To Sober Up. Ya Gotta Leave Rural Alaska.

Top of the morning gents,

Swiss cheese. That's what comes to mind.

Since the whole goddamned Western Arctic Caribou Herd
is stalled out in my backyard, I felt it was my
Alaskan duty to improve the quality of life for a
unique member of the Barrow Elders.

Namely me. Fuck you. I played quick draw amidst
Santa's horsepower. I'll explain the Swiss cheese
dilemma and chemical solution after I introduce you to
a mutual friend of mine, and Mike Zagar's.

Pennies from heaven, loot from Irish pals, and I can't
even afford to play with these new toys.

A few months ago, my personal chauffeur Kelly Aikins
returnded from Seattle, Washington, clean and sober,
and quite intelligent.

Last Spring, our dude Kelly, a wiry and tightly wound
Irishman, not too dissimilar to the infamous Brian
Higman, marched his ass into Lakeside Recovery. His
liver likely looked like Swiss cheese and the Borough
pays 100% if you “Man up nigger!” and walk your own
ass into the liver washing machine and hit the spin
dry cycle button.

Yes, Kelly chose Lakeside Recovery because all the rock
stars vomit and gush butt there. Like Curt Cobain and
a long list of celebs that discovered rusty AIDS
infected needles might not be the smartest method to
ingest their sole source of nutrition.

After 3 months, Kelly returned to Barrow. He was
exactly like the old Kelly, just sober, sharper, and
smiled a fuck of a lot. Hate to say it, but it was
like he ate a vitamin pill and added a third digit to
his IQ. No shit.

Consistent with his behavior was the constant energy
bleed off. Poor bastard clearly displayed
hyperactivity and was still self-medicating with
coffee and cigs. Strong coffee allows a brief respite
from his full throttle imagination, language centers,
and twitchy muscle groups. Cigs are a stimulant
additive that tempers caffeine.

How the fuck do you think I can sit for 2-3 hours each
morning and type to this group of uniformed comrades?

Our man Kelly returned to driving Barrow’s full size
Municipal Busses, and he and I indulge each morning
with a free ride, and chat. Since he’d visited the
infamous Zagar’s in Wasilla this summer, and Mike
acknowledged his fondness for “Karl and Bunny from
Kotzebue”, I had a smart white lad to talk fast with,
flip shit to, and share drinking and drugging stories
with. Chronic tales of chronic abuse, ex post facto,
dudes.

It was just like a trip to Mountlake Terrace. Smart
and witty white guys are a rare pleasure in Alaska;
most are biblically crippled academically.

I truly hate religious white trash. Goddamned
ignorant pink niggers can’t tell a story or a joke fer
shit, and are overly sensitive to racist humor
supported by overwhelming exemplification.

You Siberian killers don’t gotta remind me that white
trash are only good for igloo roofing material,
provided I slice ‘em thin enough. We all look the
same, but a couple of us are uglier and smellier. My
sense of humor serves the same function as sprinkling
salt on a slug or tipping over my honey bucket; the
good folks recoil in shock, plug their noses, and
vacate premises faster’n a cunning little runt.

Or was that a running little cunt?

Me and Kelly could chat and pitch banter on his
crowded bus in the usual criminalistic crypticism, to
prevent any brown folk from eavesdropping on us. Like
I’d simply mention the word “Pontiac” whenever rude
Mongoloids pulled in front of or cut off the bus (Poor
Old Nigger Thinks It’s A Cadillac).

Bust a gut guaranteed.

In contradiction to Alaskan behavior, Kelly’s wife
flew back up from Brazil to put the finishing touches
on her newly sober husband (haircut/shave/cleaner
pussy) to conceal all visible traces of his existence
here in skank town. She also facilitated his early
retirement from the NS Borough and his return to
Brazil with her.

Sometimes, the good guy comes in first place. I
advised Kelly that he had a second chance to escape
end stage chronic alcoholism, and bad pussy syndrome.
This guy drank like a fish. And smelled like one too.
Gonna be a lot of drunk cunts wondering where Kelly
went to.

Remember when Higman left Kotzebue? Same foul voids
were left abandoned to dry crusty in the breeze.
Isn’t that a disgusting notion?

Here’s the part of the story you limey fucks might
find interesting.

After Kelly returned from rehab, all his brown bros
avoided him. No visits, no cards, just fuck you’s and
the familiar “I don’t know you” behavior we get from
inauthentic ice nigger friends.

So, on Kelly’s last day before flying to Brazil, he
popped by for a strong coffee and smokes, and
proceeded to explain to me that he was giving his GMC
4x4 truck and 25 foot boat with a brand new Evinrude
88 Special motor, and trailer to me.

Since when did I deserve 20 grand in gifts?

Kelly explained that since sobering up after 37 years
in Barrow (ages 7 to 44), he discovered he had zero
friends. “So fuck ‘em, ya want a truck and boat?”

Weird huh?

The Mrs. and I cut up a couple caribou carcasses this
weekend. Hard work mates, cuz I always turn a simple
killing into a blood fight. My Eskimo wife also
promised me more than her heart, she promised to help
me clean up any and all of my murder scenes. Be they
surfers, or herfers.

One of the caribou I shot in the backyard was a tasty
small doe. Damn thing took 4 shots to drop, and I’m
the dumb shit who’s always yelling the “1 shot-1 kill”
slogan.

One 243 round slowed her to a trot; another brought
her to a stand still. Both shots were sloppy
abdominal placements. The 2 more I sent downrange at
her seemed to go around her blasting snow in the air
meters behind her.

She just stood there, even as the crowd dispersed, she
just stood there. I had to reload and blast her
again, only to discover every round zipped through her
and that she was dead to rights and dead in her
tracks.

Embarrassing to doubt the accuracy of my shooting at
close range. Even more embarrassing was to butcher an
animal so full of blood and red jello. My kitchen
floor was pooled with more blood than the bed of the
pickup truck I rolled into the Green River.

I really needed the perforated beast for my 4 day
brined, 4 day dried caribou jerky. The Mrs. brings
most of my spicy dried meat to the college, those
Ilisagvik kids really love it. They don’t need to
know that cutting up an animal shot full of more holes
than Linda Kramer’s uterus, is really messy fucking
work.

We butchered and sliced all the usable meats, and even
some unusable meat. I filled my large bowls, poured
on caustic seasonings, hot, soy, and smoke sauce, then
stowed them in the bottom of my fridge. This batch
will be an experiment. Most of the meat soaking in my
brine sauces are bruised chunks and jellied from too
many bullets, from one too many dumb shits; me.

What a fucking dummy. Alex Whiting told me that
whenever your animal stands still, stop shooting, it’s
dying in shock on its hooves.


*Some weird shit happening up here. Less than a
fortnight of sunshine left, and folks are going batty
for rum (check the Bacardi label). When the world
zigs, I zag. I’ll return to feeding my Viking’s
thirst for Jim Beam when the sun returns.

I’m gonna look out my front window and dream of
ways to afford the fuel to burn in my new truck and boat.
Karl.