Paybacks are a bitch
Top of the morning gents,
We don’t always get our licks in. But, sometimes, God willing, we’ll witness paybacks in a plethora of divine ways. I’ve seen Sgt. Waller dole out beatings that would make any Native mother smile.
Whenever you start to think the underdog never wins, and the hero never gets in a sweet shot on the puss of a bad guy, this tale might make you grin. Grinning like a fucking sailor with swollen extremities, a phat pipe load, and cranked up on green shwag. Sorry, TMA (too much analysis) of Popeye.
I once fronted a shit load of product to Marty and Dennis. I also loaned them the 72 AMC Ambassador, and a nice old 357 revolver.
These two fine thugs were likely the best product delivery boys in the Pacific Northwest. They’ve retrieved that AMC from police impound, twice, with the product still concealed in the fenders. One time though, they lost all of the above, the product, the money, a revolver, and the AMC to a loser Pollack that fucks the ugly sister of convicted faggot killer Richie Reich.
Story goes that Marty and Dennis sat at Denny's next to Aurora Village, while Kevin Zabrisky promised he'd by right back with my car and contents, and 'a killer bag of blow.'
The dicksmoker never showed up, with any of the above.
I missed that Ambassador the most. With an International Harvester 304 V-8, a Chrysler 904 torque-flight automatic transmission, burning Union 76 Super and STP fuel additives, I could punch it out of Mountlake Terrace at midnight, and race all the way up to Bellingham in no time, averaging a bit over 100 most of the trip. Now you know why we call AMC’s “All Makes Combined”, cuz it fucking was.
Breaks a Northwestern scumbag’s heart to lose his favorite gun, and his favorite Logger’s Cadillac. But what pissed me off the most was letting my favorite gun into the hands some faggot loser from Kotzebue. Both he and my favorite gun seem to re-appear in my life, in both Seattle, and Kotzebue. I’ll have to kill that fucker some day. And that ain’t soon enough.
Ya see, Marty and Dennis loaned the infamous car and concealed blow, to this same exact fucking particular assfuck from Kotzebue, Kevin Zabrisky. Fuck you; I got pissed off again remembering that loser of a bullet dump. Sweet headshot, remember? Fuck! Who gives a fuck about that Zabrisky muke, I do, cuz I still really miss that fucking gun.
It took some legwork, but I got the car back. Product too, including a trash bag filled with cash.
Marty and Dennis popped by and told me they were gonna kype some shit with Kevin later that day, giving me about half a day to plan a truly delicious double cross.
Marty and Dennis gave me the address of 85th and Greenwood; a hillside parking spot overlooking the Sea-First Bank. Fucking dark, rainy, and foggy. We didn’t have cell phones before the Y1K scare, we had CB radios. I whispered over the air asking if anybody was expecting the oversight and assistance of a goat herder. Marty cackled and asked if I washed my dick after milking the goats. Whew, only an insider would know enough to flip shit, the way I like it. Marty and Dennis were watching Kevin Zabrisky, and I watched all of ‘em, from above.
From my obscured view, I watched Kevin jog over the Sea-First Bank night deposit box with a silver hefty trash bag and some gray duct tape under his arm. He hauled out the Diebold night deposit door, stuffed the silver hefty trash bag down inside, and duct taped the silver trash bag in place, down inside the Diebold night deposit box. Kevin booked back to his car, wait, my fucking AMC. He watched the night deposit drawer, as Marty and Dennis watched Zabrisky, and I, again, watched them all from overhead.
Most of the Safeway Stores, IGA’s, and Fred Meyers, closed at 10 pm. Night deposits for all these larger vendors timed out at around 12:30 to 2:00 am, giving me plenty of time to peg the phantom toggle switch and fill my thermo coffee mug with more Jim Beam than the safe Scandinavian Daily Recommended Allowance.
I sat and sipped Jim Beam, in the rainy piss fucking dark, prepping a couple strings of firecrackers and bondo bombs I traded off the Induns up at the Tulalip Indian Reservation. I was getting drunk, and getting tired. Sure coulda used some of that damn product concealed in the fender of AMC Ambassador, 304 V-8 remember? Imagine, a Pollack, busted for a bank robbery, in a get away car already fortified with a sweet gun, and a QP of diesel damp toot. Besides brain cells, and native academic prospects, liquor also screws up the best-laid plans.
After the slow and time torturous parade of evening loser managers made their night deposits of the days daily tills, I spied Kevin creeping back towards the Diebold night deposit door. I made a cute kissing sound over the CB, but got no response. So I asked the CB universe if was time for the goat herder to squeeze yer mamma’s tits, still no response.
I shit my pants (actually only farted) when the shadow in the rain knocked on my window; it was fucking Marty and Dennis, soaked and sober, bitching to me about this bullshit taking fucking forever. I shushed them, and observed Kevin pulling his loot from inside the Diebold night deposit box, making tracks with a very stuffed silver trash bag, back to his, I mean my AMC.
Their instructions were to let me get down to Kevin’s, then light a couple strings of firecrackers to camouflage my inevitable shooting. As I sneaked my drunk and now soaking ass through the dark, I stopped and lay low to watch this fuck play with his ill-gotten loot, and wait for the fire works.
Marty though it would be funny to toss a few bondo bombs (M-80’s from Tulalip) high up and over near the soon to be dead Kevin, and the wet, drunk and freezing author. When those flash bangs blow, it’s concussive. Mr. Zabrisky freaked, and threw open the car door and ran and jumped into a dumpster he was using as concealment, with his; I mean my revolver skidding right to my feet.
What did I tell you boys about God loving us? He was also communicating to me a divine solution to this already cross threaded double cross of a theft of a car, gun, coke, and now a garbage bag of money, checks, and credit card carbons. It was dark and quiet again. My revolver was a bit wet, but warming up in my hands as I peeked to make sure it wasn’t fucking empty.
I crept towards the dumpster, wishing silently Zabrisky would simply stick his head out of the trash, so I could just plug that Pollack and go home for Christ’s sake. When Marty and Dennis startled me previously, I merely farted. When it rained firecrackers all over my head, I really heaved a bucket of whiskey and junk food out my ass. Those funny fuckers will brag to this day, that they scared the shit outa me. They fucking did.
Simultaneously as I yanked the drawstring on my asshole shut, Kevin comes flying out of the dumpster aiming to tackle me, the drunk, soaked, blind, and shit caked fool. Apparently Zabrisky wasn’t aware I had his gun, I mean my gun. Drunk as I was, I got the gun under his chin and let loose a magnum round. From his preliminary momentum, all he did was fall on top of me, and all my liquor flavored poop.
First my ass lets loose, then I’m blinded by raining firecrackers, a lifeless Pollack flies at me, now leaking on top of me, and I can’t hear outa my right ear. Shitty scenario mates.
I pushed the dead Pollack Zabrisky off of me, and went over to the AMC to inventory my recovered possessions. No gun, it’ll have to be placed with Zabrisky in the dumpster that already had a foot of rainwater rising in the bottom. But, I did recover my car, still nicely fortified, and a bag of loot valuing over 50K. Fuck you, like selling a tavern to a scumbag native corporation, a lad oughtn’t work too awful hard for a living.
Thank God for pouring rain, cuz lots of blood and poop ran down the gutter, and into the drains of Seattle City Water and Sewer. Matter of fact, after we reversed his tracks, and put Kevin back into the dumpster of his own choosing, wiping down my favorite gun, and re-gripping his dead Pollack (Kung-Fu) grip around his, I mean my gun, there wasn’t any water soluble poop or brain dramage left for Marty and Dennis to clean up.
You shoulda seen those two boys, real crime scene processors. I dare say faster and quicker than Squish or Joe7. Darling lads even left a couple of cups of Jim Beam in Cully’s extra windshield washer fluid reservoir.
I gave Marty and Dennis each 20K for the helping me recover the crap they lost, and also rewarding them for evidence tampering, bank robbery supervision, crime scene cleanup, also payback for any and all outstanding debts including bar tabs, and product shrinkage.
I’m gonna need my head examined, why did I leave such murderous beasts to work with you murderous bastards at such dismal public sector wages?
Crime pays, in my ancestral lineage. Not so here in Eskimo territory, as long as you bastards are standing in the way.
Like I said, every dog has his day. I’m still waiting for the karmic payback for changing sides in this lovely 100-year war on the constitution.
The same war that made my grandfather very, very wealthy.
Karl.
We don’t always get our licks in. But, sometimes, God willing, we’ll witness paybacks in a plethora of divine ways. I’ve seen Sgt. Waller dole out beatings that would make any Native mother smile.
Whenever you start to think the underdog never wins, and the hero never gets in a sweet shot on the puss of a bad guy, this tale might make you grin. Grinning like a fucking sailor with swollen extremities, a phat pipe load, and cranked up on green shwag. Sorry, TMA (too much analysis) of Popeye.
I once fronted a shit load of product to Marty and Dennis. I also loaned them the 72 AMC Ambassador, and a nice old 357 revolver.
These two fine thugs were likely the best product delivery boys in the Pacific Northwest. They’ve retrieved that AMC from police impound, twice, with the product still concealed in the fenders. One time though, they lost all of the above, the product, the money, a revolver, and the AMC to a loser Pollack that fucks the ugly sister of convicted faggot killer Richie Reich.
Story goes that Marty and Dennis sat at Denny's next to Aurora Village, while Kevin Zabrisky promised he'd by right back with my car and contents, and 'a killer bag of blow.'
The dicksmoker never showed up, with any of the above.
I missed that Ambassador the most. With an International Harvester 304 V-8, a Chrysler 904 torque-flight automatic transmission, burning Union 76 Super and STP fuel additives, I could punch it out of Mountlake Terrace at midnight, and race all the way up to Bellingham in no time, averaging a bit over 100 most of the trip. Now you know why we call AMC’s “All Makes Combined”, cuz it fucking was.
Breaks a Northwestern scumbag’s heart to lose his favorite gun, and his favorite Logger’s Cadillac. But what pissed me off the most was letting my favorite gun into the hands some faggot loser from Kotzebue. Both he and my favorite gun seem to re-appear in my life, in both Seattle, and Kotzebue. I’ll have to kill that fucker some day. And that ain’t soon enough.
Ya see, Marty and Dennis loaned the infamous car and concealed blow, to this same exact fucking particular assfuck from Kotzebue, Kevin Zabrisky. Fuck you; I got pissed off again remembering that loser of a bullet dump. Sweet headshot, remember? Fuck! Who gives a fuck about that Zabrisky muke, I do, cuz I still really miss that fucking gun.
It took some legwork, but I got the car back. Product too, including a trash bag filled with cash.
Marty and Dennis popped by and told me they were gonna kype some shit with Kevin later that day, giving me about half a day to plan a truly delicious double cross.
Marty and Dennis gave me the address of 85th and Greenwood; a hillside parking spot overlooking the Sea-First Bank. Fucking dark, rainy, and foggy. We didn’t have cell phones before the Y1K scare, we had CB radios. I whispered over the air asking if anybody was expecting the oversight and assistance of a goat herder. Marty cackled and asked if I washed my dick after milking the goats. Whew, only an insider would know enough to flip shit, the way I like it. Marty and Dennis were watching Kevin Zabrisky, and I watched all of ‘em, from above.
From my obscured view, I watched Kevin jog over the Sea-First Bank night deposit box with a silver hefty trash bag and some gray duct tape under his arm. He hauled out the Diebold night deposit door, stuffed the silver hefty trash bag down inside, and duct taped the silver trash bag in place, down inside the Diebold night deposit box. Kevin booked back to his car, wait, my fucking AMC. He watched the night deposit drawer, as Marty and Dennis watched Zabrisky, and I, again, watched them all from overhead.
Most of the Safeway Stores, IGA’s, and Fred Meyers, closed at 10 pm. Night deposits for all these larger vendors timed out at around 12:30 to 2:00 am, giving me plenty of time to peg the phantom toggle switch and fill my thermo coffee mug with more Jim Beam than the safe Scandinavian Daily Recommended Allowance.
I sat and sipped Jim Beam, in the rainy piss fucking dark, prepping a couple strings of firecrackers and bondo bombs I traded off the Induns up at the Tulalip Indian Reservation. I was getting drunk, and getting tired. Sure coulda used some of that damn product concealed in the fender of AMC Ambassador, 304 V-8 remember? Imagine, a Pollack, busted for a bank robbery, in a get away car already fortified with a sweet gun, and a QP of diesel damp toot. Besides brain cells, and native academic prospects, liquor also screws up the best-laid plans.
After the slow and time torturous parade of evening loser managers made their night deposits of the days daily tills, I spied Kevin creeping back towards the Diebold night deposit door. I made a cute kissing sound over the CB, but got no response. So I asked the CB universe if was time for the goat herder to squeeze yer mamma’s tits, still no response.
I shit my pants (actually only farted) when the shadow in the rain knocked on my window; it was fucking Marty and Dennis, soaked and sober, bitching to me about this bullshit taking fucking forever. I shushed them, and observed Kevin pulling his loot from inside the Diebold night deposit box, making tracks with a very stuffed silver trash bag, back to his, I mean my AMC.
Their instructions were to let me get down to Kevin’s, then light a couple strings of firecrackers to camouflage my inevitable shooting. As I sneaked my drunk and now soaking ass through the dark, I stopped and lay low to watch this fuck play with his ill-gotten loot, and wait for the fire works.
Marty though it would be funny to toss a few bondo bombs (M-80’s from Tulalip) high up and over near the soon to be dead Kevin, and the wet, drunk and freezing author. When those flash bangs blow, it’s concussive. Mr. Zabrisky freaked, and threw open the car door and ran and jumped into a dumpster he was using as concealment, with his; I mean my revolver skidding right to my feet.
What did I tell you boys about God loving us? He was also communicating to me a divine solution to this already cross threaded double cross of a theft of a car, gun, coke, and now a garbage bag of money, checks, and credit card carbons. It was dark and quiet again. My revolver was a bit wet, but warming up in my hands as I peeked to make sure it wasn’t fucking empty.
I crept towards the dumpster, wishing silently Zabrisky would simply stick his head out of the trash, so I could just plug that Pollack and go home for Christ’s sake. When Marty and Dennis startled me previously, I merely farted. When it rained firecrackers all over my head, I really heaved a bucket of whiskey and junk food out my ass. Those funny fuckers will brag to this day, that they scared the shit outa me. They fucking did.
Simultaneously as I yanked the drawstring on my asshole shut, Kevin comes flying out of the dumpster aiming to tackle me, the drunk, soaked, blind, and shit caked fool. Apparently Zabrisky wasn’t aware I had his gun, I mean my gun. Drunk as I was, I got the gun under his chin and let loose a magnum round. From his preliminary momentum, all he did was fall on top of me, and all my liquor flavored poop.
First my ass lets loose, then I’m blinded by raining firecrackers, a lifeless Pollack flies at me, now leaking on top of me, and I can’t hear outa my right ear. Shitty scenario mates.
I pushed the dead Pollack Zabrisky off of me, and went over to the AMC to inventory my recovered possessions. No gun, it’ll have to be placed with Zabrisky in the dumpster that already had a foot of rainwater rising in the bottom. But, I did recover my car, still nicely fortified, and a bag of loot valuing over 50K. Fuck you, like selling a tavern to a scumbag native corporation, a lad oughtn’t work too awful hard for a living.
Thank God for pouring rain, cuz lots of blood and poop ran down the gutter, and into the drains of Seattle City Water and Sewer. Matter of fact, after we reversed his tracks, and put Kevin back into the dumpster of his own choosing, wiping down my favorite gun, and re-gripping his dead Pollack (Kung-Fu) grip around his, I mean my gun, there wasn’t any water soluble poop or brain dramage left for Marty and Dennis to clean up.
You shoulda seen those two boys, real crime scene processors. I dare say faster and quicker than Squish or Joe7. Darling lads even left a couple of cups of Jim Beam in Cully’s extra windshield washer fluid reservoir.
I gave Marty and Dennis each 20K for the helping me recover the crap they lost, and also rewarding them for evidence tampering, bank robbery supervision, crime scene cleanup, also payback for any and all outstanding debts including bar tabs, and product shrinkage.
I’m gonna need my head examined, why did I leave such murderous beasts to work with you murderous bastards at such dismal public sector wages?
Crime pays, in my ancestral lineage. Not so here in Eskimo territory, as long as you bastards are standing in the way.
Like I said, every dog has his day. I’m still waiting for the karmic payback for changing sides in this lovely 100-year war on the constitution.
The same war that made my grandfather very, very wealthy.
Karl.
posted by Alaska: Local And State News. at 10:59 AM
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