Thursday, February 10, 2005

Dutch Sociopaths Make Great Childhood Friends.

Top of the morning gents,

Reading what my alter ego has published just made me
think of something; my amusing tales of multiple
felonies on a daily basis are corroborating evidence
of unsolved unclassified pranks and stunts.

You all knew I was a dumbass, didn't you?

To put the rumors to rest, yes I got into numerous
scrapes whilst packing fuse and mixing buckets of mash
and cap in the killing fields of the Pacific Northwest.

Worse scrapes while working overseas.

I'll only disclose details about these detainments,
attitude adjustments, and tune ups in this fictional
forum detailing the exploits of rural lads that enjoy
absorbing kicks and punches as much as a fucking half-breed,
and stray lead worse than a goddamned bullet dump tangled up
with in yer dog lot.

That's us mates, the dumb ass human torpedos with targeteting
software specifically designed to identify, then terminate
local option violators no worse than your author on drugs.

My lot in life is an existential SNAFU, ya can't kill
the dead and ya can't rape the willing

A while back, way back, my 2 doctor brothers were
pestering me to disrobe and let them examine some
scars I keep hidden. Ain't happening. My dad even
chimed in wanting to see how my leg healed 28 years
after it accidently sucked up a non-random bullet.

They can all fuck off and suck cold air.

During this last month-long trip to Anchorage to visit
with my blessed angel Sara Magnum and her 2 little
girls, Gwendolyn Ootoyuk barged into the bathroom
while I was towling off.

She started touching my scars and asked, "Owwwey?"

I shushed her and speadily dressed, whilst this little
2-year old asked Magnum and Bunnik, "Apa'th got
owwies?" while touching her abdomen, hands, and legs.
How the fuck do I tell rational people that I keep
company with ruthless cops and drug killers.

You know, Pim still owes me an apology for marking me
up so nicely. He's flipped cars with me in them, and
fired rifles with me in the crosshairs.

One evening back in 1977, my sister Moria dropped me
off at Edmonds Community College for my evening
computing classes. I jogged from the parking lot to
my class room only to see a "Class Cancelled" sign on
the door.

I vaguely remember hearing something whistle past my
head on the way into the building, followed by a 'pop'
way off in the woods.

After discovering class was cancelled, I ran full
speed back to the parking lot to catch my sister for a
ride back home before she left the campus.

I didn't hear anything whistle past my head this time,
I felt my ankle explode as I jogged down a long flight
of stairs.

The Laws of Physics dictated that I roll, bounce, and
bleed all the way down and bash into a pile at the
bottom. Cement always kicks my ass, hard stuff to
summersault down, with one mangled limb.

The Laws of Physics also dictate that someone had to
put a lot of energy behind that pellet for it to smash
through a perfectly functioning ankle.

Another law I discovered: when the cops lean on a
suspect in a typical bombing, your partners in crime
may seek to extinguish your ability to testify.

Despite my sworn oath to deny, Hyperactive Finns are
hard to get a bead on, twitchy and quick targets, know
what I mean mates?

My sister drove me home, whereupon my father was a bit
intrigued why one shoe was clean, the other was blood
soaked. I was millimeters away from passing out, so
he helped me lift my pant leg and lower my sock only
to see two holes on both sides of leg pumping red
paint all over worse than any farm animal we killed
and butchered.

My dad assumed someone was retaliating for generations
of violence, starting with my grandpa. Nope, it was
one of my own best friends. Some of you know him.

I was rushed to the hospital to discover a doctor
can't repair a GSW (gun shot wound) prior to the
average intelligence coppers acertained the 5 W's.

They heard the "I know nothing" tale, then I closed my
eyes, and went unconcious. Who can talk when your in
overwhelming pain?

Seems this moron can. And in 3 different languages.

A lad's communication abilities improve when your
whole head is pounded swollen, your jaw and ribbage is
broke, and your well past your fear of likely
impotence.

As long as I'm made of flesh and bone, pain works.

It's true, sticks and stones will break my bones, but
it's Eastern European authorities that will always
hurt me. Best friends too.

I enjoy discussing all the things me and Pim blew up.
Some day, you'll meet him. Then you'll shoot him.

We really had a knack for Extra-Columbine activities.
But instead of killing ourselves after the carnage, we
simply flamed up the Industrial Bong, and got stoned.

Pim still denies shooting me.

Guess I'd do the same. Why let a little tiff over an
attempted murder get between friends?

I have 10 months left here in Barrow, then the Mrs.
retires and we're moving to a place called "Nowhere"
with neighbors with the same name as mine, "Nobody."

I'll try to stay out of trouble.

You buy that?

Karl.

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