Friday, February 25, 2005

Gentlemen. Invert your engines.

Top of the morning gents,

Every morning I gotta stretch out and work the kinks in various parts of my anatomy into compliance.

Like I'm the only one in this crowd that took a beating at the pleasure of numerous thugs and coppers, go-carts, motorcycles and vintage American junker cars.

Fuck ye.

This morning, my neck and shoulders weren't too awful bad, nothing a bit of yoga and calisthenics can't cure.

The Mrs. asked me why and how my body requires daily limber enhancing techniques. Fuck, I had to think long and hard on that.

On our morning walk to the bus stop I found myself entranced by the squeaking my boots made while walking on 22 below snow. The sound emitting from my size 13 Sorrell boots was exactly like the squeaking sounds Styrofoam makes. Know what I mean?

As the bus approached I noticed that on this particularly cold morning, the tires made the identical sound, whereupon I had a flashback of riding in the passenger seat of a Ford Fairlane, down Interstate 5 under the 145th street overpass. At a little under 90 miles per hours.

You fags that haven't taken the time to rally around the Killing Fields of the Pacific Northwest likely have missed out on the cleanest, fastest, and smoothest roads in the nation.

The freeways in the Northwest were built with ever increasing driving speed capabilities in mind. Meaning all the on-ramps and off-ramps were designed for vehicles traveling at speeds over 150 miles per hour. Even at 80-90 mph these roadways get really interesting and fun.

These high speed highways were built with new space age cars in mind, not junker cars driven by sociopath Dutch boys, nor feral Finns with time traveling capabilities.

Me and Pim almost always went up to Marysville for their weekly gun shows. For $10.00 we got a table and laid out all of our more valuable pistols and rifles including lots of replacement parts and legally questionably pieces.

Pim picked me up at about 7:30 am Saturday morning, we'd grab 2 gallon java junky jugs of strong coffee and a pouch of Redman chew from our favorite AM/PM mini-mart, then rally out of Lynnwood north through Everett, arriving in Marysville.

We'd set up our table and put price tags on our inventory, then take turns tending shop while the other turd squeezer would meander about and take a look at the small arms ordinance inventories all the other vendors were displaying.

Gun shows are so fucking fun. Some days we'd sell a piece, split the proceeds, then go and haggle and jew other vendors for artillery pieces that truly gave us a boner.

One morning, we sold nearly all the stuff we brought, so Pim and I would scout around and purchase under priced pieces, then resell them on our table.

In modern nomenclature we'd be called "Arbs", meaning greedy little jew boys capturing the arbitrage spread. The difference between the commodities (guns) prices we felt were below what we felt the current market demand supported.

Never failed. Some days we'd also sell all the pistols, rifles, and parts that we'd purchased just minutes before from the other side of the gun show.

Marketing lethal toys like firearms is a pseudo science best left to amoral motherfuckers. Present company included.

Pim used to reflect on the fact that Jesus trashed the money markets, and if he returned, would he trash our busy and thriving Saturday and Sunday gun shows. I responded by telling Pim that us monkey fucking humans would lynch him every time he reappeared. 'Cept I'd likely be the filthy human that'd shoot Jesus back out the front door.

This feral Finn ain't allowed membership where all you boys are headed. Discrimination is a good thing. Do you think heaven or hell would function properly if all us killers with poopy butts were given entrance?

Don't worry, you'll find me and Pim tending our table of guns, over and over, with each and every repeating earthbound life cycle.

After the gun show, Pim and I sometimes rallied out to my grandparent's place west of Smoky Point near the Wenberg State Park, the 7-Lakes area where you'll find 3 human skeletons bound up in the roots of a cluster of now giant Fir trees.

We'd fire up the sauna, burn some pine chron, down some good Canadian beer, then blow the living shit out of perfectly innocent trees with our new toys from the gun show. Cool shit Maynard.

As the sun set over the Puget Sound and the Olympic Mountain Range, we'd have to load up and head South back home, 'cuz our old Fairlane didn't have terribly good wipers or terribly bright headlights. I'd venture to speculate that the Fairlane didn't have terribly bright occupants either.

As mentioned before, Interstate 5 only gets interesting at speeds over 80 mph, which is the speed our Flying Dutchman preferred to drive at.

With 2 retarded occupants in our Ford, we were legal to outrace traffic flows by screaming all the way to Seattle in the car pool lane, better known as the HOV (high occupancy vehicle) lane. This lane is always clear allowing us to ignore most laws pertaining to moving vehicles, except those pertaining to the laws of physics.

As we sped past slower moving traffic, we sometimes encountered dumb shits failing to use their rear view mirrors, pulling directly in front of our speeding vintage POS (piece of shit).

Now add into your equation a letter to represent a coefficient signifying balding tires with the era of automobiles that didn't have ABS just yet.

Yup, you guessed it. Some lame fuck pulled a lefty into the car pool lane, pert near inches in front of a speeding car driven by two impaired drivers who's parents were born in other countries.

That squeaking sound of cold arctic snow and Styrofoam is the sound our balding tires made when Pim slammed on the brakes. Right before it exploded and pulled us three lanes across the highway.

This violent blow out effectively saved us from colliding up the ass of the car that pulled in front of us but also robbed us of our steering capabilities.

It also robbed us the ability to prevent motor inversion. Meaning along with the motor inverting, so did the car.

As Pim skidded diagonally across I-5, the car pitched violently, then flipped and rolled us on to our roof.

Both Pim and I tried to duck low as the roof caved in, thus bashing our skulls mercilessly together.

We hugged the front seat, and each other as we slid along side speeding traffic, upside down.

All we could hear was scratching metal and hundreds of screeching tires as traffic tried to avoid a Ford Fairlane, on it's back.

We skidded to a stop on the right shoulder with the tail of our car sticking out into the far right lane. This isn't a good thing.

The moment Pim reached to unbuckle his seatbelt; we were smashed by a speeding car clipping the trunk sticking part way in traffic.

The trunk exploded and our doors blew open spinning us like a top. Better yet, spinning us like a car on its top.

Our entire inventory of guns scattered all over the freeway derivative of a militia yard sale.

Pim and I also spun mercilessly inside this Ford Fairlane that was now best described as a moron blender.

We were churned like turds in mushuk. Loose teeth, blood and spit from our heads bashed together sprayed the entire inside of this Ford Product Centrifuge.

We had all our shit flying out the open trunk and doors alongside our over stretched arms, legs, knuckles and nuts. No shit, even my jaw and tongue were half tore off.

That car seemed to spin like a top, in traffic forever. It stopped abruptly when the car spun into the sand and grass, quickly changing the taste in our mouths from glass and blood, to ass and mud.

After the inverted Ferris wheel fun and trauma ceased, Pim and I quickly exited the vehicle and crawled into the grass in the median.

We just laid there breathing like rape victims. My neck felt broke, and so did my gonad package. My guts were pounded so bad I swear I had puke mixed with the blood and glass in my mouth. Pim just laid there and sobbed. Guess I did too.

We were hurting for certain.

The police and ambulance arrived in mere minutes barricading all the southbound traffic. This was a good thing, cuz Pim and I had to assist the police in retrieving a dozen or so smash rifles and odd pistols that had been run over by hundreds of speeding cars.

We quickly forgot about our injuries when we discovered the all of our day's work at the Marysville gun show had been ejected and spread all over the highway.

A wrecker cabled up our Ford Fairlane and was flipped back on its bent wheels, and pulled onto the back of a flat bed tow rig. Pim and I declined medical treatments, and accepted a ride from a big ol' logger dude back to Cosmo's junkyard.

We left the car at the King County Sheriff's impound yard, it was worthless trash. Besides, we didn't have a title of ownership to reclaim it.

The police retained ownership of all the run over rifles and guns, while Pim and I retained ownership of our knuckles and nuts, but not our posture.

We walked like broken old men for weeks, never truly free of the ever-increasing injuries we enjoyed collecting.

This morning, while stretching and limbering, I interrupted myself to sit down and type out this tale for you uniformed killers.

I'll finish my calisthenics as soon as I type my name.



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