Murder in your veins

Top of the morning gents,

All humans internally possess all the evil and beauty
we externally point out in our heroes such as Mother
Theresa and the Pope, and our villains like Hitler and
Hussein. No shit. All humans contain the
capabilities to perform wonderful achievements and
fucking awful and wicked shit too.

Each day I have a choice. I can saw the limbs off
freshly killed natives, or I can sit down and compose
amusing vignettes. If the coffee is strong and the
cigarettes imported, you boys get a bonus package;
excessively long short stories.

Some days I stay clear of this hotrod computing
laboratory and just fuck shit up. Murder, mayhem, and
slaughter are the perfect antidote to unexplainable
sadness and mysterious anger.

I don’t expect you guys to understand these feelings.
That is of course, if yer pussy ass is in denial and
yer bullshitting more than your best friends.
Correction dickheads; make that your only friends.

Each one of you dumb asses have confided with me. Ya
know, that stuff? That phantom possession that
mysteriously and violently blasts our boots and
knuckles all over hell and gone, which includes our
neighbors, friends and loved ones.

As an antidotic remedy, one of you soldiers finds
peace of mind and refreshment by quaffing down cups of
rum and whiskey at the off-site KPD merc bar,
somewhere in the 400 block. Oops, that’s more than
one of you.

Others of you lads lifts weights, slugs brewskies,
shreds guitars, and blows harp to siphon and bleed off
surplus murder in your veins.

My male menstruation don’t exhibit itself in
predictable ways. Sometimes it’s alien anger, most
times it’s a cocktail of fear and panic that mimics a
heart attack. Tightness in the chest, short and
shallow breathing, and the overwhelming urge to draw
and quarter anything that looks at me.

Nope, I bet none of you ever experienced this shit.

Sure, and I could’ve been born bright.

In my old age, I’ve discovered the inevitability of
these mood swings is a constant, but a cursed soul can
reduce the severity and the frequency by avoiding
contact with other hominid annoyances and monkey ass
jerk offs. In rural Alaska this is an impossible
task.

Jean Paul Sartre once penned that the definition of
Hell is other people. I further this assertion with
theoretical support from Dr. Marilyn Grey stating that
“healthy people like to be by themselves.”

What no arguments?

I don’t like medical terminology if there’s the
faintest hint of weakness or ugliness. I don’t like
the terms ‘anxiety disorder’ or ‘panic attack’ cuz
they don’t accurately encapsulate this syndrome.

They also don’t relay how these behaviors truly scare
the hell out of children, namely grandsons.

A few generations back in American history, it was
popular to attend a lynching. A few generations back
in Baltic History it was popular to force children to
attend lynchings.

A tall Estonian once told me and Cully about his walks
to school and his after school activities. He and his
brother would meet up with their schoolmates under the
bridge where they stashed gadgets and toys, play for
about a half hour, and then run to class. The days
they didn’t play under the bridge were the days these
children saw weeping men up on the bridge. Weeping
men with ropes around their necks.

Childhood walks to school 80 years ago weren’t far
different from the trauma you boys can’t seem to drink
off yer minds. Yet these were the days that gave
children ulcers that rightly put our pussy shit to
shame.

To torment both the children and the condemned, the
lynching would commence at the precise moment the
children were under the bridge on their morning march
to school.

How fucked up is that?

Just to insure this childhood PTSD takes and holds
really good, a couple of the condemned would have
exceptionally long ropes around their necks while
others had Hara-kiri injuries in their abdomen. This
would yield a truly gruesome image burned into the
brains of dozens of children. Some lynches would
spray volumes of bright entrails while others would
decapitate the victims.

Our six aboriginal senses have varying memory carrying
capabilities. Memories from scents are the strongest.
Second in memory strength to scent is sight. Hence,
those persistent and horrid images we store on the
inside of our eyelids. The third sense in memory
carrying capabilities is sound.

When you put it all together, you get a permanently
scribed nightmare stored in your long-term memory.
And since we seldom control access to our long-term
memories, we get to view these surprising and
upsetting nightmares while fully awake, which I fondly
call “day-mares.”

What a grisly picture for a child to behold: and in
3-D, stereo too. The visual picture of these
lynchings is tough, but the sound of guts, butts and
skulls blasting at the feet of these kids just kills
me. Which is why these kids never recovered.

It’s also why they experienced ‘panic attacks’ and
‘anxiety disorders’ for the rest of their life.

Ya see, there ain’t no curing you boys, just
improvement in yer coping skills and mechanisms.
Fancy words for liquor, guns and violence, Viagra,
Valium, and Prozac; take yer pick.

Since some of you will be here with me on the next
reincarnation, I recommend we upgrade Sgt. Waller’s
magic wand so that we might add another tool to our
gun belt. Amen?

Before any of you kill yer loved ones, or yourself,
phone me. I’ll likely be feeling the same way.

God love you boys. I'm pretty fond of you too.

Karl.