My bros. Raised on pipe bombs and goat's milk.

Top of the morning gents,

All these reports of bombings throughout the Pacific
Northwest are scaring me, but I like reading of my
handy work reports in the Everett Herald.

Oops, wrong decade. You guys were still sucking on
yer dad’s tits while me and Pim were living in a
goddamn Wrecking Yard, across the street from the old
YMCA where Pim and his dumb ass pal had been arrested
for pipe bombing a few years previously. God loves
extracurricular after school activities,
extra-Columbine activities too.

Boys will be boys. They’ll grow out of it.

Sure.

One of the privileges of being best friends with a
juvenile sociopath, and living in a junk yard is lots
of tools, parts, and heavy equipment. A veritable
devil’s workshop for two hyperactive first generation
Americans.

Idle hands, sure, now add firearms, loud junker cars,
a crane, and 340 IQ, well you boys likely have
duplicate experiences. Else we wouldn’t be
coconspirators in so many felonies, on so many
continents.

Fuck you. I’ve never underestimated my nemesis
plural, same with my best friends; including all you
murderous motherfuckers.

“The best killers seldom make good soldiers, who do
you bastards want next to you in your foxhole?”
(Patton).

Best and the brightest usually require some cleaning,
grooming, and disinfectant. No difference with you
lads; that’s why I’ll only ask you guys to help me pop
the biscuits atop some prize bullies and assholes. A
few of you have already rendered exemplary assistance,
and I’m truly thankful.

Years back, my younger brother Toby and his mate DJ
came over and told us how Rob Fry and his buddies beat
the crap them by Metal Shop, and then robbed them.
Milk money, baby-sitting money, paper route money,
whatever; you steal from any of my dudes, we’re gonna
fuck you up.

Fond memories; the days of rumbles, brawls, and
playground fights at scheduled hours, usually after
school, but before mom yelled at us to come in for
dinner. When we were in our adolescence,
multi-tasking was in its infancy. Beat the crap out
of a bunch of Laos Thai or whatever gook boat people,
rally with Pim and Larson faster’n shit to the pool
for turn out. YMCA pool was only a stoner’s throw
from the piles of loose teeth and black eyes behind
Metal Shop.

Some things never change. Extra-columbine activities
were integral to a well-rounded upbringing.
Washington spawns wonderfully gifted sick fucks. Fuck
you very much.

Kids learned counterfeit personae decoy and
distraction at an early age, back then at least.
Instead of going into some kind of pussy denial as a
means to contain childhood trauma, a smart Finn merely
creates imaginary friends to shoulder all the
burdensome grief, guilt, and deliciously violent
hatred.

The good guy pulls down the grades better’n an adopted
red headed step sister, rakes in blue ribbons at each
and every fucking swim meet, and was impossible to
kick out of first chair cello or string bass.

The bad guy paid attention to the insane instructions
from his pops and grandpops.

No shit. One parent teaches a lad to grow fat and
plump farm fauna, then do a Joe Garoutte on their
asses and pitch ‘em in the freezer and the dinner
plate. The grandparent makes up bogus stories of war
crimes on yonder continent and what results when we
mix saltpeter, charcoal, and sulfur, and why his
brother also blew off his own hand, face and ear.

See, some things are inherited like self-inflicted
scarring and hearing loss, ‘cept we planned to blow
the hand, face and ear off a buttfucker named Rob Fry.

A genius learns from the mistakes of others. A time
traveling murderer suffering from disassociative
disorder instead inflicts these mistakes upon other
morons. Just like the cycle of child abuse, ‘cept us
Finns derail the recoil and take it out on people that
scare, torment, or even hurt a sib. Amen?

Back to the story. Toby and DJ came over to me and
Pim’s junkyard and showed us some doozy lumps,
bruises, and cuts. You know that feeling you need to
kill something? Yeah, me too.

Cully wanted to shoot him with that killer gimp sniper
device he’d installed behind the grill of Pim’s
6-cylinder (inline slant 6, 225 cubes for you ignorant
non-motor heads) Dodge Duster. Tobus wanted to punch
him till his hands were wet or drag him behind Tango
the wonder horse by a long rope tied around his neck.
Just like them labor union activist faggots my grandpa
lynched, the Wobblys; with a hemp rope and Bolen knot.


None of the above. Pim was already fetching lead shot
and Epoxy, black powder, fuse, and some rusty old pipe
stock and cranking a tap to clear the threads on his
end caps.

This Dutch handshaking monster didn’t spend a whole
lot of time whining and planning. God love them Dutch
boys. ‘Specially those broken ones that already know
that the newer grades of steel made the body of our
bombs too strong to shatter merely blowing the end
caps in opposite directions. The shrapnel effect is
the desired effect.

Funny, our old pipe stock from our wrecking yard was
ironically referred to by the old farts as “pot
metal.” You uniformed felons beat it into me about
leaving non-combustible or non-frangible detritus
around afterward. You can say you told me so. Pim,
at such a young age, was already up to speed on
complex crime scene theatrics. Fuck you.

Mixing yer black powder with 1/3 match heads ensures a
nice tracer effect tailing all the lead shot we
epoxied to the exterior.

Hey, all arsonists are usually in the viewing crowd.
If you want to find yer torch, climb yer ladder, turn
around and take a goddamned picture. More often than
not, you’ll have a snap shot of yer sick goatfuck that
desires fried baby lungs and burnt wheelchair jockeys
grinning in the crowd.

All bombers like to get baked and wait for their
babies to illuminate the entire fucking Chase Lake
area. From a safe distance.

The boom that follows is the best. Take note. An
added benefit to the match heads, the sulfur burns so
bright that ALL the streetlights within illumination
turn off for 10 minutes allowing 3 Ford Vans to
silently speed away. Streetlights have light sensors
on the tops of them. When a sufficiently bright
enough light source is detected, be it sunrise, or a
flash, they shut off. Thin strips of magnesium serve
the same function.

Either incendiary; yer guaranteed the house burns to
the ground. And yes, they almost always did. Bonus.

Tobus and DJ got ditched on this midnight mish. Pim
made the bombs, Pim made the rules. We used his Ford
Falcon because it always started, had a super quiet
motor, was just narrow enough to squeeze through the
back ditch through Pine Ridge (Indian Trails), and
navigated well through mud, puddles and soft narrow
trails.

With lights out, yet motor running, we crept under Rob
Fry’s bedroom window and waited. We’d seen him
watching TV in the front room with his mom, when he
ditched back to his bedroom, we lit the green
waterproof fuse and booked.

Elementary crime scene creation; using lead shot
instead of BB’s, and leaving a couple of empty used
shotgun shells under Rob Fry’s bedroom window sill
hence paints a temporarily phony modus operandi.

After Rob Fry entered his bedroom and I tossed a
couple used shotgun shells in the lawn and Pim lit the
fuse, we jogged to the quietly idling car, hopped in
and waited.

The silence and darkness were interrupted with
extraordinary white noise and light, followed by
impenetrable darkness since all the streetlights went
out. At this point, we quietly drove a few blocks to
the Yost Park woods, carefully drove through the
narrow rain soaked trail to Larson’s back ditch, crept
through the underpass under Main Street, then rallied
through the rear entrance of the Indian Trails (Pine
Ridge Park) and quietly drove out 200th to 76th, then
back into me and Pim’s wrecking yard.

Waiting for news of our justifiable homicide was a
test in patience. We possessed little, so we shared
some Lemon Heart 151 Rum with coffee and bong hits,
Windexed the interior of the car, eventually returning
to the house and sleeping the remainder of the morning
away.

Here’s the weird part.

When Rob Fry returned to his bedroom, he’d climbed in
bed to sleep. Mommies and blankies may not protect
you when you have bedwetting nightmares, but may serve
to keep accelerating gases and shrapnel from
perforating your face and dick.

The blast evaporated the entire window and everything
above the level of the windowsill, sparing everything
below. Rob’s bed was inches below the blast so all he
suffered from was raining insulation, sheetrock, and
woodchips. He also likely couldn’t hear his own wet
farts for a goddamn week.

Weird huh? Seems some life spans are harder to
abbreviate than others. Fuck, some folks simply croak
when I yell “Boo!” or run them off the road in a green
GMC. Other fuckers are luckier’n shit, or just
impossible to kill.

No harm, no foul. No suspects were ever detained,
questioned or charged. Neighbors reported hearing
numerous gun blasts, foolishly putting phony
corroboration on Pim’s shotgun shells and lead shot
Epoxied to the brittle old pipe stock. All blasts
have a mirror-echo effect. You didn’t know that did
you?

Rob Fry pointed the finger at some other bad guys he’d
been double-crossing. I’ve no clue who, but happy he
never fingered the true culprits.

According to the Everett Herald, it was further into
the investigation that the Edmonds Police and
Washington State Patrol determined that this was
indeed a bombing and not retributive drug related
discharge of 12 gauge karmic applicators.

Way back, when Mack told me tales of vigilante
brutality and murderous lynching, he prefaced his
tales with his famous “Moment of prayer.” He stated
it was necessary to put the fear of God, or of gun
toting uniformed Christians In Action (CIA) into their
violent suspects.

Rob Fry got his. Since that late night near 5-corners
in Edmonds, he seemed to have lost most of his
bravado, machismo, and well, balls.

When he discovered the culprits he’d fingered (the
partners in crime he was fucking) weren't remotely
involved and that Mr. Nobody was the true late night
voyeur, his paranoia got the better of him. He quit
smoking and selling pot, eating and selling acid, and
subsequently moved out of town.

God works in mysterious ways. After the devil left
the killing fields of the Pacific Northwest, and was
recruited by Columbo and Nay, not a single bombing
ever happened again. On American soil that is.

Cheers mates. I’ve sat on this fictional tale for a
long time.

A phone call to the Edmonds cop shop may yield an
unsolved attempted murder. At this point my tale
looses all fictionality, and well, you better get me a
fucking attorney.

Bite my dick.

Karl.