Friday, February 04, 2005

Don Beuler

Top of the morning gents,

Do you boys remember me lecturing you that I absorbed an isolative insanity from an alien culture that will likely bring dirt into my mouth and lungs centuries prematurely, if I dared to improve my geographic impairment?

Gentlemen, I also believe I absorbed the manifold mental illnesses required to function at this subsistence level not dissimilar to idiot savant, but with far more fauna and hominid violence, firearms, liquor, drugs, and accumulated stress trauma.

A pensive mood need not make a poet. But with the correct influence, rereading my miscellaneous ramblings evokes a stranger than shit feeling.

Serendipitous in nature, but closer to an inverted déjà vu blended with an alcoholic’s moment of clarity. You know how you feel when you almost tip backwards in your elementary school chair?

Well boys, after last night’s chemical warfare on village depression and a 7 day bout with an unexplainable rage and mysterious fury, the author feels he drunkenly stumbled into another murderous vortex that only seasoned and scar tissue insulated soldiers north of 70 feel, yet effectively drink off their minds. Fuck you.

You assholes would’ve shit yer pants, this muke is pert near as ugly as Johnny Hide, a character from the old days of Mat-Su Narcotics that we’ll visit later this week. That fucker also fits into this webbed lattice of coincidence.

I sure hope you murderous angels are following me. But you know that strange sense that you’re connected to some truly awful events?

Ghosts and spooks don’t have to be fucking dead, sometimes they appear out of nowhere and force me to drink excessively and consume felony levels of nose candy. Here’s the weird mind fuck bullshit I’m talking about.

Last night, I sat with a chap who claimed he was an old timer from Kotzebue. We knocked back a couple bottles of Canadian whiskey, and large scoops of cocaine (fuck you, these 2 thug’s weights totaled over 500 pounds). Don’t get me wrong, I normally shy away from such immoral and unhealthy activities; fucks up my lean (252 lbs) and nicely tuned mountain biking Scandinegro physique.

While tossing back cups of tough guy solvents and dangerous diesel flavored Peruvian cane sugar, without having too much blood in my alcohol system, I deviously and intentionally interrogated this vicious fucker that claimed to have worked Bish’s Pondu Bar, partied with Ben Stallsworth, Billy and Michael Lie, beat the piss outa both Davidovics boys, and was in the apartment when both these brothers ate their pistols.

He also claims to know a ‘white cop’ that was also at said premises.

What I enjoy the most about my fully adopted alien insanity is how this impaired brain feels part of so many unsolved mysteries. Unsolved to the layperson, yet intriguing and delicious to this sick fucking Finn.

I really ought to show you guys my specially modified Sorel boots. I screwed a size 6 woman’s sole on the bottom of my own boots, thus leaving smaller footprints in the snow leading to and inside a conex container, throws Squish and Columbo all outa whack.

Those two boys are brilliant detectives, but my dear Dr. Watson, little White Russell faggots possibly have the straightest teeth Big Dumb Dale ever came across. Don't look so surprised. Ya gotta kill ‘em.

I’m of the 6Killer school of thought; letting future killers and gomers breathe God’s air is as wrong as two boys fucking. Git ‘er done.

Here’s a painful coupling between 2 very violent universes that still hurts me when I jump out of bed in the morning. Almost 2 decades ago, at an undisclosed Mount Lake Terrace crack house and mortuary, Scott Wade and the other brother accidentally played at coke party level volumes far beyond city ordinances, thus requiring the local corrupt constabulary to my said premises.

Two patrol cars were in front of my fucking house, blocking the steady stream of partygoers and coke whore customers. Since I never had any illegal contraband in my household, I wasn’t really sneaking out from Cully’s green 66 Ford Econoline. Fuck you.

I walked out front and locked the front door behind me. I asked the coppers if there was something I could do for them. They asked if I lived there and I responded in the affirmative, with red eyes, frosted beak, explosive liquor breath, belligerent manners, and shit eating moron grin. “Yes sir, what’s it to ya?”

I saw just a glimpse of Beuler’s gloved fist sneak under my vision and impale itself into my gut, lungs, and intestines. Old fucker had a punch faster than a fucking Chink on speed. Ok, at least faster than a Nordic wholesaler high on everything else.

While I doubled over and sucked puke into my lungs, the second and third slugs landed on my nose and kidneys. No worries mates, I was learning future KPD ‘gloves on’ inmate processing techniques. Just a failure to communicate, that’s all.

Just like Mack’s moment of prayer, Waller’s warm welcome to the House of Pain: Beuler was merely instructing me in the finer aspects of civility and respect for the POPO’s. Training that we’d all utilize, in another parallel world, somewhere north of the Arctic Circle, where the soil is of dubious viability.

After Beuler and his thugs served me my much-deserved beat down, they told me they wanted everybody to leave and “shut this fucking party down.”

I could’ve spit some snot and blood at his boots, but I had too much grass and dirt in my mouth.

Yikes, some issues and arguments are best not pushed; life is too short. Besides, this time traveling murderer already sensed Don Beuler will likely be my future boss and Chief of Police, in a more ancient time and universe.

Child gomers, serial killers, time traveling murderers, Chiefs of Police teleport from Mount Lake Terrace directly to a place where the ‘soil’s gone bad’; our wonderful little drinking village with the horrible fishing problem.

Speaking of haunting faces; we’ll see a pale dweeb living 3 blocks behind a hardware store in Black Diamond, Washington; Steve Faulkenstien. I still question the sanity of our dear Captain Wallace ordering me to snoop all over God’s Green River to locate this sick child gomer and post mortem anus plugger.

Larry swears the same serial killer also lived and worked in Kotzebue, returning to the killing grounds of the Pacific Northwest remarkably close to numerous properties with the author’s last name on them.

Westlake, Waller, and Columbo may know enough factual aspects of these fictional tales to validate your worries and concerns. Truth is far stranger than fiction. Fuck you.

You boys keep investigating; our continuing am newsletter will soon reveal who absconded with the PA systems and stadium lamps from the closed and frozen Rec. Ctr. on top of the old dump, and in the basement of the Ferguson candy store/theater/coffee shop.

What? You dumb fuckers think I'm gonna make it easy?

As always, you lads stay nasty.


Karl.

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