Sunday, February 06, 2005

Role Playing and Drug Dealing.

Top of the morning gents,

Today, we’re gonna discuss how it feels to play bad guys. We have a couple of roles to choose from; killer, rapist, and drug dealer. We’ll only tackle 2 out of 3. I’ll try to place you boys in blue right in the driver’s seat.

It's time to respond to direct questions from smarter investigators how we became involved with now infamous professor Logan. As stated before, if you want the truth, you'll have to cajole it out of the Liar, he likely has it hidden in his back pocket. Listen up coppers, more fiction.

Years from now, we'll look back at this episode and chuckle, doubting we were ever of sound mind. What started as simple grifting, evolved into grand larceny and contract killing for hire. Meeting and working with the Mad Doctor Logan should have gotten me incarcerated, or at least expelled.

Ya see, it all started back in 1997 with the embezzlement of a pallet of new computers and monitors. Not a bad criminal relationship, cute and adolescent in operations, high in realized profits. Nothing out of the ordinary, free computers for Sara, my father, and of course International friendlies from enemy territory. For doing nothing, Logan received 2 new systems.

We then went on to selling porno over the internet using the SOM server and the UAF super computers to broadcast our visually startling products, and of course billings.

Logan was game for anything that made a buck, as long as he was well insulated from our work, and insulated from any blowback if we got caught. Fair? Fuck you, we take all the risk, he gouged the lion's share of the loot.

We pert near were exposed when another department across the UAF campus noticed dot.com emails originating from the IP address of our server, suffixes normally ending with .edu, hence evidence of commerce occurring on a non-profit station. Big time no-no. Ya think UAF wants to pay back all those goddamned supercomputer grant funds? I ain’t fucking kidding, it’s that deadly in the violation of grant accounting law.

Responding to this alert and without the hindrance of his lab techs, old man Collins went snooping about our office and noticed a satellite computer sitting innocuously amongst all the other blade inserts. Yep, he'd found the culprit.

When questioned about this suspicious ancillary server, I shrugged my shoulders, acted my best dumb, and claimed I thought it was my weirdo dweeb colleagues allowing SETI (Search for Extraterrestrial Intelligence) to utilize our processor down time and snoop the galaxies for intelligent life. At the moment he bought that load of horse puckey, it was obvious; I wasn't employed by intelligent life. Since Sam Travis had just transferred to another college, we all agreed to let the guilt fall on him.

See how a sucker gets selected? Be gone. One scam out of service, on to the next.

TCIP stands for telephone call Internet protocol. No biggie? We're talking direct access to free international phone calls with billing directed to statewide and no telltale clues to who's making these phone calls.

That scam still works, ya just gotta phone from campus to prevent strange off-campus numbers showing on outgoing phone calls. Cool for a grad student enjoying multiple criminal liaisons in multiple time zones.

Here's a scam that I kept Logan out of, but ought to scare the shit out of parents of freshman students; the textbook racket.

No shit. All year, the UAF bookstore purchases new and used textbooks, to the tune of $25-$120 a piece. All campuses use a book buy back program allowing cheaper used textbooks for students to save a little hard earned yet rapidly evaporating college funds. Shit, most of the used textbooks I've bought were never opened and read.

Smart scam for my rural students; spend the scholarship monies on all yer semester expenses, then take all the textbooks back for beer money. Don’t feel bad, they were never gonna do the required reading for any of their classes, anyway.

Something inherently retarded and anti-intellectual woven into Native culture. Who wants good grades at UAF? I don’t want to be ‘white’. I thoroughly enjoyed watching thousands and thousands of my Native neighbors drink till they puked, fucked till they festered, then dropped out and went away.

I ain't kidding, opportunity is everywhere. Whenever I found a medical or physics textbook in my clean up duties of the computer lab, SOM offices, or any place I deem my territory to pilfer, I'm in for a bonus payout. I squirreled away 10-20 books a week; even picked up lots lying around the dorm system I debaucherized.

Brenda Erlich worked the bookstore in the evenings. Strangely, she was always happy to see me. Natives are funny. They act like they don’t know you back in the village, but at UAF, they’re my very best buddies. Who needs any date-rape drugs when this time traveling murderer simply trims his evil beard and dons a sport coat.

I can't prove it, but I still swear her burdensome gigantic breasts lightened and lifted and stretched in my direction when she smiled at me. A con needs a legit player in these scams, a large breasted banker, with a pretty smile and deprived of abundant penile gristle worked fine, really fine. She was always happy to convert hand trucks full of kyped books into tasty stacks of cash, as long as I dressed impeccably and was glowingly charming.

Not wanting to wear out my welcome, I’d collect big stacks of textbooks all week, then flirted with Brenda while visually levitating her extraordinarily heavy and large breasts, requesting a convenient time for me to bring in a bunch of textbooks I've "cleaned out of my storage unit, dorm room, and the MBA office."

She always recommended Friday afternoons; campus is eerily quiet, relative calm before the storm. The only thing moving and making any sound were those extra large breasts squirming and fighting amongst themselves within their cruel restraints. Brenda's commercial dairy caliber breasts were like fat noisy puppies, too big for her little frame, and always leaping and bounding away from their mommy, humping the third legs of tall strangers.

What a gal, always cheerful to help a fellow rural rodent. I'd wheel in a stack of books 40 deep, pocket a coupla hundred or better, then rally down to Sam's Club and fill the car with liquor and cheerleader beer (wine coolers).

Remember the calm before the storm? Yeah, sure. Till we throw open the bar and start taking orders out in the parking lot. Ever hear Marvin Ramoth describing the pleasures of 'going native'? Applies perfectly to 3000 dorm kids fueled up on ethane, but this lighter skinned International Harvester of organs was only armed with an arm, so to speak.

According to Viking folklore, the Lord works in mysterious ways. Literally hundreds of those kids at UAF awoke to unfathomable hangovers, and bruised ovaries soaked in ancient and obsolete sperm. My best night's work was 4 girls stretched and split, staggering drunk, and leaking complex yet inferior genetic material. Safe sex? Not once. I was lucky to shower between my rounds.

What was so surprising and yet irresistibly romantic, the international students phoned me to come back, again.

Little did I know that European and Russian girls preferred suitors with lots of liquor. Lots of penis too. Like I said, a little rape makes for happier Alaskan coeds, also coeds from foreign countries.

Question for all you happily married men; when was the last time you had to fight to get yer enlarged Mr. Wobbly all the way into a cute little squealer teenage girl? Microscopic little cooters are lined with tough canvas. Shit, even multi-viscosity motor oil won’t prevent seize up on yer fully flexed groinular tricep.

Metaphoric terms expressed this way, combine a violent wrestling match with an adult version of Donkey Kong. Hooah! I promised to never reveal to the female gender that a lot of male sex drive is rape derivative. Like my ancestor’s; when raping whole cultures, harvest the heaviest low hanging fruit. Make sense?

May God have mercy on my soul. All sex-crime investigators (and practitioners) never get better; I lost count passing 200. I hope and pray none of your relatives are now nursing handsome fair skinned baby boys possessing flawed, yet blond Scandic-variant ADHD, and oh yeah, noticeably larger genitalia.

As the years passed and I punched out my required classes and the bottom out of a lot of adolescent cervix, my criminal relationship with Logan expanded. He wanted me to get rid of old man Collins, the same professor that clipped our email order Internet porno gig.

What I mean by get rid of, was simple. Ram him off the road enroute to Ester where he lived, or kill him in his home. Ya see, old man Collins was a gun collector, gun hobbyist, and the perfect shmoe for a gun accident at home. A typical Alaskan Amber moment; surrounded by cleaning tools and oil. Plus, this murderous Finn had the keys to his big house. Hey fuck you. I provide exemplary security (house sitting) services; despite being a coconspirator in the plan to ballistically skull fuck the landlord.

I baulked at Logan’s request, not sure if he was measuring my bravery, or stupidity. I made a suggestion that instead of him paying me 20K to pop the old Dean's cap off, we would swap murders. Since my mark was overseas teaching in Germany for another 6 months, we postponed the hobby killing and decided to work on our bootlegging and drug dealing schemes in Anaktuvik Pass, Atquasuk, and Barrow. This is also the time I initiated covert communications with Columbo and Nay. My two handlers from the old days back in Wild Western Alaska.

I also reached out to the good Dr. Collins about the plan to arrange his untimely and early departure. He wasn’t startled or nothing, instead, Collins orchestrated a lethal and silent reversal that may never get the historical credit it deserves. He and I crafted an interwoven scheme to double cross Logan, a parallel operation of the career assassination genre; a political, community and national, financial and sexual kind of layered plan to initiate a termination and revocation of tenure with extreme prejudice. Why the fuck do I continually recite “Logan was a Fairbanks North Star Borough and Fairbanks City Councilman and the cofounder of the Alaskan Independence Party”? I can’t make this shit up. Had I not had the blessing of ALL my former employers, this Logan Bootlegging Reversal would’ve never fucking flown. Getting the nod from reps in every department and branch in the State of Alaska set the stage for a highly illegal, and unethical way of thoroughly crippling Logan and his off balance sheet drug transactions.

Sometimes, simply shooting a man isn’t as delicious as career assassination.

Quoting the Dean, “Nobody is as smart as all of us.” “Logan’s fatal flaw was that he thought he was smarter than everybody.” “I just wish I could be there to pull the trigger.” Collins may be brilliant, but the fucker is cruel and unusual. Just today, I longed for an extra 20K, sure wish Logan’s offer to pop Dr. Big Brain was still on the goddamned table.

After all my supervisors at the Kotzebue DA’s Desk and Karl Main at Statewide Drug Enforcement received their reports, I was given the go ahead to ‘get busy.’ Meaning get back into character, “Yer a drug dealer again Mr. Ewing, I mean agent KMR 0303.”

We had 2 planes, a Piper Super Cub and a Citaborea
(aerobatic spelled backwards) at our disposal. Logistics is the rule of the game, and fuel capacity and carrying capacity were the constraints within this particular illegal business model.

Logan already had Anaktuvik Pass dialed in, and since Atquasuk recently returned to dry status, we had a new community willing to pitch a million dollars every month into the shitter (I mean our wallets). Since Barrow is so damn far north, we had no choice but to use the Piper Super Cub. The Citaborea flew almost twice as fast but had small fuel tanks and zero storage room for us highly educated drug dealers and bootleggers.

I have to admit; this is exciting business. Even if I was only play acting as a bad guy.

At Logan's cabin, he had a 4-lamp system; one room full of cuttings (young ladies on 18 hours of light/6 hours of dark) and one room full of fully mature plants (budding ladies on 12 hours of light/12 hours of dark). Plant life doesn't respond to verbal communication, they respond to light cycle altering and chemical suggestions.

Logan and I made quite a few trips from Fairbanks to Barrow. We had weight limits so if I jumped in the rear seat, we had to limit the cases of liquor we’d stash onboard. The only limiting factor in the marijuana arena was simply production capacity of his grow rooms.

Since we were using airplanes, Sgt. Wahl smartly recruited a little bit of Federal assistance from two chaps working for the United States Drug Enforcement Agency. Totaling up the manpower, we had 8 guys; myself and the 2 DEA agents, and 5 killers from Statewide.

Try hiding these shaven white faces in Barrow. Hidden from citizenry, and constabulary. Local cops always fuck shit up; narcs get burned, freight gets compromised, leaving us with squat to present to a sub90 IQ ice nigger jury. This op had to be truly black bag. No interagency assist, not even from the dysfunctional alcoholics at FAA.

The last two flights Logan made I intentionally stayed here in Barrow to serve as a greeting and unloading party. I’d long ago placed a tracking device on both of Logan’s planes, so we all could see his approach after clearing the Brooks Range.

We had the Barrow airport all wired for video; 3 covert positions, and audio was done the old fashioned way, Karl Mane and I wore half watt transmitters with a line of sight range of about 1 mile. Both deliveries went perfect. Logan would come in low and late, usually around 10 pm; 2 hours after FAA went home to drink. Lazy fuckers even gave me the gate codes over the phone without displaying badges or ID’s. Weird.

In total, we gathered roughly 400 pages of transcript dialogue, lots of snowy arctic airport video, testimony from mangy dudes of numerous agencies, and 2 stolen computers with notes, schedules, and revenue forecasts for other dealers Logan had in his employ.

And you ask me how I tricked Logan into adding 1 narc, 5 troopers, and 2 Feds into his racket? He's game for any scam, as long as he gets the lion's share.

Just ask any cop from remote Alaska; greed will get you every time.

We’ll continue this discussion in subsequent missives; this is far too much typing for one day. I'll likely make some additions and changes.

Like where I hid my share of the loot.

Karl.

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