Friday, February 04, 2005

Wallace v. Faulkenstein

Today, we get to take a peek into the minds of a dumbshit, a killer, and a cop. I’m nominating myself for slot #1.

After being called to the Captain’s office, upstairs at the old jail, I thought I was in trouble. Instead of a rag sesh for making fun of the significant IQ deficiencies between jailers and policemen, Wallace gives me a photo of some cheesy looking child-gomer.

After confirming Bunnik and I were soon heading south to the Pacific Northwest to visit in-laws and out-laws, he asks me, whilst watching my hands and non-verbs, if I know this man or his whereabouts. He continued to hand me sheets of data on this guy and scrutinized the authenticity of my responses. Tell you the truth, but not Capt. Wallace, I had seen that face before, but in a parallel universe sneaking around my old killing grounds.

Wallace briefed me with all the gory details involved with unsolved homicides that smell arousingly like serial killin’. Something fiendish about the way sex and violence are woven to create a signature corpse with bright red paint at both ends, sometimes lots in the middle too. We chatted most of my shift, made copies of this sick hump’s dossier, shook hands, and promised we’d chat before anybody disappeared.

What the fuck? Columbo was the only asshole cleared to review old dossiers of sick Washington fucks since he’s the department investigator, private dick, and hit man.

“Nobody told me there’d be days like these.” J. Lennon.

Pale German dweeb features, moustache, plain and ugly, not exactly the face you’d think capable of sawing a fishing knife through the front of an Eskimo girl's neck and esophagus, then hump like a rabbit, binocular style; meaning both south end ports.

Faulkenstein, what a fucking name, akin to Frankenstein.

I ain’t nearly as dedicated a killer or rapist as this goon. I can’t get aroused from slaughter, then git a nut afore it gets cold and not feel sick. I’ve always felt pretty awful after a stunt like that. Butchers like this Finn from my blessed rurality always need a tall bourbon after merely killing a hunnert rabbits, chickens, goats, and yes, horses.

Good Kentucky bourbon kills that post homicide quease. May explain the chronic rates of alcoholism amongst us solders, and our antithetic adversaries, and all their victims.

If I’m supposed to track, ID, then bury this binocular butt port plugger, I need a brief period to don an old persona that’s been closeted for pert near 2 decades. Serial killers have serial personalities, but not like the scary transitions mentally ill people suffer from. Most notorious serial killers are discovered almost by accident because they absentmindedly display their abnormal behavior that is otherwise closeted.

Like typical serial killers, he's from Washington. Since I knew exactly where this sick child gomer already lived, me and my new pal Steve, were anticipating Mack’s moment of prayer, as in praying for his life, not mine.

I pulled out the file again and reviewed the high points: Vicky Webber was found dead, throat slit, previously a very pretty little girl, now a semi warm, forever 13 years old, ugly spooge dump, with blood and pecker snot draining from her newly incised orifices.

Steve Faulkenstien was indeed a forensic artist in the truest form, but elementary in derivation and genre. Ya see, the author is also from Washington, thus the fine appreciation of mutilation, post mortem romance, and signature dismemberment. Something we all share ‘round those parts. Some child slaughtering graphic artists fail to appreciate metaphor and symbolism, specifically, subtlety.

Like a goddamn NIKE swoosh, these sick serial killers simply pick up their chain saws (or lynch rope; Wesley Allan Dodd), grab a child by the ankles, make a sick-fucking wish and pull the bones apart. Don’t look away now; you cops can’t shirk from the mind of a predator.

Serious art, know what I mean? Implying, it’s all Greek to the unaffected, and beauty is in the eye the beholder.

What I find so astonishing is that a killer from Washington slipped past our inept screening processes and lived amongst us, worked with us, befriended us, then brutally killed a girl concluding with a lukewarm grab and jab, pump and dump; necro style fornication and ejaculation. Dudes, I can’t even whack off to Opra or Martha Stewart, but serial killers return to their tasty corpse, hold and snuggle, embrace with much affection, then re-rape and re-soil an already ripe, mutilated, and putrid corpse.

It’s hard enough to eat yer vegetables when they’re dead and wilted, now picture yourself doing mouth to anus resuscitation foreplay, then truly romantic simultaneous orgasms. Ok, non-simultaneous orgasms, your corpse is likely faking it. Shit, with no cranium on your lover; ya got no headaches or pre-sexual crying, and the oral sex you can order to go, but you’ll need a bowling bag.

Fuck we’re all dumb asses; this post mortem fecus muncher and scrogger of deceased butt pussy, Frankenstein, fooled everyone. He kept his other personality closeted. Like faggots; he utilized lots of reenactment of sexual abuse and trauma, but with different ages, genders, and a far tighter closet door.

The abused become the abusers. We have a whole new generation of future child gomers and killers. In the voluminous casework you blessed angels prosecuted, we screwed up and failed to kill all the victims; the next wave of abusers.

Since this nasty bit of wet work occurred in the old NW Arctic School District Office. And since the top floor was teachers’ housing, ya mite think a teacher did the killing, and subsequent raping. I never understood why their fellow colleagues protect child fucking teachers and Catholic priests, but it sure sounds like a black mother hiding and protecting her rapist sons.

Dumb motherfucker Faulkenstien forgot the mantra, “ya can’t rape the willin’, and ya can’t kill the dead.” There’s literally hundreds of willing drunk skanks to shank in the NANA Region but this stupid child gomer mixed up fear with romantic cooperation.

This abused hump preferred little girls unaware how wonderful and fulfilling multiple stab wounds and post mortem rape and sodomy truly feel. See, in Kotzebue, the older Eskimo gals already know how this feels, just ask any of the Mendenhalls or Ballots.

Imported killers and rapists are welcomed and embraced in bush Alaska, because the practice is proselytized and ingrained into the thought paradigm of every child. The misuse of preadolescent tissue pays this practice forward, on the backs of Alaska’s prettiest asset, our Native girls.

Fact: Roy Mendenhall’s father raped all of his daughters, both Chester and Harry Ballot molested all their brothers and sisters, which includes the Mrs., my wife.

Shum (Sharon Sours) doesn’t even yet know that Harry Ballot repeatedly raped her daughter Ahka. Carl Chamblee has yet to learn his wife Lulu Honeycutt Chamblee also received the same horrid anal treatments. What did I say? A good Eskimo girl takes her raping like a soldier and keeps it a secret like no other.

Now imagine the Mrs. sister, Joanne (Georgiana) having to lay underneath both Chester and Harry Ballot. Since testifying against her brothers for generations of rectal splitting and child shredding, the Mrs. can never set foot in her hometown of Kotzebue ever again. Like my hero, Velma Wallis, she spoke the unspeakable and will forever pay the price of banishment. Proud native men enjoy preadolescent butt pussy, ain’t no smart and pretty Ootoyuk gonna take away all that delicious baby diaper painting.

Eskimos are like pockmarked Induns, they kill the agent of health and us agents of paradigm shift, cuz a Native’s dick looks so much larger in a child’s mouth and ass.

If I import a slew of midgets, will our indigenous rapists prefer them over their own kids?

Time to stop the Native American culture of enjoying child rape as a hobby and a sport.

It stops here and it stops now. You boys are the heaven sent angels to terminate this 10,000-year-old aboriginal practice.

You boys already know your job; ya’ll just need a kick in the pants.

Despite the seething hatred you boys shoulder daily, God loves you (but not the Native Community) and I’m gonna remind of that every fucking day. Deal?

You boys stay nasty, meaning nastier than your adversaries. Until one of us receives the proper sanctions, Frankenstien is still living and breathing in Black Diamond, Washington.

Gentlemen, carry on.

Karl.






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