Thursday, February 10, 2005

No brains. No pains. That's us mates.

Top of the morning gents,

Flash from the past. One of my 'fictional' characters
from the killing fields of the Pacific Northwest
reached out to me.

Yup. Means a lot to those of us lonesome losers doing
God's work in ungodly territory.

Before I communicated with Columbo and Nay with the
details about Logan's smuggling gig, I blocked all
email addresses from folks that need not get upset or
injured from my dumbass undercover narcotics
adventures.

Since the sentencing phase is now over and done with,
I removed that block from a shit load of email
addresses.

Holy shit batman, I'm now receiving missives from
friends and loved ones again, which I forgot I had,
aside from this gang of uniformed felons and violent
killers in blue. You sons of fucks.

Here's something troubling. This Irish Mick
motherfucker reminds me repeatedly that I have a
failing memory about a lot of experiences from my
childhood. Albeit no more violent or painful than
living here in ice niggerville, just further back in
the far recesses of my badly battered and flawed
brain. Something this funny fucking Mick calls,
"Drain Bramage."

This pal of over 30 years thus aptly titles these
experiences as 'before the stroke.'

I don't recall ever having any stroke, but it's a
funny way to describe how humans delete and omit
experiences that are non-relevant to my questionable
health and shoddy well being.

He also claims that as children we were chased and
beaten by grown up thugs with baseball bats that were
fixin' to shave our heads bald with pocket knives,
then lynch us.

I do remember running for my life from a noisy mob and
hiding my injuries, red piss and bloody poop from me
parents. Alas, I still believe this was only a dream.


I'm drawing a blank, but I do pity those fictional
kids. They took a pounding and thrashing no soul
should ever carry alone to their graves. It is our
lifelong duty to prevent another scared little kid
from crying alone on the toilet.

Oh well, ain't nothing new. Seems we were put on this
planet to take beatings, imprisonment and torture,
only to live long enough to protect a few children.
Here's the weird part, children not from our family,
nor our race. What's up with that?

If any of you bastards in blue wonder what your lot in
life is, it's simple and binary. Climb Maslow's
heirarchy of needs towards self actualization (full
quid) and become serial killers, or terminate sicker
fucks with extreme prejudice.

Despite uncontrollable violent mood swings, I'm trying
really hard to stick to the latter.

The Mrs. keeps private nightmares to herself out of
fear I'll love her less and dismember the predictably
Native offenders.

She's partly correct in her assumptions you know. It
takes extreme self control to NOT perform those
horrific deeds of mass slaughter all you lads were
naturally born to do.

As far as loving her less, that ain't happening. Ya
see, I fear the same thing, so I keep my own childhood
traumas to meself too. Traumas we could never share
with friends and loved ones, just a gang of vicious
and graying gunslingers.

So, for the time being, I'll scrape old scabs and
scars to fetch these awful cerebral maggots, then
reveal them in this fictional forum for poor suffering
boys that grew up into this lot. You lads.

Boys that I feel, are unforgivable.

You sons of fucks ain't good fer anything else, so
hell, let's play with firearms, then engage with and
terminate humans undeservably breathing God's air.

Don't for a second think you're sorry asses will ever
be happy or healthy. Here's why.

One of the traits that determine if a chap will become
a serial killer; mutilating, killing and butchering
animals, with graduating levels of violence towards
humans.

Jesus Fuck! None of you monsters can deny your
membership.

Every single one of you has shredded livestock, beat
the daylights out of defenseless bullies till yer
hands were wet, and a few of you I suspect are in
denial about the true number of corpses you've sawed,
bagged, and buried.

That's why I'm so fond of all of you. Real humans
find you despicable, but not me. I don't qualify to
be a real human.

Have gun, will travel.

Karl.

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