Wednesday, March 23, 2005

Prohibition and the Capones. Cup of tea and game of chess.

Top of the morning gents,

Some mornings are just tweaky.

I ain't kidding. On our trek to the bus stop, the Mrs. and I encountered truly gorgeous snowdrifts illuminated with blood red sunlight.

On the coastal plain of the Arctic Slope, spring brings ground storms, unbearable wind chills, and red sunrises and sunsets due to the huge volume of airborne tundra, dirt, and snow.

If any of you've operated a sand blaster, the blowing snow on my bearded face is much like the stinging bits of powder that sneak out from all the couplings and attachments and nail me below my goggles, but above my dust mask.

Not the direct blast from the business end of your gun, just the sneaky micro poofs that occasionally sting yer cheeks and eyes from the snaps and pops of exploding particulate emitted from the couplings of pressurized lines.

Yup, I'm reminded of my home renovation chores every time my face takes a freezing and wind chill derma-abrasion.

I'm being disingenuous; it's the verso. I'm more inclined to reminisce about freezing my dick off trekking to Microdot's at house 321, Albert Monroe's crooked old shack, or the plethora of pukey cabins inhabited by lesser life forms with descriptors of the Burnor or Melton odor.

Ya see, every community has a natural pathway that loops throughout it in a circular fashion. I, like all suffering mongoloids with hyperactive legs "go visit" more for the trek, than the destinations.

Don't get me wrong; I enjoy good company, even if they're really bad people. Moreover, even if they're despicable and nasty people, but I gotta bike or walk 500 miles a week, or I'll die.

I was born and raised around well-mannered butchers, this lifetime around I want to hang out with folks that speak like me. Fucking awful.

Courtesy will not be tolerated here.

I fucking can't share tales of great rapes, robberies and killings if I have to refrain from speaking honestly, and in the contextual language used by the characters committing these crimes.

Here's a fictional tale, woven with factual events and operations.

When I was doing work for the Capones, we only chatted over the CB radio with language comprised of Mountlake Terrace pseudonyms from a dialect derivative of a clan of white niggers straight outa the Killing Fields of the Pacific Northwest. Our communications were decipherable only by diseased miscreants spawned near Black Diamond, Green River, and Machias.

It was normally my job to rotate the trucks, falsely indicating janitorial activities. But some of my duties were to disable difficult doors so we could gain entry, and pilfer shit. On uncooperative entries, I'd state "I'm afraid you hired a dumb ass, this is a job for a man called Larson." Meaning the door or window I'm supposed to break into won't budge.

When I spotted a KPD Jeep nearby, I'd merely state, "call me a Roger Potter, but I smell breakfast." Both Ken and Chris knew him well, and would vanish. Our mutual acquaintance from Machias was overly paranoid about cops and moved his grow ops far too frequently.

Most B&E jobs were cake, cuz the Capones kept copies of keys to every building they mopped and robbed. The Eskimo building was easy cuz they never changed the locks and Bacon Bit Downing played games and surfed on the Park Service Computers all fucking night, goofing off till 2am, then sneaking home to snake the clogged and infected drains of a lady with a mustache.

Since no real breaking in was required on the Eskimo Building, my skills weren't needed, so I had to sit in the green Ford Bronco and do look out. Once the building was clear, 2 of the 3 musketeers sneaked down the ramp in the rear, and disappeared in the building in search of goodies to steal.

Besides the Eskimo Building, the Capones also had keys to the Courthouse and the Rec. Center.

One of the Mulluk boys traded a couple bags for them, thus putting suspicion of our dirty deeds towards his parents, the Rec. Center managers. The Mulluks were a clan of lower level Indun crooks from a reserve in the lesser 48 that couldn't scam their way out of a collapsed outhouse.

We scoured most of the buildings in Kotzebue. Not much actual janitorial work, but we sure as hell cleaned out any items of value, boxed them up, and freighted them back to Ballard, Washington double time.

Ken and Chris picked a few items for themselves, silly consumer electronic gadgets for household use, leaving the bulk of the equipment for me to dispense with at my leisure. I have an eye for commercial PA equipment. A fucking good eye.

A shit load of high dollar goodies, collected from numerous buildings throughout the NANA Region seemed to mysteriously disappear. Only to reappear in a well-concealed recording studio near 85th and Greenwood, near the dumpster Zabrisky fell into, with a bullet hole under his chin, and the gun that fired it. Imagine that?

Not all scams worked out. I once bought some stolen equipment from the Janitschecks through the Capones, and sent it down to Ballard, Washington. I dropped a piece off at Kay's Music for repairs only to have it seized by the King County Sheriff's Office. The serial numbers matched an inventory of equipment stolen from a music store a few years before.

Those Janitcheck boys thought they were slick. Fuckers must have laughed their asses off after this criminal purchased stolen gear from them.

Paybacks are a bitch.

Just before I had to come in from the cold in November of 92, I gained entry into the Janitscheck's abode, and performed a janitorial service on their personal possessions, without mercy. Fuck all.

Another miracle occurred. A shit load of guitars, effects boxes and amps mysteriously reappeared in a covert recording studio located somewhere near 85th and Greenwood, in Ballard, Washington.

I never totaled up the loot absconded heretofore. If we include all the overhead projectors, stadium lamp assemblies, and inventories incompatible with the newly resurrected school district manifest, it’d likely be a small fortune.

As with all things, this too shall pass. Ya see, ya gotta keep yer eye on the back door. Never get into, what you can get out of, and never enter a room without knowing the exits. Meaning, if I play with you boys on the Prohibition Playground, I can’t live anywhere too long. See a pattern?

Every community breaks my fucking balls and kicks me down to the entry level. I cut fish at the blue Whitney Foods building, pitched freight with Nasruk at Ryan Air, fixed assets inventory for the entire NW Arctic School District, eventually working with guys like you lot; lying, cheating, and stealing from guys like the Capones.

In all the cities and villages I’ve passed out in, I’ve never seen the cunning and cleverness you boys have displayed. Given the right personnel and decent surveillance equipment, I’d be scared shitless to assemble any houses of ill repute anywhere in Northwest Alaska.

The Arctic Coast was clear as soon as the quick draw kid (1D25’s son) ate some vanishing pills and reappeared in a classier uniform South of the Brooks Range.

That’s why I moved here. I’ve got a nose for corruption and Barrow smells just fine.

Barrow is cursed with soil that’s gone bad. Also, Barrow will embrace you; provided you are a bringer of Needful Things.

The devil is in the details.

No mercy for this place.


Karl.

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