Friday, February 18, 2005

Yer always safe in Alaska when you carry an RA Security Device.

Top of the morning gents,

There's a retired chap that we all know, living somewhere near and around Shelton, Washington, a wooded location on the West side of Puget Sound.

Rumor has it, he may have been a public servant in a remote village where the soil's gone bad and likely left him smelling like a pubic rodent.

What a dumb ass. This guy spent over 40 thankless years North of the Arctic Circle.

His tenure exceeds the entire lifespan of a Squish. If you know what that is.

Funny fucker ain't I?

Does a soul some good to press a phone against yer head fer fucking 2 hours, reminiscing about the filthy aspects of public safety in Wild West Alaska until yer left ear is smashed flat, wet and sweaty, and hurting like a mother fucker.

Count yer blessings more of you nasty uniform turd squeezers ain't beaten to death, stabbed by air born marijuana wives like Linda Sauve...

Or get shot and killed by...


*a stray bullet exiting the driver's door of a municipal Chevrolet.

*a stray bullet that finally stopped screaming and lodged in a fluorescent light above the heads of mostly now dead Eskimo inmates. Hint: old jail, 45 ACP, gray eyed mother fucker.

*a stray bullet exploded through the ceiling above JPO. Hint: Wade Laws lived there. juvenile probation office, 22 garoot.

*a stray bullet woke everyone in the graveyard in front of the old jail, when a trigger happy kid from Janton, CA experienced a similarly exploding gun mystery.

*Scott Wade and I were digging a jammed shell out of his rifle. Yup, it fired and blasted mud all over Sara Magnum. 22 = 2 dumb asses.

Our phone chats have the unfair advantage due to possessing true and accurate insider knowledge cuz we both married Siberian beauties. Interracial dudes.

I goated this retarded (retired) old fart with the initials of David Craig into debating relative safety to our lives and limbs, dead zone NWAB? or MudFarm, Washington. All the zip codes we've soiled eventually became more violent, the longer we lived there.

We drew from straight crime stats from experience in Kotzebue and all its 13 surrounding villages, and here in Barrow, plus my own burgeoning police record.

My mountain bikes seem to leave me more often in Barrow, and I had quite bit of row with my retarded uncle Alaq.

I further countered with how often the Mrs. and I had to walk, escort, carry, kick and roll drunks outa the 29 unit in Kotzebue.

Probably the most potentially deadly zip code I held was Willow. After we wrapped up, cleaned up, and moved away, 2 truckloads of redneck biker trash arrived to do some abbreviations to the existential acturarial tables for Bunnik, Sara Magnum, and agent N606.

Rick Carlson, Rawhide, and a pile of militious armed Valley excrement were fueled up and screaming on powders, and primed fer murder.

I'll give you one guess who they were fixin' to kill.

In my absence, I'd installed a handy security device. It's called an RA. It's a security device tested for years in the United States Marine Corps and was a bargain at a fictional Army Surplus store.

The option package I chose came equipped with a 45 side arm, a sleek 44 special with reverse loaded or backward wad cutters tucked in a fanny pack, and a shotgun in a shoulder sling fondly called his "wingmaster."

Upon exiting their trucks and setting foot upon RA guarded soil, 2 shotgun blasts may have been discharged thereby notifying the aforementioned biker trash that the shotgun sings the song.

Outnumbered, the RA drone approached with long gun drawn and charged, and calmly advised these fine gentlemen that their target meat puppets and bullet dumps had long moved away.

Surprising these fine gentlemen from behind was an elderly neighbor with the initials of Dick Palmitier. He yelled a chiming agreement that "the folks yer aimin' to kill ain't 'round here no more."

Old man Dick Palmitier also held, but didn't aim his firearm. Safe bet both the operator and the firearm were both loaded and happy to dispense with the niceties and commence killin'.

Our visiting crew of redneck biker trash made threatening postures, and even more threatening promises. But not once did any hand or metal make any sudden movements. Surrounded by shotguns on 2 sides must've convinced our unwanted guests that any and all gunplay would prove messy'rn after birth hittin' the fan.

Shucks. Not one drop of infected blood was shed that day. I credit my RA security device. And neighbor, old man Dick Palmitier, an unforgivably mean old chap, but an armed chap just the same.

The RA is a real dude. Robert Anderson. He lived at our Willow house for years after our departure, working as grounds maintenance and caretaker. He also completely overhauled the bathroom/laundry rooms and shot 2 coats of paint on the outside.

I helped. A little.

I held the bong.

Kidding. I shipped that new Arctic Cat PUMA snow machine I bought from Joe Garoutte, from Kotzebue to Anchorage, as payment for such dedication. Good guy. Creepy fucker though. Marines aren't designed to get along with others on the playground.

Don't believe me? Just ask Tom Evans, he failed to phone prior to visiting our Willow house as a possible renter. No shit, RA smashed his windshield with the butt of the infamous "wingmaster."

I'm thinking of a heart attack. No such luck, just a really pissed off Tom Evans screaming at me from the payphone at the Willow Texaco that I was buying him a new windshield. Poor Tom. He lost his voice for a week, rendering him only fat, smelly, and annoying.

As you drive north on the Parks Highway, take a cruise down Lucky Shot Trail Road (mile 71 exactly, the milepost sign was my visual signal to pull my boot out the carbeurator), and you can look at the cabin and house set up on the right side, pretty red paint, dark brown trim.

You can pull over and take a smoke break there. Nobody is gonna blast yer limbs off. RA has long moved North, and old man Dick Palmitier has retired from poaching souls and killing the wicked.

Things just seem to get right peaceful.

After we move away.

If any of you give a shit, ya think Barrow will quiet down next year?

After we move away?

Have gun. Will travel.

Karl.

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