasting your American citizenship and replacing it with another worse off shit hole country.

Next time any of you pop in to Barrow for a visit, or a drunk, I'll take some pictures of you wearing different colored wigs and mustaches.

Find me a fresh corpse; I’ll partially burn it.

Included with the torched remains will be a worn wallet with your old drivers license etc.

Be careful lads, an imagination can be a deadly toy.

You boys stay nasty. Have gun will travel.



Post a Comment

Links to this post:

Create a Link

<< Home