Thursday, February 24, 2005

Indun Fride Bread, punching bags, and bullet dumps.

Top of the morning gents,

I thought I'd walk down murder memory fucking lane.

Again.

This stroll demanded the company of a crew of killers in uniform. You lot.

This metaphoric stroll is a rather convenient, yet highly illogical therapeutic methodology. Unfairly rapid dialogue not constrained by the unbearably slow pace of real time and highly trained, yet slow police minds.

Analogous to your VCR, I'll try to use my fast-forward and rewind buttons seamlessly so that you attention deficit soldiers will pay fucking attention.

University District, Seattle Washington. Two destitute and decrepit buildings in a hopeless rundown region infested with crime, yet merely blocks from the the UW campus.

What's interesting is 3 dipshits with rusty halos, hell bent on reclaiming and improving this zone. These 3 stooges actually believing in their divine mission to save the world. Dumb fuckers.

Yup, yours truly with two corrupted angels totally psyched to try every dumb idea I ever pulled outa my ass.

"Houston, we have a problem."

Crime scene #1: 4210 Brooklyn Street, Campus Apartment Building, and Manager: Don Heupel, my coworker and party mate.

Crime scene #2: 4710 15th Avenue, H&K Apartment Building, Manager: Skeeter Tenley, my coworker and party mate.

These two dilapidated buildings were purchased for pennies on the dollar ($1.8 million cash for both) with yours truly hired to renovate them, under the supervision and assistance of two damn fine criminals; Heupel and Skeeter.

The best way to vacate an apartment so we could renovate is to raise the rents way out of reach. Worked every time for every apartment. Upon receiving notice of a tripling in rents, even the filthiest scum will move out, hopefully into the street.

Children of landlords have little patience with the poor, cuz poor is a state of education, and a state of mind. The street is where we like them. They make easier targets.

Even if we divided the entire world's cash and resources evenly, we'd return to an identical disparity of wealth within 10 years.

Don't believe me? Just watch how fast my Eskimo neighbors smoke and snort their ASRC, UIC, and PFD dividends. Even with 13 retarded children, my uncle Alaq can blow 30 grand in 3 weeks on $100 bottles of booze, and $100 tablespoons of rag weed, coke, and shitty meth. $100 bill = 1 Alaskan dime.

This is consistent throughout all of rural Alaska, give a scumbag native more money, he'll only get more fucked up. Doubt me? Sprout some gonads and live in Barrow for a few years, you'll puke. Guaranteed.

Just ask 1D25's son. He'll set you straight. After he slugs ye.

Put this way, how would agent KMR0303, our favorite narc, sell over 500 bottles of whiskey every dividend season and not even make a blip on police radar. In the race to be the biggest drug dealer on the block, I'm one of the slower race cars. Imagine that?

I digress. Enough about proverty stricken intellectuals in Eskimo Territory, back to poverty scum existing in Seattle, circa 1986.

Any chance possible, we subdivided some of the larger 3 and 4 bedroom apartments into smaller 1 and 2 bed roomers and studio apartments. We also hauled all the heavy steam radiators out, patched the holes in the floor and tore out the old coal fired furnaces downstairs and converted those into 2 apartments.

You see, electricity is cheaper'n shit in Washington. So cheap, we chose to install electric baseboard heat in all the apartments sticking the tenants with the power bill.

The Campus Building originally had 40 units, 10 per floor. After we were finished, the Campus had 48. The H&K building originally had 48, 8 per floor. When completed we had 52 units. With an average rent of $600 per unit, the owner had a steady revenue stream of more than $60,000 per month.

Ain't no stock or bond can beat that ROI (return on investment).

Find me an investment that pays a low risk rate of return of 3.3 percent every month. Remember Rule 1 in property investments; never pay more than 6 years rents. This example is easy to compute, cuz we have exactly 100 units. Just like yer Physics assignments, get baked and plug and chug stacks of equations.

Even if we leveraged ourselves buying these 2 buildings (borrowed debt), we'd only be on the hook to the tune of about 1% a month, with the 2.3% as all gravy. Take a look at your own 15 year mortgages, an easy way to estimate your monthly nut is to rough in approximately 1% of your unpaid balance every month.

This is for forecasting purposes, but dollars to donuts; you're close enough for grenades, horseshoes, and atom bombs.

Aristocracy and landed gentry have always been expected to fuck the masses with basic mathematics. Works today just like it has for centuries.

You renters check yer rectums. If you insert both hands, yet still can't clap, yer tight.

While working upstairs scrubbing the kitchens and bathrooms, and caulking every seam possible, we heard this horrific screaming downstairs.

Heupel and I bolted down to the first floor to the apartment the screaming was coming from.

We pounded on the door, then used our manager's master keys to open it. We saw this big fucking Indun jumping out the window and running down the back alley.

We both got a good look at him.

On the floor was a really pretty college coed with both hands holding her groin weeping between gasping breaths.

Don called the cops, while I stood by the foyer entrance awaiting a patrol car. This wait took only minutes, so I led 2 armed coppers down the hallway to apartment 107.

After this poor girl was taken to the hospital, the coppers interviewed Donald and I. From our descriptions, the coppers had a pert near perfect picture of the guy I call Chief.

We had another fiasco the following week. A lady directly across the hall in apartment 108 called Donald to report homeless bums sleeping and pissing right in front of her ground floor window.

We sneaked out back and found a whole crew of filthy bums sleeping behind the dumpsters.

I had an idea.

We grabbed some industrial strength ammonia, climbed up the ladder in the elevator shaft to the rooftop, and sneaked to the ledge over these miscreants. After calculating windage and dispersion, I poured a steady stream of this gag inducing fumigant back and forth all over these bums.

It didn't take but a few seconds for the entire crew of human trash to explode into fits of coughing and eye rubbing, and staggering down the alley to another piece of real estate to hack and piss all over.

We only got to pull this stunt twice. We repeated this treatment a week later, yielding permanent results; permanently burned, yet long gone homeless trash.

Later that summer, a girl in 207 called Donald to report some drug dealers were smoking pot in the rear stairway.

She was perty dern close in her description. Not.

What we found was a crowd of shitty black junkies smoking crack with shitty glass pipes on the rear stairwell. I advised Donald to grab his hammer out of his tool belt.

I announced that we'd already called the cops and that they were to "get the fuck outa here."

When they told us to fuck off, I announced it was time I killed me a bunch of niggers and we raised our hammers and walked down the steps towards them.

It worked. Even a nigger on crack won't mess with two dirty construction workers armed with Vaughn framing hammers and tool belts full of cutters and shit.

As this gang of African slime retreated down the stairway, out the door, and down the back alley, they advised us they were coming back to kill us.

I never saw them again, but the replacements were met with a different tactic.

We had numerous problems with shitty humans invading any ground floor open window, and the garage in the basement.

Skeeter discovered a pair of drunks in the garage, yelled at them to get the fuck out, and got beaten to crap and mugged. We'd seen these impaired Induns all over the U-district, so Skeeter, Donald, and I prepped to hunt for them.

That same day, we found 'em drinking one block down the alley. One of our impaired Induns immediately took a swing at Donald and was met with a hammer strike to his collar. Fuck he yelled like a kicked dog.

Skeeter leaned over and stabbed him with his devious tool that leaks no blood; a piece doweling wrapped tight with a long of piece stiff piano wire sticking out.

This tool was fucking great. When Skeeter stabbed this guy over and over, the only visible wound was single micro-droplets of blood at every judicial entry site.

Donald and Skeeter delivered just deserves while I enjoyed pounding living hell outa drunk Indun #2. I was too busy with my stinking human punching bag to see what Donald and Skeeter were doing, until I saw them lift him up in the air and drop him into the dumpster. Our land, our people, unite; so guess what the fuck I did?

In this spirit of native unity, I dumped Indun turd #2 in the dumpster also.

We didn't have any problems for the rest of the summer. We'd wrapped up 2 floors in each building and had them rented out. If you complete renovation with the ground floors first, tenants and visitors enjoy exemplary show work, not the fucked up floors upstairs.

That Fall when school started, Donald and Skeeter had their entire first and second floors fully rented out. And to only pretty girls attending college paying rent for the entire semester in advance, up front. Those boys were good.

The rainy cold Seattle weather really bothers homeless folks, so we had to chase, or toss some more shitty humans out of the stairway and any apartment with an open window on the ground floors. Installing bars on the windows was a violation of fire code; no egress/exit. This meant we had to double up on our pesticidal duties to rid these two buildings of pests.

In November, on our walk back from the hardware store, I spotted Chief panhandling on University Avenue. This was the raper dude that needed mutilation, and constabulary detainment.

Skeeter ran to his building and grabbed two rifles, a tough pellet rifle, and a old 22 Papoose that when disassembled was packed into the butt stock.

We ran upstairs to the top floor elevator shaft, empty and unused since before the Great (?) Depression, and climbed the ladder to the roof top.

Donald had an Altoids tin with .22 caliber pellets soaking in rat poison and Skeeter was busy taping a paper towel cardboard tube over the end of his rifle.

That whole morning, we never got a shot at Chief. But we did get a shot at some black dudes sucking on glass dicks (crack pipes) inside their car.

Sweet shot. Donald shattered the driver's window allowing Skeeter to zip a bullet through the drivers left arm and shattering the pipe and passenger side window. All that happened next was the car burning rubber out the parking lot racing away and never looking back. Never returning either.

Some low lifers not wanting to pay for parking would wait for our tenants to drive to class or work, then steal their parking spaces. Big no-no in my book, so each morning while having coffee and bong hits, mixing mud and paint, we'd shoot their radiators until we saw green liquid puddles under their cars.

I wanted to shoot their headlights and windshields, but that would easily reveal our crimes, and sniper's nest. Besides, an overheated engine will only make noises miles away from the stolen parking spaces.

Not a single complaint, nor repeat offender.

The following April, Skeeter arrived one morning really excited that he spotted Chief right outside.

Fuck, we were sport big cheesy grins 'cuz we were on a mission.

We dropped our brushes and rollers and ran upstairs to the rooftop. This was gonna be so fucking cool. We got to shoot a member of a race of people who's existence was proof the Mexicans had anal sex with the buffalo.

We peeked over the ledge and there was our boy, Chief, just leaning against our building, smoking a cigarette.

Donald wanted the groin shot with his sick pellets soaked in rat poison. Skeeter didn't care, just as long as he could put one in the gut.

Both rifles made loud pops simultaneously and then there was silence.

Silence shattered by yelling and screaming from our boy Chief staggering down the alley.

Skeeter phoned apartment 107 and told her that the guy that raped her is out back yelling at the top of his lungs, and that she should phone the police.

She must have, cuz there were cops all over hell and back, violently scooping up a thrashing and screaming Chief without a single care for his injuries. God love 'em.

I still wince when I think how it must have felt to take a 22 bullet in the right tit, and a poisonous pellet in the ball sack. But then again, I only rape the willing and kill the dead.

The names have been left unchanged, but the actual participants may have been slightly manipulated to diffuse and obfuscate the truly responsible parties.

Fuck ye.

That's my story, and I'm sticking to it.

Karl.

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