Friday, February 04, 2005

Kotzebue: Summer of 1989

Top of the morning gents,

Classified Information: Only a diseased fuck from
Kotzebue can appreciate my morning walk through the
funny pages, you know, the comics section in the
Tundra Drum.

The changing daylight cycles are sure warming my
trigger finger. Something maniacal about Spring.
History tells us that March is the month of madness
for almost all cultures, but shit, when yer surrounded
by Eskimos, March can last a whole season.

Next time a friend from rural Alaska offers you a
stroll down memory lane, tell him to fuck off. It's
our duty to re-tell these tales. This story lasts
only 5 months, Indian Time circa 1989. The setting?
Kikiktagruk ChildRapeVille.

Bun and I were sorting old slides of Kotzebue,
eighties vintage, she made the comment that the spring
of '89 may have been the deadliest Eskimo hunting
party in recent memory. A party lasting 5 months with
as many murders and suicides provided for our
entertainment.

Ya see, you'll never know who'll end up in my photo
archives. When the forces of murder and suicide
intersect, like they did in Kotz back in '89, folks
acquire the taste for blood and gunsmoke. My
neighborhood is usually preoccupied with child
splitting rituals, but that summer was truly
noteworthy.

1) Oh, how fucking pleasant; a picture of Dallas
Hannah braffing through deep ass mud puddles down
Front Street. My bet he was in a hurry to pick up his
new 22-magnum pistol from Hanson's. Empathy fails me,
but I always wondered if I'd feel powder burns or
muzzle flash on my face before I actually tasted
bullets through my sinuses and teeth. Angry folks
like shooting the faces they're mad at. You too?

Violet Sour's new boyfriend, Robert, likely never
anticipated multiple murder for breakfast. Poor
bastard was only serving as the replacement penis: a
clueless fallback sex partner that received, as
payment for sex, a pellet through his brain bucket,
compliments of the angry hubby. None of us would ever
stoop to such a level. Manwhore implies commerce,
fucker paid with more than his dick.

Step forward soldiers, which one of you gentleman
hasn't played the role as the sacrificial stud? I
still get a woody hearing about breakups and jealous
husbands. If you examine this behavior, you’ll
discern that it’s part genetics, part stupid, and part
stupid.

Victor Norton was checking mail after buying a pack of
smokes from the Bookstore and the goddamn
nightwatchmen slash expeditor for the school district
just stood in the post office lobby, grinning and
watching. Fucker just gawked as 2 swollen new lovers
got their craniums punctured, and then he watches as
Dallas ate his own gun. Well not the whole gun, but a
point two two caliber tic-tac got gulped.

Dave Summerfelt was his name. Still haunts us don't
he? When Summerfelt arrives, a child is getting a
large intestinal stretch and someone's eating small
ordinance. Advice: don't let him in.

I don't have all the details to this triple homicide,
but I do know there was a Snickers Candy Bar with a lead
and brain flavor cell that also got murdered, oops,
sorry, that particular candy bar has already been
sold, and half eaten. Right Columbo?

2) Some fucking kid flies his dad’s plane into
squirrel canyon, coupla hundred feet below the
cemetery. Rumor is; he's still buried with his ass
cheeks sticking outa the mud, cost saving municipal
bike rack. Stupid chump faggot kills his own ass over
Andrea Gregg dumping him. Suicide by Cessna: what an
ending for such a limp dick. Next time you see an
adolescent muke like Troy Adams pouting near the
airport, bitch slap him. Suicide is the permanent
solution to a merely temporary problem. Like the
mechanic telling me I "oughta get a new car for my
radiator cap", the lad can always get another aromatic
snatch to use as a penis holster.

3) Sheila Romaine pumps a .44 slug through the roof of
her mouth, and is mistaken for hours as sleeping.
Where the fuck does this equation say a broken heart
equals a ballistic charge tween the ears? That story
didn't play out well at all either. Once in a while
suicides aren't a relief for their families, this one
pert near killed paps. Steve Romaine collapsed on the
ground when he tried to wake his stiff daughter,
couldn't even crawl to the phone. Good example of
parental pain that can't be conceptualized, only
experienced.

4) Now if this confluence of murder and suicide
intersects this summer in Kotzebue again, ya'll keep
that list of Gill Halls etc on hand. Them child
gomers got the green light. I'd prefer a professional
like Westlake carry out the sanction, don't let the
pussy kill himself. I'm still queazy remembering the
loose chiclets and skull guts rolled up in Gill's
headwrap towel. Teeth leave a strange ballistic
pattern when they've been blasted backwards. Hot
sparks and smoke leave a foul aftertaste, even in the
mouth of a pervert with a preference for
pre-adolescent suckee-fuckee.

5) Even Koreans and Lower 48 Indians visiting Kotzebue
succumb to this spring and summer murder possession.
One fucking Korean absorbed 7 rifle rounds across from
AC and 29 unit. (We're still visually reviewing my
same summer in question) KPD follows Ethan the gook
shooter, and his 22 rifle uptown towards Waller’s and
Skinner's area. City police confront Mr. Cooley,
whereupon, our gook shooter, rests his chin on the biz
end of his 22 rifle, and screeches a round through his
cranium vertically. Imagine the report of a
supersonic bullet, post cranial. I bet there was
still enough energy in that bullet to seasonally
affect one more soul.

Murder is a wonderful hobby, suicide is only fun if
you loan yer shotgun to brainless dweebs like Edward
Wayne Henry.

Suicide and homicidal mayhem could possibly be
geographic in phenomena, shit, maybe a northernmost
latitudinal malfunction? On my own 2 year leave of
absence over yonder Scandinavia, I witnessed
overwhelming evidence of an arctic component to this
violence and alcoholism. Ironic huh? The author
documents such devastation whilst on a 2-year drinking
vacation himself.

I saw more rotting drunks north of the arctic circle;
not in Alaska, but overseas. Like our soggy and damp
local option legislation, chronic alcohol abuse
remains unchecked in of all places, Finland. Lappis
and Sammis look a lot like the bastards we know, both
before and after a head shot. Lots of Finns bite
explosives, further north ya go, the crazier folks
get.

Note: These folks were predominantly non-natives, one
of you blokes should ride my ass for fairness.

I haven't mentioned the Sheldon's or the Ivanoff's
experiments in limited mortality, we'll touch on those
later, after I sort more photos.

Here's a photo of me, Marvin Ramoth, and Mashburn.
Mashburn and I were cutting down a hanger, I lifted
the soggy corpse from behind, while he tried to cut
the electrical cord. I grew weary lifting a chubby
poopbacked longneck selflynchee, as Mashburn futily
tried to saw through electrical cord with a Leatherman
as sharp as the owner. In exasperation, I suggested I
simply jerk downward quickly and break the cord, fuck
crime scene preservation, this heavy corpse needed
another rope burn around his puke seal. I was getting
fucking tired, plus a temper can wane when vitriolic
liquids soak through your clothing. Ick, sorry.

Oh, the term 'puke seal' is illustrated when Mashburn
and the health aides loosened the electrical cord from
around his neck. At that moment, everybody else got a
spattering of predigestive contents. My turn to
laugh, whilst covered with post mortem butt leakage.

I photo dead people all the time. Kevin Zabriski had
the decency to magnumfy his IQ in North Seattle, near
85th and Greenwood, few blocks west of Aurora. Nice
town, lots of acid.

Have gun, will travel.

Karl.


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