Friday, February 04, 2005

Criminal Tales from Hell and Back

Top of the morning gents,

In my advanced stages of PTSD, I’m learning how to
compartmentalize trauma. I’m also learning how to
sort out guilt from neurosis. We are only responsible
for our own actions, not the actions of others, even
if we could’ve interceded.

If you want to discover the truth, especially in
regards to sensitive issues, ya best ask a liar for
the details, cuz he’s likely got them safely
concealed, in his back pocket or the back of his mind.

Just ask any Eskimo kid, secrets, agonizing to keep,
impossible to share.

I was chatting on the phone with Columbo last week,
querying him for details about “Ito, the mad bomber.”
Aside from the online news broadcasts from Mason at
KOTZ, no new aspects have been delivered. Sufficient
to say, village awareness badly needs expanding to
comprehend the disastrous potential meth, coke, booze,
and ballistics combine to create. Rifle and handgun
explosions are unpredictable enough, but I grow angry
when dimwitted Eskimos play and talk loosely with
whale killing detonation toys.

I have lots of really great friends, all over the
world, some military, some police, and some
unmentionables. Due to my congenital mischief, most I
ought not play with. I’m stable enough on my own,
what I don’t need is a peer group that supports
reckless behavior. Know what I mean gents?

Yusef is a muslim radical from Azerbaijan, educated in
Alaska at UAF in chemical and petroleum engineering,
but currently ‘working’ in Chechnya and St.
Petersburg, Russia. As stated in previous essays, you
can learn a lot from a Dummy.

Yusef is a classically trained activist freedom
fighter. Son of a muslim bitch can turn any car into
a bomb delivery vehicle, and any Christmas present
into a crowd evacuation toy. Ya see if yer Muslim,
every surprise killing package is a Christmas present.
Especially Christmas presents sent to appointed
officials deciding the fate of horribly tortured
Chechens rotting away in Russian jails all over St.
Petersburg.

Blasting caps are a valuable commodity throughout most
of central Europe and Russia, utilized for remote
control bombings. If you can sneak a car or truck
close to the porch, all a chap needs is readily
available on any farm or hardware store.

Yusef had a job to do, namely send a loud and painful
message to a Russian Federation Judge whose securely
locked parking garage was too far from the Federal
Judge’s office. So, being the team who never plays
the ‘can’t cunt’ card, we had to scheme, otherwise,
use our brains to plan an intersection between a bomb,
and a judge.

In any other job, I’d pitch the spare tire from the
trunk and refill the circular void with dry
fertilizer, soak it with diesel fuel, submerge a PVC
or metal pipe bomb in the paste running waterproof
fuse up to the driver’s seat, with a burning cigarette
as a timing device. Simple huh?

If you want to increase the secondary casualties, a
few boxes of nails or metal trash in the trunk clears
a street like nothing else. Ya see, it ain’t the
expanding gasses that spatter citizen Russians, it’s
the accelerated material. Cases of glass bottles are
a devious additive to your trunk o’ goodies, old bike
frames and metal scraps perform admirably too. When
tasked with converting a car into a 360-degree
shotgun, debris in the ‘boot’ is a ‘good thing.’ One
glance at Martha Stewart’s big ass and inflamed
exhaust pipe, you’ll see she concurs.

Well gents, the judge’s office was a secure distance
from the parking garage, which was locked and
patrolled by an AK-47 toting Rusky fuck. No dark
skinned, dark haired sand nigger muslim would ever be
granted entrance, neither would a tall blond chap with
fresh Estonian ink on his phony visa.

Did you know that it takes more than a fucking week of
coffee and cigarettes to plot the schedule and route a
judge takes from his office, to his home? Thursday
evenings seemed the simplest because the judge kept a
mistress at an apartment near the Nevskij Palace, just
a few minutes walk from our downtown strategic staging
area, our street café in front of the mob run Grand
Hotel.

I suggested we simply plant charges all throughout the
aforementioned whore’s building, but Yusef reminded me
that despite being a whore, she was still one of my
students at the St. Petersburg State School. Ironic,
after a whole year of scheduled disasters, my Muslim
pal pulls the morality card. Truthfully, I think he
wanted Nadia Chepkasova alive afterwards for his own
pleasure, or at least warm long enough for him to get
a nut.

I get pissed at selective morality, killin’ is
killin’. Besides, long before the Berlin Wall tumbled
down, the US has been financing factional insurgent
prankster activities. Yes, the new Muslim scare is a
pet project of our own. Just like arming the Induns
with rusty rifles and infected blankets, we too will
likely suffer blowback from such stunts. Affecting
future outcomes in foreign sovereigns is immoral and
always comes back to haunt us, despite the signature
of any president, including Abe Lincoln or Blow Job
Bill.

After a very heated argument over target specificity
and shaky religious justifications for so much
collateral damage, we decided to drop the pizza
delivery car and go with flowers. Convincing a flower
merchant to also carry a 23 lbs Christmas present took
some bribing. Word of advice, always carry 5-10
cartons of American cigarettes in your luggage. In
Russia, bribery is synonymous with ‘wages, tips, and
compensation.’

An additional challenge to a manned delivery scheme is
detonation: meaning, no fusing. We had to use a
remote control mechanism, which triggers a blasting
cap, thus opening our Christmas present at the time of
our choosing, not on Christmas mourning.

Simple garage door openers are the choice for
professionals. Cheap, abundant, and yet not
recognized as WMD’s, garage door openers and 7-11
front door chimes work almost as good as a Koran for
toilet paper. Garage door remotes work only in clear
line of sight ops. 7-11 front door chimes work
excellent on motorcades for roadside bombings. The
longer the motorcade, the further up the road we plant
our bucket of yummies. If you have 5 cars in
formation, affix your 7-11 door chimes approximately
50 feet ahead of your mash and cap. Instead of
annoying elevator chimes, you’ll likely hear a tune
from a different source, your own disintegration.

We supplied our floral delivery boy with numerous
cartons of cigarettes and ran back to Yusef’s to
finish wrapping (and testing) our early Christmas
present. The actuator clicked and sparked perfectly
every time, and the blasting cap looked fresh with no
corrosion. We packed 4 black powder filled PVC pipe
bombs in the box, fed wire to the blasting cap inside
lucky #1, which is connected to the garage door
actuator. I installed another pair of fresh batteries
and filled the remainder of the box with match heads
and roofing staples. Sort of like Styrofoam worms,
only better; accelerating material acts like dozens of
agents on their own suicide mission. Random victims,
albeit citizen Russians, make the best victims.

Contingency is a word I hate most. I hate it as much
as Mr. Murphy’s indigenous helpers. Timing is
critical, if the package goes out of site, we’re out
of business. We also can’t predict any deviations the
judge may make this Thursday evening. So as usual,
Yusef and I have to sit for 3 hours at the café, in
front of the Grand Hotel, a mob run outfit that would
surely shoot us, if they could read our minds, cryptic
conversations, and designs.

Fuck ‘em, as long as I spend American dollars on
coffee and liquor, my money is welcome. Besides,
those Rusky buttfuckers still think it was crooked
police that robbed them last week. Blond hair is a
dead give away, and besides, that armed robbery took
place long after my bedtime.

The only 2 choices for this hoodlum, hide in plain
site or operate in the context of zero effect. I
don’t look anything like a Russian, so plain site it
is. Besides, one of the robbery crew was a colleague
of mine, a crooked policeman, pity he fell on his own
gun whilst fleeing.

The flower arrangement was almost ready, so I walked
across the street and handed the Christmas package to
the florist’s delivery boy, paid an extra Finn-spot (5
US dollars) to the store owner and 2 cartons of Marbs
as enhancement to the floral arrangement delivery
boy’s wages, tips, further instructions and
compensation. Flowers, how appropriate, huh?

What did I say about timing? Goddamn judge left work
early, and was out front of Nadia’s apartment,
awaiting her intentionally planned, yet feminine
delays. With no way to communicate with the delivery
boy, we were fucked. Also, as long as he was behind
the judge’s car, my remote was useless. Line of sight
remember?

The dutiful delivery boy rang the front door buzzer,
with no response. He repeated his efforts, but no
souls greeted him or received his gifts. Good thing,
my remote was still useless as long as fat fuck sat
out front awaiting his trophy whore, and carefully
examining our delivery boy.

Seeing the boy had nobody to deliver the flowers and
Christmas presents to, the judge called the boy around
to the driver’s side of the car and asked him whom the
presents were for. The boy pulled the card out of the
bouquet and relayed that Nadia Chepkasova was the
recipient. Since fair play is beyond the Russian
legal system, Yusef grabbed the remote from me and
whispered, “Merry Christmas, from Alaska” and pressed
the button on the remote garage opener.

Nothing happened, until the boy handed the flowers and
the Christmas present to our target judge-shit,
allowing clear line of site from the remote, to the
package. On the third click, I blinked, never truly
seeing the explosion, only feeling it.

As numerous armed thugs exited the Grand Hotel and
jogged up the street to where all the smoke
originated, Yusef jumped into a mysterious car,
leaving me all alone at the street café, with a bill
for 4 hours of coffee, cigs, and liquor.

You gotta be careful when working with Muslim
extremists, they’ll ditch you in a pinch. I also
suspect he didn’t want me adding his cranium to the
already plentiful skull count up and down the street.


Did you know the entire Grand Hotel lobby was vacant?
Next time I’m planning a robbery, I’ll surely use
Hamas style fireworks as a distraction. No need to
expire expendable dirty cops. With Yusef gone, as
well as the judge and his flower delivery boy, I was
all alone, free to stuff my pockets from the cash
register, and the high end jewelry store, located
inside the lobby.

The Mrs. surely suspects parts of my stories are
bullshit. If you have a chance, take a look at the
jewelry she and Sara Magnum wear. Same high-end
expensive stuff you’ll likely see on a pretty little
Russian girl, now living near Chernobyl, somewhere in
Ukraine.

Ya see, if Yusef failed me and chickened out, or got
his ass blown to pieces, I had the mistress in my back
pocket, armed, yet snugly concealed, right beside the
truth.

Gentlemen, as you were. I'll tell you more bedtime
stories, after you finish yer chores and wash up.

Karl.


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