Wednesday, March 16, 2005

My family tree has old rope and shotgun pellets tangled in it.

Top of the morning gents,

I kept the Mrs. up late last night. I was telling her tales of shooting and killing. Imagine that?

For some weird reason, I felt I had to tell her about some of the crimes that merely underscore what happens every time a fucking "Ewing" gets involved.

Someone has to die.

As the 'hands on the Glock approached midnight', I was still telling my Siberian beauty about some rather cruel stunts my grandfather pulled; sort of a guilt ridding methodology to excuse my own crimes.

In Idaho, you'll find a farmhouse and sawmill owned by a man with my same last name. No coincidence.

My father and grandfather were up early having coffee and discussing trusses and gussets, roofing and siding. I awoke to a mild hangover, brushed my long hair, poured myself coffee and sat down with these two old men that don't appear on the surface, to be killers.

My attention to the local rural Idaho newspaper was disrupted when my gramps starting talking about two violent rednecks that he caught trying to break in to the Pro-Shop and Bar on our golf course.

I'd heard this tale as a kid, but was spared the gory details and sinister theories about home defense.

Ya see, like myself and every goddamned Viking since Christ was a corporal, my gramps wakes at 4:00am to take a piss. This time he heard these good ol' boys silently park their truck down the driveway.

He overheard them discuss their plans, check their weapons and crunch loudly down the main gravel drive way to where all the booze and money was stashed; the Pro-Shop and Bar.

Gramps shushed grandma and put a revolver in her hands in case these hillbilly motherfuckers tried to rob the house instead, then stealthily crept down the soft grass of the First Tee Fairway to intercept these goons.

He could gauge their trajectory path in the darkness by stopping to listen to the crunching gravel, thus knowing where the bad guys were, but not revealing his own position.

Gramps quickly sneaked in the side entrance of the Pro-Shop with a shotgun in each hand and lay concealed behind the glass golfing shoes counter to view their forced entrance.

According to gramps, it took forever for these inept redneck robbers to pry open the front door. They finally used their shoulders and broke it down.

After the loud crash of the deadbolts giving way, these rednecks stood silently still to insure they hadn't awoken the property owners. They hadn't, the property owner was armed and awake and only 20 feet from them.

Gramps waited in silence as his uninvited guests snooped around looking for shit to steal.

They grabbed a few of the full liquor bottles off the back of the bar and proceeded to down a few belts while looking for where the big money was hidden.

In the dark, these redneck robbers snooped through the drawers behind the bar, opened an empty cash register, while asking each other which was "Ewing's Office Door", implying these boys had inside intel where gramps kept a couple grand at all times.

This was a moment of decision for gramps. Let them steal a pile of money first, then kill them. Or simply blow their abdomens apart right now. Like me, he gets a goddamned boner whenever souls request more sex in their violence.

As these two crooks meandered aimlessly around in the dark, one of the bad guys was feeling for a light switch just a few feet from where gramps lay concealed. This was my gramps deciding moment.

He readied his grip on shogun #1, waiting for the blinding fluorescent lights to ignite.

As the lights flickered to their blinding ignition, all that was heard was, "Oh shit" and a single shotgun blast. Bad guy #1 took a full shotgun charge in the chest and neck. He didn't die as planned.

His partner in crime came running over from behind the bar and took a charge from shotgun #2 to the stomach. He suffered and malingered, as planned.

Gramps immediately phoned grandma to make sure she was okay, then leisurely phoned the police. That is, after he interrogated his bleeding poach to yield their insider informant. According to gramps they only gasped for air and screamed at him to call an ambulance.

The sick and bleeding, poor and filthy never have a seat at negotiations, so no ambulance was ever called, and these boys slowly stopped breathing and became perfectly still.

Grandma drove up and listened to grandpa’s advice, while he converted his homicide scene into an armed robbery botched by a surprised owner scene.

Ya see, nothing aside from a little whiskey was ever actually stolen.

Gramps turned his office lights on and put some warm coffee on his desk, then reminded grandma that she was sleeping while he was working late in the Pro-Shop.

The local coppers were aghast at the carnage, but happy that nobody (of significance) got hurt.

Much later, the cops decided to phone for an ambulance to haul the leaking bullet dumps to the morgue and after pictures were taken they also scooped up the bad guy's guns.

Grandpa and Grandma mopped up the mess and cleaned up shop for opening time in only a few hours. My gramps loves killing but don't like crime scene cleanup.

Normally, we've been told not to call the cops, but since this was his own property, there was no way of torching the remains or burying them anywhere on site.

When customers pulled in, the Pro-Shop was clean and tidy, not a drop of blood or a whiff of guts or leakage was detectable.

I like crime stories like that, so I pressed gramps for details about lynching the labor union activists faggots in Everett and why is there a bullet ridden Model A Ford buried in the horse pasture, minus the pockmarked Indun occupants.

At this moment, my father rudely interrupted us chatty motherfuckers and recommended that we had chores to do and we best git to them.

As I was finishing my coffee and booting up for work, my grandpa asked me about a series of unsolved robberies in a far removed village called Kotzebue that he'd overheard discussed by my own brothers.

My bros were showing off expensive PA and recording equipment that a handsome felon had grifted from other criminals, residing in Kotzebue.

A place you all might be vaguely familiar with.

We'll discuss these tales; on our next adhoc intellectual symposium I fondly call "Killers Anonymous".

Hopefully attended by amoral psychopaths I've befriended over the last hunnert years; former coppers, narc handlers, and children's advocates.

All battle scarred motherfuckers. You bastards.

Fuck ye.

Karl.

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