Friday, February 04, 2005

Wheel guns and maggots

Top of the morning gents,

Busy angels, constantly lugging souls back home. Not
sure if you boys know Trooper Spitzer, another one of
God's children doing shitty tasks. (see attached
article below)

IntelBrief: our man Eric Spitzer has been spotted
entering and exiting a building in Fairbanks at the
same time agent KMR 0303, N606, and KR160 also
occupied said premises. Christianson is another
trooper you'll likely see there, as with Kim Nay's
boy, archiving ghb evidence.

I recall the location, cuz it's the only place in the
world where I saw so much growing equipment, weapons,
vehicles, and planes with red chain of possession tags
tied to every single item. Same place a chap picks up
tracking devices and surveillance equipment.

Correct Politics and narc work don't fucking mix. I
used to work for Mat-Su Narcotics; now it called
Mat-Su Drug Team (how fucking gay). On older resumes
I list Statewide Drug Enforcement; now it's called
ABADE. Stupid lengthy acronym for alaska bureau of
alcohol and drug enforcement. Chumpy, huh?

'Alcohol enforcement' brings me thoughts and tearful
memories of drinking the adequate amount of Jim Beam,
after grave yard shift, at the KPD off-site Merc bar,
somewhere in the 400 block. When I slowed down my cig
and shot pace, Westlake slugged me, and with the
kindest and sweetest words of encouragement, would
yell, "Man up Nigger!" "Finish yer fucking drink!"

Westlake should've patented that slogan, after
Judgement Day with Denzell Washington, Dean6Killer
would've been a very rich man. Heck, rent Narc and
Rush. Freshen up on the alternative lifestyles
heretofore.

Sons of bitches, all of you. Remotely developed
arctic characters have permanent and indellible
impressions on this kid. After a lifetime of swim
turnouts, grifting, symphony rehearsals, arson and
pipebombs, distributions, and advanced botanical
research in the Pacific Northwest, I get sent to a
fucking pit north of 70, far worse than any drug
infected world I could've ever created south of 60.

I'm still dumbfounded how Columbo figured I could be
any use on his team. 20-20 hindsight, fuck me. That
old bastard is one smart fucker. Analogous to hiring
hackers to pierce yer computer security, that son of
bitch hires predictably behaving felons, puts a
uniform on 'em, and at gun point, asks us all really
fucking nice to perform shit ass duties, and do them
with a smile. Gun point ain't exagerating. Columbo
and Nay had zero problem backing the patrol car up to
the crematorium. These fucks are pros (unlike the
faggots chipping a leaking corpse out of the trunk of
a frozen 72 Dodge Coronet). Can you tell my nipples
are getting hard? It ain't necrophelia, if I only
lick the bodies, I'll save my dick for the apendectomy
stitches.

Slap me on the ass and call me Ted Bundy.

Those dumb old revolvers Mack and Columbo carried
might've looked inept and ancient, but may I offer a
few words of wisdom from The k7Garroutte Fuck?

"Joke all you want Gilligan, revolvers are almost
always magnums"

"Chief Gillespie can draw that wheel gun faster'n you
can grab yer dick. Shit, buy the time he's sent 6 +P
magnum rounds down range, you're tasting lead in yer
ass. He'd vaporize your limb sockets."

"Fuck, you'll surely need prosthetic limb replacements
like that bag of shit wheelchair vegetable Nay blasted
to pieces up river."

"Gilligan" and "Gillespie". Why the fuck do all you
soldiers make up whackFuck nicknames? I'm fond of
"Gumby", but "Midol" busts my fucking gut. FAS life
support system for a cunt. You bastards have a far
higher calling, and an extra digit on your IQ.

Ain't I funny this morning? It's cuz I'm performing
chemical warfare on a doozy of a hangover. Had a bit
of party last night. Real breakfast o' champions; Ron
and Josie Brower, Riley Kuwanna, Jack Oktolik, Felton
Serrin, a fat tundra maggot named Percy, and a crowd
of punks that showed up with Arney Brower; the ghetto
mod dope heads.

Eskimos are capable of many wonderful things, matching
a goddamn Viking bourbon for bourbon isn't one of
them. Like all smokers, yer out on the front porch,
but fuck gents, seems the crowd sparked up more than a
few pounds of tobacco.

Siberian Mongoloids up here on the edge of the Arctic
Ocean, incinerate tons of weed daily. Warm and sunny
all last night; snow melting like hell, and like
spontaneous combustion, my whole damn neighborhood
collected out front and proceeded to shoot Beamers and
Brews, and well, chief up.

Ya think the only fucking white nigger is gonna cause
unrest amongst the natives and tell all the dopeheads
to bugger off? Yeah bite me. Pert near a hunnert
in-laws and out-laws out front, sort of like a street
party. Ok, exactly like a street party, with this
Scandinegro pitching beers and pouring shots. Did I
ever tell you about my friendship with a hippy working
at Barrow Delivery? THC rich blood is thicker than
local option law. Fuck you, my bar has numerous
vendors, too bad about that Logan Fuck.

You could learn a lot from a dummy. Higman was a
great bartender coach. Round these parts, at least
last night, my speak easy served as the local
pharmacy, but with a very limited inventory; ethanol.
Ironic, 95% of all violence in our village is alcohol
related and I'm in my street killing the last few
brain cells, saved just for this party.

With a pre-existing Siberian eye structure, one
wonders how an Eskimo can "smoke fat chiefs, and get
chinked." Ain't no tundra fire, just a whole bunch of
Tikigaks, Ukpeagviks, even some Inupiaq Selawikmutes
up at Karl and Bunny's, voraciously smoking cigarettes
and weed like a fucking bonfire, and tossing back cups
of tough guy juice.

I'm of the opinion, it was the loud music that brought
the NS coppers. I didn't stick around long enough
chat with the bacon bits, my mountain bike functions
just fine, under the influence.

I'm old school, so I blasted Scott Wade's version of
Hendrix's version of the Star Spangled Banner, sickly
shredded guitar werks I recorded at KOTZ when he and
David Caleschman goofed around the studio all
afternoon, broadcasting fourth of July trivia and six
string erotica. Make that neurotica, fucker was
supposed to be working on house #369, but we'll
discuss that tale, after Joe Hammersly's bud matures.

This day, my fingers wandered through memories of some
strange experiences, albeit, at the direction of
ruthless cops.

You bad boys have a nice day.


Karl.

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