Thursday, March 31, 2005

There's a (butt) sucker born every minute.

Top of the morning gents,

I was sent a message from a fictional character, from my fictional past. You may have met him while you were alive.

The sender is vaporous, yet still amongst the living. A state of being a far cry better than this deadly and murderous subsistence existence we maintain, north of 70 lat.

This un-departed soul requested I explain how his musical talents were harnessed for criminal intent.

As with all my tales, I humbly submit the caveat that all my miscellaneous ramblings are best described as not from this world, but from your collective memories and imaginations. Nobody could make this shit up.

A few centuries back, I used to have a gang of thugs as my negative support group consisting of brothers, friends, rapists, killers, and thieves. Oh, and a couple musicians too.

Since there is no statute of limitations on capital crimes like murder and rape, those particular missions will be retold in the guise of make believe, not actual events.

Just like Squish's suppressed memories of the words he screamed out when he had his first orgasm, "Ease up Tabor, yer crushing my smokes."

All other crimes mentioned heretofore are beyond investigation and prosecution, so these missions will be retold truthfully, but with subtle changes to the names of the participants and their culpability.

It ain't easy having only you lot as an audience, whilst surrounded by fraudulent academics and amoral psychopaths. In faithfulness to accuracy I'll use nicknames, pen names, and nom de plumes for my characters, wherever possible. Hence titles like Columbo, Kudra, Spanky, and Marto International, we allow those that wish to remain anonymous to do so, instead of being implicated in any unhealthy or unsafe felonious fun and games.

I've been reluctant to mention characters I played with on yonder continents because of the recentness, and due to their relationships with larger and more dangerous entities.

Paul Quinn and Peter Huffman are limey fucking Brits that at one time did odd jobs for the IRA. Dwayne Weleschuck is a dangerous fuck from Canada and has done work for some notorious smugglers currently operating in Ukraine. He's the dude that hooked all of us up with the hot pellets gig out of Murmansk. Smuggling drugs is old school gomer action relegated to lower life forms, transporting nuclear material through Scandinavia and the Baltics still pays top dollar. Gooks and Sand Niggers are cash and carry motherfuckers, and that's exactly how we like it.

Oleg Seleznev and Roman Serry are former Soviets. I assisted Roman in gaining American citizenship and printed up counterfeit identification for Oleg to avoid his inescapable draft in the Russian Army picking off Chechen boys and girls from great distances.

Champion Rifle Trophy winners from the UAF shooting team make excellent military recruits: a mandatory obligation upon his return home from graduate business school in Fairbanks, Alaska.

As we proceed down our numerous avenues of murder memory lane, albeit on both domestic and foreign soil, you'll get a little more familiar with your counterparts abroad, and those decomposing in the Killing Fields of the Pacific Northwest. All smart, well trained, and missing the gene that gives a shit about killing sub-humans. Sound familiar?

Years ago, pert near 20 I reckon, I ran a crew of Breaking and Entering specialists that could empty houses right under the noses of their passed out occupants.

We had all 3 vans serviced; LOF, tune ups, and fueled with Union 76 Super. We also had 2 out of the 3 fully loaded with instruments, PA gear, amps and cords, ready and set up for gig nights. Some nights, our gigs were cancelled, so there we were, all dressed up with no ears to bleed. Instead of wasting our loading and set up time, I had an idea.

From Green River to Bellingham, we knew every party house, crack house and mortuary like the backs of our hands and dicks. We popped in on each one of them to see if they needed a live band for their parties. After 3 stops without any takers, we agreed to head back and pick up Marty and Dennis, the boys that smoked Kevin Zabrisky.

Unbeknownst to anybody, myself, Marty, and Dennis intended to solicit our live band services to different neighborhoods with a slightly different agenda. We three were fixing our sights on houses with large amounts of cash, drugs, and firearms onsite.

We spotted Bruce and Scooter's place with pert near a hunnert cars out front. This being a good sign, I walked up, pounded on the front door, and went in to see if these hard-core wholesalers with frosty snotters wanted a live band for an evening.

You already know the answer, they were totally psyched.

We set up, then took a smoke break and discussed payment. As usual: minimal dollars, but free drugs and beer. Deal.

After a few sets, and far too many powders, smokes, and buckets of cold Rainier Keg Beer, our hosts started dropping like flies and passing out all over the house. For Marty, Dennis, and yours truly, this was our signal.

We scoured the premises for anything of value. Marty grabbed a box from the garage and loaded up a dozen odd pistols while Dennis pilfered any cash and powders whose whereabouts he already had prior knowledge of, including a completely suppressed Uzi machine pistol.

As soon as they performed their Nazi ransacking techniques, we packed up all the rest of our gear and headed back home to tally up the loot.

This worked so well; we repeated our performances at a dozen more party and dealer houses. As usual, I was thinking of the bigger picture.

Our mobile band service scam became almost as profitable as playing legitimate bars and nightclubs. We soon were receiving bids from all over.

This ought to scare the shit outa you parents.

Lots of kids requested we play at their parent's houses, provided their rich parents were out of town, and apparently, out of their minds.

Yup, you guessed it. We cleaned out houses of guns, gems, TV's, cable boxes, VCR's, and if given a chance, we'd lift a car or two, provided they were vintage pre-75 MOPAR Chrysler muscle cars.

All the guns were either traded or sold immediately, any leftovers were unloaded at the Marysville Gun Show and the cars were parted out and ditched at Pim's.

Some really hot firearms, like the illegal units that were reported stolen, I kept hidden and eventually sold to Mike Kramer, White Mike Baker, Ray Blanchard and the gooks in Kotzebue. I'm glad none of you befriended Pim too closely, every time we had a fight over money, he'd threaten to blackmail me and inform all you coppers that there was a monster in your midst.

A motto that I strictly adhere to: If you get drunk, yer sunk. These wise words also explain why I enjoyed playing the role of bartender, and bong loader. How the fuck can we rob these punks blind, if they're still conscious?

A quick way to prime yer customers is to make sure generous amounts of alcohol are served and consumed prior to unleashing the audio paving machine.

I can't put my finger on it, but I swear a body suffers from alcohol poisoning, if Cully, Scott, Loren, and Mike Peterson play loud enough to pound topsoil into hardpan. It also may be due to the toxic over serving that occurred at the bar, and far too much poisonous RV bud for such healthy punks.

Ya see, 240 Gordy coined the term "RV bud" cuz he'd spike large party bowls with crushed pills from his grandpa's medicine cabinet. The RV part was the 'random victim' dumb enough to drink or smoke garbage laced with morphine sulphate common in medicine cabinets of cancer patients leaking all over the fucking floor.

Analogous to the current trend of GHB date rape drugs, we utilized an industrial application, and raped whole houses, and families.

Nothing's free.

If you dance to the music, ya gotta pay the violinist. If you party till you puke and die we'll take care of payment for you.

I can read yer minds as we speak. You guys are feeling sorry for these dumb ass punks. Bite yer tongue, and yer own dick. No innocent victims were ever raped, robbed or killed.

Remember, a vampire can never enter your premises without your permission.

Karl.


PS. You can never cheat an honest man.

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