Friday, March 25, 2005

Disposable violence for hire.

Top of the morning gents,

I remember a phrase from this week's philosophical discussions with the former intelligence officer in WWII, and jailer at a shit hole village on the Kikiktagruk Spit.

"No good deed goes unpunished."

Yup, Mr. Craig speaking in tongues, heart, and brains.

After doing me chores and composing yesterday's secret transmission to all you killers, I took the Mrs. for a long ass walk.

We meandered past the Nigger Village of Barrow and Arctic Coast Trading Post, then strolled into the wind towards AC. For all you wankers living south of 60, AC is our retarded aboriginal acronym for Alaska Commercial Company, the grocery chain of the Northwest Trading Company, a 300-year-old for-profit entity that hauls more freight in Alaska and Canada than any other firm.

You niggers might spit on AC for selling no teefer natives stale Rytak and Pilot Bread crackers, pungent meat, and hammered produce, but never get caught pissing drunk, throwing punches, or concealing merchandise in any of their stores.

Just like the Kotzebue and Bethel stores, the Barrow branch sees plenty of pukey drunks blatantly stealing Lysol or Aqua Net Hairspray (unscented) to mix with Tang and drink down.

Old man Burt Tiegen is the head bitch for the Barrow Store, and rightly should've arrested me numerous times for assault and battery. I frequently got a little carried away and let the Sorrels do the talking.

Meaning I stomped drunken ice niggers to near death, yielding stomach contents reflecting the Eskimo Cocktails we fondly remember all over the floors of the drunk tanks at the old jail.

Something permanent and disturbing about the smell of Inupiaq vomit; rotten food, household cleaners, piss, shit, and blood; you’ll never forget that disabling smell.

The Mrs. is the only backup I got, but far more lethal than the tall Finn she married that can punch harder'n he can kick. She carries a pistol akin to Westlake's mysterious and deadly mistress he calls "maggie." Ya see, he has a lethal little beauty with the same nickname as my daughter, Sara "magnum." Make sense now?

Like me, the Mrs. also carries canisters of pepper mace. I coached her not to spray the shit while I'm busy tossing and stomping, cuz she might blind me too. I may be a dumb ass, but I can learn basic concepts. Just ask Trooper Dial or Nay what happens when blue eyes suck up pepper mace. As part of the VPSO training, those goons sprayed me, at close range, right in the face. Ain't pretty.

About a month ago, a tall Indun from a Dakota nigger tribe named Shawn, thought he could steal a walrus tusk and head set from me, and get away with it.

In the frozen AC parking lot, in front of all his buddies, I called him out and told him I was gonna beat the fuck outa his nigger ass. Bunnik chimed in and also begged him to put up his poop stained dukes, while warming her trigger finger, and "maggie."

Nothing doin'. He freaked, wobbled, and back pedaled.

My booming voice echoed throughout the entire neighborhood. Everyone within earshot heard me sling shitty racist taunts like a provocateur extraordinaire. Seems nobody is betting against me and the Mrs. when it comes to a husband-wife ass beating and genital stomp and crush tag team fight squad.

I'm 43 and the Mrs. is 55, but we still enjoy raping and killing, so to speak. Eskimo women are funny that way. Fuck ye.

Trained by the best. You boys are responsible for the monster you created. Westlake's coaching on sternum punches with a twisting fist, or lower abdominal groinular upper cuts are green and brown belt techniques that work rather well.

I possess a rather steep learning curve, meaning everywhere I've lived and everybody I’ve worked with, I learned new disabling punches, cuts, and chops. I owe all you killers thanks, I think.

We had another opportunity to dance and stomp the last few Native teeth left in Barrow, into the frozen ice yesterday, but were called off after only a few gut punches and a hip toss on to my foe's head and shoulders.

A procedure identical to the technique I used on Kevin Washington, who was trying to wrestle with Octuck upstairs in the Douglas compound #894. Nobody touches my best mates and coworkers without taking air and sucking dirt or carpet with yer face and neck. Fuck all.

After 30 years wrestling larger livestock, like my brother Cully, or Callahan, a tougher'n shit 300 pound Irish Mick mother fucker, tossing tiny Eskimos seems like child's play.

In the midst of my enjoyable workout and aboriginal pounding last night, I heard a voice like my father's. It was Burt Tiegen, the AC head bitch calmly saying, "That's enough Karl."

A good Karate chop on the larynx was the last punch I threw. A non-marking trick I learned from Octuck and Waller at the old jail, keeps sub humans quiet.

Mr. Tiegen told me to come into his office, where I thought he would call the NS reservation coppers and have me arrested.

He didn't.

He offered me a job.

The Barrow AC store suffers from shoplifting and disorderly behaving monkey fuckers more than any of the other stores in the entire chain.

He's part of this circle jerk of killers so he knows all about the Logan narc job, Roach and Finney's crackdown on the Barrow Distribution Center, and a plethora of other dumb ass stunts performed in the spirit of public service.

I also told him that I'd treat him like my own father, a smart and bossy asshole, yet I'd follow orders and never lie to him.

He went on to congratulate me on the number of Eskimo thugs I've beat to shit, including my gun toting neighbor that ended up having his own rifle broken over his head and shoulders by a Finn that ain't used to taking crap off little brown people with those little brown dicks and brains.

I'm now gainfully employed as a loss prevention officer, bouncer, and entryway pit bull licensed to freely beat the fuck outa anybody I find stealing, fighting, or selling drugs on the property.

Well I'll be a dumb ass.

Westlake and Nolton were right all along. To catch a crook, you gotta think like one. To catch drug dealers, rapists, and killers, you gotta hire one.

Ain't that a bitch?

My right hand hurts like fuck this morning, punching hard headed retards can come back to haunt you. But since reporting to all you killers is my most favorite activity (besides fighting), the swelling ain't too bad. Besides, last night's body slam performance is what got me the job; small price to pay.

So, yours truly is gonna be gainfully employed instead of selling bars to Native corporations, wearing transmitters at the behest of Statewide Drug Enforcement, and smuggling and bootlegging pert near 500 bottles of booze and thousands of doses of LSD every dividend season.

Legitimate work. Holy shit Batman, what am I gonna do?

It's a Friday. Make that a damn Good Friday.

It's also a full moon tonight.

All you coppers might want to wipe yer gun and double check yer ammo, maybe do some shooting just to quiet down yer goddamned neighborhood. I smell the Natives getting restless.

I'll cover yer weak side, and yer 6.

Have gun will travel.



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