Friday, February 04, 2005

House 369 on Caribou Street

When Columbo pulls up with that ashen look on his face, you know it's all bad news.

Last I'd seen the likes of him he was chipping red shit off of Front Street, next to York Wilson’s house, and its shattered storm porch.

He weren't grinnin' today, he had a black plastic covered mess of wires in the back of his patrol car.
__________

Found more slides this morning. Bun and I in front of house #369, half wrecked shack, coupla criminals on site too. If yer an old timer you'll recall what Joe and Lydia Harris's subsistence dumpsite on 2nd avenue originally looked like. We bought the place from KIC, snow covered the most significant aspects of this disgusting tale.

Marty Hall, (no distant cousin of Capone bros), and I, drove Bish's red ford truck a hunnert times to the dump, hauling a hunnert frozen qooqtuq buckets, real lethal brown paint bombs, ‘cept we ain’t talking about paint, is we. Deadly flavor cells that last and last.

The job was a nightmare because I hired dumbass stoners from Seattle, Selawik, and Kotzebue. Ya had to see vapors from their nostrils before they’d lift any buckets of frozen and not-so frozen poop. These dimphucks all required a gallon of nitro-methane 151-proof rum with their Mexican Breakfast. Once in a while I served Columbian Breakfasts, other occasions I served Timothy Leary Breakfasts. That kind of nutritional fortification took days to digest.

Back to the honey bucket brigade; no fooling, we all wore masks and coveralls like Selawik health aides; it was that shitty a job. Marty, Danny and Dave Burnor, Clifford and David Melton, Charlie Tikik, and Big Dumb Dale all helped me haul metric tons of doo-doo and trash to the infamous Kotzebue K-Mart. Since one likely suspect is deceased, we can discern who started the fires at the dump every goddamn summer. His initials are David Burnor. That’s my story, and I’m stickin’ to it.

Bun showed me a weird photo of Mike Hammersly standing in the stormporch with a peculiar birthday present in his hand. Ain't explosives, just drugs. Pt. Hope spawns the weirdest dicksmokers.

Always wondered what happened to that gomer, last we knew, he was chatting with Columbo. The conspiracy theories about the disappearance of Mr. Hammersly are far more intriguing than the boring fucking truth. His silent apprehension and transport are likely not as interesting as the mysterious explanations for his vanishing. Perhaps some may look at his particular disappearance as cruel and brutal, fuck ‘em. In my line of work some smugglers are simply issued a blue-ticket, other bootleggers are issued a black-and-blue-ticket. I'm gonna miss that guy.

Mid June and OTZ Phone has a bigAss fire and complete service blackout, Marty Hall blew a gasket of his own and flew back to Seattle. Poor fucker had enough of waiting in line to use the pay phone in the hallway of the Nulugvik Hotel. I'm betting what really pissed his shit off was the nastyBucket o’ Honey employment, hauling liquid Eskimo ass paint undoubtedly irritated that North Seattle son of a fuck. Haven't heard fom Marty since either.

We flew Scott up from Seattle. He and I assembled the triangle trusses, sheeted the roof with plywood, and nailed that 3/4-inch sound deadening and insulating board over the entire exterior. You know, that particleboard with the black sealant spray paint, except I bought the clear, looked better.

Scott and Sara Magnum accumulated quite a few rifles that summer. To keep the kids occupied on foul weather days, we practiced shooting. Like the responsible parent I am, we created a neato sniper's nest out the back of house #676, our other remodel project house. Sara and Scott received excellent parental guidance and firearms instruction. Following recipes from their Anarchist's Cookbook, they suppressed their 22 rifles with cardboard tubes and tape, piping the sound down to a hollow pop. From the dining table, Sara and Scott shot every goddamn thing that moved: birds, squirrels, and even a few pooches. Dino the red nosed American pit bull chowed the entire bounty of fresh kill. Someday, I’ll tell you about that dog’s demise, the strangest things happen to the author’s vicious mutts.

Sara and Scott were pretty fucking good marksmen. I’d ride my bike out to first bridge and set bottles and cans on the railing. Cute little darlings even thought it funny to shoot a few rounds at the author. Rumor is, those two wonderful children also shot out the phone service for A1, A2, A3, 16 unit, and most of Erlich’s neighborhood. I’ll explain why Sara needed extensive dental work in another essay.

My parental parameters of acceptable behavior were far too specific: no streetlights, no humans, and no cars. Who could’ve predicted phone and cable junction boxes, on telephone poles a half-mile away would eventually become challenging marksmen targets?

This may explain the no-so-happy visit from Columbo, and the perforated black plastic covered bundle of wires emerging from the trunk of his fucking patrol car.

Karl.






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