Friday, February 04, 2005

Eskimo knuckles feel the same as Estee/Russo knuckles

Top of the morning gents,

Nursing a black eye this morning. You know the story, fixing a neighbor’s attitude, and the drunken monkey fucker landed a lucky swat inside the fence.

Just one good swat.

As Columbo will attest, all fights end in a wrestling match. No shit Sherlock, gospel truth. Be real careful when yer fighting a chunkier monkey. Arms reach rabbit punches will keep ‘em at bay, but don’t waste yer time and energy struggling with their mass. The trick is don’t ever let ‘em in close; simply use your fists as fencing. For a larger diameter perimeter, use just a few kicks. Both wrestling and kicking waste valuable energy, but Spetsnatz speed punches with yer eye on escape and evasion will help stay off exhaustion, fatigue and blunt trauma.

On another continent, on a tram full of drunken Russian buttfuckers, this stupid Finn thought he could clear a room unscathed. I am one stupid motherfucker.

The 3T and 3B are trams that encircle Helsinki cycling past the tram stop right below my apartment every 6 minutes. The 3T and 3B are also infamously known as the Bar Car and the Koff Stout Drinking Tram. Cool electric trains that hum swiftly, opposing directions: clockwise and counterclockwise.

After 9pm ya might want to take a cab, or walk, cuz these trams are packed with drunken assholes. Since it was freezing rain, and I had fewer Finnish Marks than cab fare, the tram was it.

Fuck! As soon as I got on, this piss soaked Rusky started in on me poking me and harassing me for more booze money. You boys know this situation; drunks are a consistent aspect of existence north of 60 degrees latitude.

I tried to ignore him, so I moved to the rear car. No use, him and his wasted pustule pals had a rich sucker on the hook and moved in for the kill. The dipshit assumption was that all well-dressed businessmen wouldn’t put up a fight. Dumb fuckers. Putting a suit on this beast is akin to putting frosting on a turd.

From one irritant, to 3, just fucking great. Good luck and bad luck seem to always come in fucking 3’s.

I simply leaned against the handrail and gazed out the window at all the odd cars, old buildings, dark and icy narrow streets, and stylishly bundled handsome people. Whilst watching the reflections of 3 filthy immigrants stagger in trio towards me.

Reflections in the window may give you an advantage of surprise, but it don’t change the odds. I got in one punch into the soft tissue of a random Adam’s apple and a testicular kick that should’ve left a small spatter of guts on my shoes.

The beating that ensued nearly crippled a lad, but since ya cant’ rape the willing, and ya can’t kill the dead, this congenitally lifeless and knuckleheaded Viking had nothing to lose.

What doesn’t kill you only makes you stronger. What if yer already fucking dead?

They took the spare change I had. They also took my watch. These apparently sober professionals also repeatedly slugged me and demanded my American passport. All I could spit out was that it was at the American Consulate. By the time the tram operator stopped the car and ran back to see what the entire ruckus was all about, my painfully vicious assailants forced open the doors and were already DTR (down the road) fleeing into a waiting car.

I was 6 months past my Visa approval for Finland, and had no Russian exit stamps on my passport. Severely stern border guards wouldn’t understand that I had to make rather hasty and frequently unauthorized border crossings from the former Soviet Union back to my homeland, concealed contraband intact. Like our Canadian border with the lesser 48, Finland has a long and rural border with Russia. If I’d gone to the hospital, I would’ve likely been arrested, detained, deported, or imprisoned.

No worries, I was all healed and feeling fine, after a week of bed rest, Narcotini brand painkillers, vitamins, and really good Finnish liqueur. I don’t recommend chronic drug and alcohol abuse as a method of medication to anybody, but they sure work for me.

Faberge eggs, Russian Orthodox icons, and gold nugget jewelry sell for cents on the dollar in Russia. They resell for $200 on the dollar in Viking Territory. Do the math, that's a markup far better than cocaine, or women's lingerie. If a clever lad can transport these treasures without paying the 100% import duty tax, shit boys, it’s all fucking gravy. If a clever lad can transport illegal treasures without getting arrested, shit boys, I don’t gotta lose sleep getting raped in Siberia for the rest of my life. Tremendous upside; as expected, lethal downsides.

Nothing is what it appears to be. I wasn’t a well-dressed businessman, and those 3 men weren’t shabby Russian drunks. Russian vagrants don’t speak perfect English, are capable of delivering 200 punches per minute, can take disabling punches to the throat, and also wear groin protective cups. Russian drunks also don’t ransack successful smugglers for illegal contraband, unless they knew how I earned my illicit living.

Come on. Do you numbfucks think student loans and friendly financing could possibly afford 15 trips overseas and 2 year drinking vacation? Wake up fucks. Some of you have personally enjoyed the fruits of my smuggling. So did many UAF professors, my wife and daughter, and my parents. I almost had a heart attack when old man Trooper Nay spotted bundles of cigars, unstamped champagne and cigarettes, and fraudulently labeled vitamins in my luggage; thank god we have friends in low places. Never knew why Customs never tore open cartons of cigarettes.

You boys oughta dig a bit deeper and investigate why the former Soviet Bloc Countries of Estonia and Lithuania are the top exporters of illegal radioactive isotopes. You also might investigate why an Alaskan expatriate would make acquaintances with Irish and Finnish United Nations Peacekeepers, off-duty of course, and a Muslim partner in crime from Azerbaijan in these same countries. All these gentlemen have subsequently vanished off the face of the Earth. Barrow is close enough.

I’m looking at my old passport right now, and I never knew why the American Embassy emailed all of us and advised we leave Russia and the Baltics so abruptly that summer. Mine is stamped August 30, 2001.

I’m not a government conspiracy dweeb, but somebody privy to sensitive operations intelligence surely knew. We all knew it was only a matter of time before airplane hijackings merged with suicide bombings; none of us crooks never expected so soon, and so close to home. Radical Muslim factions are like Lee Harvey Oswald, only partly true. Kiss my ass.

After my 11-hour flight from Copenhagen, Denmark, Chicago, arriving in Sea-Tac, I was surprised to meet Yusef hanging around awaiting his departure back to London. Coincidences are like astrology, fucking bullshit. I shit my pants, feared being shot, and ran for cover in my old haunts of North Seattle utilizing dizzying routes only a fleeing felon in hot pursuit would remember and appreciate.

Felons never disclose the whole story. As Columbo chided me in our last long distance philosophical phone debate, “You never get the whole story, there’s always something more to it.” Amen Chief.

You may wonder why I manufacture such tales. You boys all know that I’ve never committed a crime in my life, so why is all this bullshit fiction so fun to read?

The truth is even stranger than fiction.

Keep your imaginations active, your lust for violence hyperactive.



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