Simultaneous Decades. Simultaneous Chemical Equations

Top of the morning gents,

I’ve been thinking.

This can be a dangerous thing.

I was thinking in parallel contexts, phase shifting the time coefficients so that we can compare and draw similarities between two distinct epochs and geographies.

Analogous to laying one decade in Seattle side by side with one decade in Alaska, while we examine the behavior of one complete idiot in particular; yours truly.

Let me take you back in time a few decades to Bad Soil Spit and my existence living with less civilized aborigines that possessed higher IQ’s than I. Aborigines that could party tougher than any mercenary or drug smuggler I’ve ever worked with.

Way south of here, and way back in time, you all met a tall Finn fleeing the Killing Fields of the Pacific Northwest. And I mean fleeing.

In my previous lunacy, the personae I displayed was that of a cocaine wholesaler, grow room operator, and firearms broker. All of these occupations are highly risky individually, absolutely stupid when conducted simultaneously.

I’m trying to explain what happens when a congenitally hyperactive lad manipulates and abuses other people’s lives and addictions. Trust me, marching morons (88% of all modified monkeys) will lynch you if they believe you’re the man that cruelly and abruptly shut off their orally ingested comfort tits.

Humans are always in pursuit of comfort. You know, Maslow shit: full tummy, shelter, and safety from guys like us. As parents, it’s our job to provide these to our progeny until they mature sufficiently to provide for themselves.

I’ve got a real eye for the obvious don’t I? Now examine a family with an alcoholic father. See where I’m going?

I can easily corrupt and destroy targets like these with both arms tied behind my back. Ya see, I ain’t forcing these chemically controllable droids into smoking, drinking, or snorting these drugs, so my hands are clean, sort of. No need to exterminate whole cultures through the importation of ignorance inducing religions let ‘em do it to themselves, all by themselves.

It only takes one addict to fragment entire ancestries. This works with Native Americans, the Irish, and especially notoriously intoxicated Vikings. Exploitation is voluntary and habitual, them ‘other’ humans over yonder just don’t know any better.

Like all addicts believing fear and stress are to be diluted and dissolved, they’ll always find a hookup. Like cruel and clever sons of landlords, I’ll always spot good customers.

My forte is reading people, and I can spot a potential customer a mile away. What I’ve discovered: I failed to read myself.

Children of alcoholics got robbed of childhood comfort and received in return a lot of domestic violence, divorce, and injury echoing stress for the next 10 fucking generations.

Guys like me incubate generations of customers. When Logan and I were dumping tons of weed and booze on my Eskimo neighbors, we sold thousands of dollars worth of way overpriced garbage on fathers and sons, mothers and daughters.

Every single one of our customers absolutely believed we were doing them a real favor by strafing their wallets and their children’s academic potential.

Safety, comfort, relaxation in a bag, evil genie in a bottle, and they’re happy to lavish Logan and I with a little over 6 figures, every dividend season.

“All good things must come to an end, and the same with the Wild Wood Weed.” (Weird song from the 70’s about redneck farmers and their homegrown chronic)

After you coppers coached, advised, and encouraged me to work with state and federal agents, it was apparent it was time to bring the mad Professor Logan’s smuggling gig to a halt.

Aside from evil glares from across the courtroom, I never heard a peep from Logan, but you should’ve heard the ruckus I got from all my good cash and carry customers.

There was a 6-month cacophony of whining, shrieks, and death threats. Shit, you’d think I did them a favor. None such. Eskimos are happy to pay more for their drugs and alcohol than any other human on Earth, and they’re proud to be the best customers too.

We’re talking the best customers I’ve ever exterminated.

Within this pile of 400 pages of court documents (transcribed covert transmissions), you’ll read conversations with the mad doctor congratulating me for being the very best smuggler he’s ever worked with. I’m flattered, but I thought I was his only partner in crime. We didn’t discover who his other distributors were until I mentioned to Sgt. Wahl that the 2 computers in his home were stolen from UAF.

And I helped him steal them.

Now let’s put our thinking cap on.

I see no difference in my behaviors in either decade we examine. At my wise old age of 43, I find I’m a better crook and drug dealer, yet I’m the clown getting paid by Statewide Drug Enforcement to ensnare guys just like me. This is self-deprecation on a whole new level.

All of Finland would be proud, specifically the ancestry of Vikings with hyphenated names like “Musta-Makki”, meaning in English; Black Market. I scammed the crooks, and a few coppers. “Good grift Uusi Suomen (new Finnish man).”

I always wondered why my grandparents had names like Veinman and Makki. Wine makers and marketers. This is starting to creep me out.

I thought I was making a conscious choice when I engaged in each and every one of my felonies. I never had any choice; my ancestry, abilities, and electro-chemical disorder cast me into a criminal class of humans long before I was born.

It may be karmic and part of my heritage, but crime ain’t supposed to pay, but it does, and extremely well. To this day I’m still trying really fucking hard to keep my felonious activities to a minimum, every goddamned day.

With these two parallel decades phase shifted side-by-side, we have identical time periods that can be simplified like two simultaneous equations, we gotta combine like terms, solving for one variable, my shameless behavior.

Behavior that is rife with manipulation, deceit, extortion, embezzlement, and like my customers, a complete disregard for local option law.

I used to think I had a conscience, but I don’t.

I used to think I had impulse control. Not.

Shit, I even used to believe I could behave myself. Never happened.

As we examine the criminal personality profiles consistent in each time period, I see a Scandinavian behaving like an arrogant, impudent, and belligerent grifter. What’s gone wrong?

Well, I tell you. There’s a chemical imbalance and dodgy electrics somewhere within the battered skull bucket of your author on drugs.

Or so I thought.

Unbeknownst to you all, I befriended a new chap that just recently moved here to Barrow. A doctor with an office in Payette, Idaho and a newly opened family practice clinic here north of 70 lat.

Imagine, a real doctor operating in a new and clean ‘operating theater’, not a fat and smelly dyke PA operating in a BIA shit ass Indun clinic like ANuS (Alaska Native Services).

What’s more remarkable is that our paths have crossed, and he finds me tremendously gifted and talented. His biggest curiosity is my criminal intrigue, excessive energy and intimidating speech patterns shamefully similar to Tourette’s Syndrome, or some shit.

He repeatedly asked me why I habitually stray far away from good honest civilized folk migrating to extraordinarily violent arctic communities in the most remote parts of the world; on two continents. I was stumped.

He volunteered a medical explanation, a medical diagnosis, and a medical treatment.

He says that I’m quite similar to Eskimos: I’m always wound up and burning rubber.

Simply put; he says I’m a perfect specimen of a pedigree Scandinavian Hyperactive.

Like Eskimos, Vikings could never stay in one place with historically accurate behavior of roaming, trekking, hunting, killing, and hunting and killing. Did I mention our mutually cultural penchant for hunting and killing?

He asked me if I’ve always been interested in clever schemes, complicated abuse, and a glaring inability to control myself; as in zero control over my impulses and a notoriety of failing to recognize fear and common sense.

As he lectured me, I felt totally fucking transparent. I thought I concealed my criminal curiosity rather well. Guess not.

Shit, how come none of you fuckers never set me down and told me to quit taking advantage of humankind?

This afternoon, I’m gonna take a piece of paper with a doctor’s signature on it down to the pharmacy and pick up a controlled substance that is supposed to streamline my rapid and fleeting thoughts. Oh yeah, there’s a word written on this prescription that I thought was intended only for children, “Ritalin.”

Since when does physical fitness, excessive energy, and blond hair equal a dose of amphetamine twice a day? His response was simple, "Son, it’ll keep you alive."

The Good Doctor explained that guys like me die too often at a young age. During his exam, he noted the following injuries:

*1 GSW
*2 knife slashes
*1 knife stab wound
*Multiple broken bones, chipped teeth, and cartilaginous deposits throughout my knuckles, vertebrae and ribs
*Really worrisome; cartilaginous deposits throughout my big nose and sinuses that will impair my breathing as I age.

When he asked me how I did a spaghetti number on my ribs, I got a little choked up describing my numerous arrests, beat downs, and fights I never should’ve waded into.

He then grilled me on my criminal record. Fucking nosy ain’t he?

I asked him if I had to list all my convictions, or my charges. He said charges.

Oh shit, everywhere I’ve lived I racked up tasty misdemeanor and felony charges, about 1 percent of total crimes committed.

After an hour of honest confession, he looked at me with amazement and said it was by the grace of God none of my victims I tricked and extorted never killed me.

I thought I was just bulletproof. He didn’t think I was funny.

After hours of consultation I admitted I’ve snorted piles of meth, cocaine, speed, crank, and smoked bales of marijuana. I may have likely emptied more bars, taverns, and pubs than I care to admit.

In Alaska, we drink harder, but out of shame we diminish massive consumption. Shit, Finns are proud to be the hardest drinkers of all the Nordic tribes. That’s why I call my duality conflict overseas with cops and crooks as “my 3-year drinking vacation.”

The good doctor further stated that hyperactive guys like me react to all the above narcotics vastly different than all my pals, hence why I’m the dealer. Self-medication isn’t the same as chemical dependency. The relaxation I gained from nitro methane speed isn’t normal. The stimulation and business (busy-ness) I gained from choking down deadly chronic pine bud ain’t normal either.

What the fuck? Why do all you guys have a reversed drug experience?

Oops, it appears that I’m the one that is cross-threaded and wound way too tight, not the rest of the world.

So from one murderous motherfucker to another; you lot, we’re gonna watch and observe any notable changes in my despicable behavior. Deal?

I’ll finish up with you chaps, and then I’m burning rubber on my mountain bike to the candy store.

Imagine, super high-grade amphetamine, and it may help me.

All these years, I assumed I was helpless.


Karl.

I got a dog in that fight.

Top of the morning gents,

I like fights. Really good and nasty fights.

Me and Cully pitted every farm animal against each other. Dogs vs. dogs, cats vs. cats, Billy goats against dogs, Billy goats against horses, Billy goats against neighboring bullies, and even best friends.

Way cool. Horned goats always trumped fangs and hooves, but are especially funny to watch when they smashed boyhood pals into fence posts and barbed wire. Some of my tougher and longest lasting friends took this abuse, even if the fencing was electrified.

Red, Pim, and Mike Perlatti earned my respect with each and every test. They’d watched in horror as me and Cully got whipped, battered and dragged by livestock of every sort, including our own parents.

Our misery was their favorite company so we shared lots of hurts growing up. Brings tears to my eyes when I recall the injuries we incurred together, then bandaged and concealed them from our parents.

We watched rabbits fight to the death, cats fight till we stomped 'em, and dogfights both combative and sexual sometimes fighting to get separate from each other's locked up genitals. Dogs got lots of sex in their violence.

If you grew up in The Killing Fields of The Pacific Northwest you would've frequently heard the mob violence fight cheer, "A fight! A fight! A Nigger and a White!" Seattle is famous for racial hatred of colored folks and natives, especially Edmonds, Lynnwood, and Mountlake Terrace.

Whenever I heard this mob violence chant, I started running scared. And fast.

I ain't talking running away, my Ked's burned rubber towards the fisticuffs (mud, blood, beer) cuz it meant me and Cully's only colored friend was taking on the whole world and would’ve likely died trying.

Carl Potter was in the grade between Cully and I and he was Mike Perlatti's next-door neighbor, so the lad knew us well and played with all of us anyway. We must have failed to notice that he was black, cuz we always picked him for our Boys Club Baseball, Football, Basketball, and even our Smear the Queer teams.

That boyhood pal of me and Cully’s could run, catch, and punch harder’n shit. He also blew one hell of a trumpet too.

I pray I'll never have to wade into Carl Potter's fights anymore, those white fuckers fight hard, which meant Cully and I had to fight back, sometimes against our own friends, occasionally outnumbered and far beyond our capabilities.

This meant we got our asses beat to shit frequently and took crap for being both "goat herders" AND "nigger lovers." Nobody sticks around to help us beaten and bleeding farm boys carry a near dead broken colored boy off the playing field.

Humans are cruel that way, especially the small ones: they're a reflection of their parents.

Now you see me with my mask off and where this untapped love and affection for my best mates comes from. No matter where yer folks were born, all men were boys at one time, and that’s what I see concealed within yer fully grown frames.

God loves ye, and as you can see for yourself, I'm pretty fond of all of you too. It's just hard to put this into spoken words, so I type them. Hence my hyperactive literary output casting you lot as crooks, criminals, and coppers.

Angels, all of you; my life would’ve been empty if I hadn’t fought and gotten beaten to piss, all for my best mates.

I may bitch that I'll never stick up for a friend ever again, but as always; I'm lying. I still like breaking skulls and crushing testicles of cruel humans that prefer to beat on the only negro near my childhood farm.

Metaphor, analogy, and simile, you dorks.

Few of you can remember mobs yelling obscenities and taunts, taking socks to the eyes and cheeks, crying and swinging for your fucking life, all for a colored lad that has just discovered that his best (and only) friends were two tall farm boys.

This commitment to friendship cost me, and plenty.

I stuck close by Pim one rainy night after swim turnout as backup. We both of us got our asses beat and kicked into the wet pavement.

Sticking up for friends is a bitch, but I'm still standing and swinging on yer side. Even if you didn't know it.

One time Eli Williams was abusing and cursing one of my dearest friends, and coworkers. I didn't like this at all.

When my partner in crime went next door to type up the complaint, I throttled that bag of puke. I tossed this foul smelling midget all over the cell splitting his forehead, loosening ribs and teeth, finally neatly tucking him into bed with his handcuffs still on.

Ironically, Octuck vigorously questioned me about the condition of his prisoner. What surprised me was his dedication. That fucking cop would've charged with me with assault had he known my closet penchant for pounding on abusive shit for brains humans.


I also like a good fight in every single election I vote in.

You oughta see me and my pre-election analysis. I look at each candidate as pit bulls and Billy goats. I like a good fight. I place my bets by stepping into any convenient voting booth.

I voted for a lunatic Christian cuz I wanted him to have a spaz attack on non-Saxons: same sex fecus eaters, rape and scrape kicking fetus shop vac cunt suckers, and Muslims that begged for, and received a thorough Anglo domino tumbling of their tribally retarded governments.

After the much hyped and erroneous gun debates of the 90's, I got really sick of the last administration and I saw a delicious pit bull fight between Al Goron the Moron and George W. Stinky Bush.

I've had so much fun watching people I disliked get their peepy spanked, I punched a repeat performance provocateur ballot for another killer slugfest between the Kerry Fairy camp and his demo-bitch Masters; Bush/Cheney.

On the upcoming election, I'll swing like a pendulum back across and vote for a really faggy liberal butt puss sucker. Them queers posing as university intellectuals do a good job of reigning in overzealous religo-faggot Christians. These same Christians are impossible to distinguish from Jews and will happily party all night under any fresh and bleeding crucifix.

Balance of liberty includes giving a few political offices to candidates that are popular with the secular left; yet also burp sperm and have poopy butts.

I pray the Dems can produce a real man, not a counterfeit American who's hidden agenda mirrors coastal resort ideologies.

After that election, we oughta vote for a serial rapist and cereal killer from the Midwest, or Alaska. Real humans are inherently violent. Some arise from Indun reserves, some from remote villages in rural Alaska. Amen?

Nobody walks away from political battles un-bloodied, and I have failed to notice that my repeatedly beaten skull affects my appearance. I also discovered I was unaware of my own color blindness. The same metaphoric color blindness found in a kid that will happily lose a fight and his teeth for his buddies, and taught his Billy goats to chase and pummel stray dogs.

“My words but a whisper, my actions a shout.”

A lesson all children need to learn at an early age is that sticking up for the “odd man out” can break your nose, and yer heart. It’s hard to be best pals with boys that are trained to kill anything anomalous, like colored folks and natives.

My boyhood relationships mirror my adult friendships; interracial and interspecies.

Wake up fucks; I’m describing you lot.

Some of you are Eskimo, some of you are descendants from other continents, but all of you are my pals. As you can see, the color palette I use in painting my fictional diatribes reflects the color make-up of you guys; complex, diverse, and a really messed up.

Ya see, amongst friends: tears and handshakes ain’t got no racial or ethnic descriptors, yer my friends and we took a beating, together.

Regardless of the color of the torn skin on yer knuckles and face, I got a dog in that fight. Meaning I got yer back.

That’s us mates, I hope this makes sense.

Karl.

Son of a bitch. And son of a landlord. There's chores in heaven too.

Top of the morning gents,

I can remember way back to when I was 9 fucking years
old. I was cussing to myself, out of earshot of Cully
and my dad, that when I grow up, I’ll do things my
way; way better cuz I won’t ever do chores when I grow up.

I also remember when I was 14, cussing under my breath
this same sentiment. You can’t bullshit me; vacuum
cleaners, carpet cleaners, and Murphy’s oil soap don’t
equal “power tools.”

Just a few years back, I flew all the way from
Frankfurt, Germany to Pullman, Washington to help my
father with the finishing touches, landscape, and
clean up on a house restoration project, readying it
for the realtors for sale.

Ya know something; despite receiving $25 an hour,
meals, lodging, free beer and wine, and a wonderful
summer in the sun with my pops, I griped a little then
too.

I’m not just a whiner, I’m white. My Eskimo wife
calls my blonde dumb ass “Super White.” White cunts
like me bitch for the sake of bitching. Finns
especially; we suffer best.

Shit, I’d bitch if ya lynched my ass with a brand new
rope.

Years have gone by. I’m old now. My blonde hair is
now blending nicely with lots of silver. Our Sara
Magnum is all grown up with baby Inukuns of her own,
and I’m looking back at pert near a dozen home
purchases and turn-arounds, and at the ripe old age of
43, I’m still humping and grunting all over rental
properties.

‘Cept I ain’t bitching so much no more, I’m “painting
to clean”, “sucking shit” and “gorping” my own rental
properties. It’s funner when yer the landlord, not
the landlord’s son and grandson.

Our tenant moved out this week, and I had a new
customer in the pocket patiently waiting to move in.
So, within a tight 24 hour time period, I had the
pleasure of playing with “power tools”, for the
millionth fucking time.

Just like riding a mountain bike, I been doing this
shit for a hunnert years now. Humans will forever be
in need of office space and living space, me and my
pretty Mrs. are the team that provides these; at a
tidy profit.

For the last day or so, I vacuumed, wiped counters,
mopped floors, cleaned windows and sills, oiled all
the woodwork and cabinetry, with a grand finale of a
thorough steam cleaning and power suck job on all the
carpets.

Here’s the kewl part. Dude renter shows up with
dineros (over a coupla grand) in hand, signs my
Jew-ass Heeb-strangling lease without blinking, and
then shakes MY hand.

Way cool.

Strange how life works out, huh? We think we’ll do
everything different when we grow up. Not much
difference between myself and my dad and gramps.

I’m also doing my part to improve my neighborhood. I
snagged me a uniformed felon for a tenant. This muke
spent 4 years in the Marines, then puts his own ass
through paramedic and ambulance tech school. With the
inevitable domestic and subsistence violence on my
street, it’ll come in handy to have a paramedic
nearby.

A young Troxell in the making; I’m starting to like
this guy. I also like having an EMT response unit
parked in my front yard. It’s not as good as having
Columbo and his patrol car out front, but dern good
enough.

The lesson I learned best in all the years I was away
schooling had already been simply and clearly stated
by Warren Buffet, “invest in what you know.”

With regards to the North Slope Borough School
District needing our entire duplex, they’ve postponed
announcement until later in June, so I’ll keep this
soldier as tenant paying our mortgage on a
month-to-month basis until we hear which landlord is
awarded the 3-year lease public offering.

Busy shit ain’t I?

Of course I won’t be bitching about building
maintenance nearly as much as I did when I worked for
other landlords, my gramps and paps.

Now that the apartment is occupied, I can rest my
busted knuckles, clean my tools and equipment and get
back to composing amusing vignettes to you lot.

Mind you, fictional vignettes, of course.

I hope to report more exciting shit soon. I’m still
roughing a draft about the time Officer Octuck was
dispatched to North Tent City to arrest a tall white
guy that was shooting a machine gun at a target
floating in the lagoon.

Nothing illegal, just a dirty 22 pistol that cycled
out ammunition as long as I held the trigger down. I
swear, I’d never alter a firearm. Fuck ye too.

As usual, I was given a ride in the patrol car.

I best get my chores done.


Karl.

5-Corners is in pert near everyone's wicked past. Yours too.

Top of the morning gents,

I received a query from one of our morning email
dudes, and the answer is "yes."

Pim and I blew up Rob Fry's house right near
5-corners. We placed a tasty pipe bomb on his window
sill right when he was crawling into bed to jerk off,
piss and shit. Sweet job, fucker had it coming.

He lived a few blocks down Bowdoin Street, just past
the facility (Smith-Wright Estates) where they store a
shit load gimpoid mini-limbers. You might also see a
green 66 Ford Econoline van there; swing shift mates.

The torched Caddie was Mark Arneson's and he wanted
to get out from under an EZ finance car loan. He'd
bought this junker with new paint from a dealer right
down the road from the Ballard Union-76 station where
he worked. The tranny was already missing Reverse and
Low, and the engine was a leaking oil bomb with mere
hours of life left in it.

Him, me and Franky Empfield drove it up to 7-lakes,
rallied the piss out of it, torched it, then booked
home in my white AMC Ambassador and Franky's Toyota
pick up.

We almost dumped it near Tobus and Callahan's cabins
on Hall's Lake, but we'd already caught shit for
dumping Patty's Datsun and a wrecked Toyota Corolla
wagon there.

A burnt Caddie would've surely pissed off Callahan
regardless of the bogus story Spanky and Arnie-girl
would've made up, so we headed a bit north of Everett,
ditching and torching the wreck there.

In the Mountlake Terrace Police Department archives
you'll find a bogus vehicle theft report signed by
Mark Arneson (Arnie-girl), Kevin Elsberg and "Fred
Garvin, male prostitute."

You can learn a lot from a dummy (on drugs).

Funny how fiction mirrors life.

"I didn't do it." "I was never there, and that's my
story and I'm stickin' to it."

I fear I might have shot, torched, or blown up a
relative of your's. Hope not.

I've got only 3 dead bodies in my closet, they don't
look like any of you, especially now.

If so, sorry to hear yer related to now dead assfucks.

Take my word for it. They had it coming.


Karl.

---

Karl,

Refering back to an old E-mail, yes you did make a
good catch when you picked out Bunnik. She is a cut
above the prime part of the meat of the culture.

As to NW Warshington, I used to live in Edmonds near
Five Corners. Was that the remains of your doings
with that blown up house?

My brother and I also found and pilfered a burned out
caddie convertible on a remote logging road a bit
north of Everett, west of the Smokey Point off-ramp.


Dirt road near Wenberg State Park?

I remember all the ruckus with the cops and the FBI at
that destroyed house. You've been a busy boy.

Back in Lynnwood, Edmonds, and Mountlake Terrace, you
Ewings are notorious for fucking shit up. I don't
recall any of the other names you mentioned, but I now
remember some of those incidents you've written about.
Wow.

I never tied you to any of these 'events' until now.

Reading your lectures is rewarding, and fun.

Lots of fun.

ptl bd

Miscellaneous Ramblings. Don't believe a word of it.

Top of the morning gents,

Yup, puttin' my blonde ass (MBA) to work this week.

*Making trail with our browner Brower bros, *chopping Bambi and Rudolph knuckles and nuts with an acid bath finale, and *sucking shit (steam cleaning carpets) like a motherfucker.

Job 1 is to facilitate mondo whale grubbage.

Job 2 is subsistence philanthropy; Bunnik will pack and deliver the aforementioned spicy dried tunnik punniktuk to some blessed students over at the Ilisagvik Campus.

What a cruel thing to do to already rapidly expanding obese mongoloids; deliver more good jerky, sheefish, muktuk, and baked goodies. That's me mates, the Finnish Fuckoff that puts the "sag" in Ilisagvik, fuck ye.

Job 3 is a maintenance plan. I invested a bundle (meaning I stole) a commercial carpet cleaning machine and it's funner'n shit to live above the prevailing standard of hygiene.

(Ya mite wanna try it some day)

"Tough unit" as Mark Arneson would say.

"Beats sucking the farts outa the back seats of yer dad's truck." Like yours truly, Scandinavian Jews defer to their dad's this way.

I'm also suffering from uncontrollable springtime hyperactivity. Once the sun rises, all my hunting and raping pals get busy. So like "monkey fucker see, monkey fucker do", I'm out hunting and shoveling in the laser bright ice and snow formations any other dumbass would call a frozen ocean.

Imagine living north of 70 lat without sunglasses?

Yup, it's a bitch. Long ass days with laser whiteout sunshine that smokes and detaches yer retina faster'n shit, puts a cunt cramp in yer squinting muscles, with clear and cold temps dropping to 17 below every night.

Why is this important? Yours truly has been spending far too much time out in the elements.

Burned ears, cheeks, and sore ass back. I can hear you all whining in unison with me, cuz yer all my best (only) friends and yer all really mean and nasty old killers and rapists now.

Older the goat the longer the horn; fuck all.

Jens Leavitt assisted me in the acquisition of fresh caribou (wholesale machine gun slaughter), with my NANA recruits: Alice Moore and Alvin Ivanoff shipping us a butt load of the biggest sheefish. Ain't I pimp?

Bunnik and I then divvied up the goods and delivered them all over our blessed village, most going to the Siberian Old Folks Home. The rest we punted to me Bunnik's blessed coworkers of high regard and affection.

As our caribou asses thawed on the kitchen counter they leaked blood all over the fucking place. We're talking some serious butt shot illustrations like that old western novel "Blood on the Saddle" by the Kotex Kid.

The big gamy animals finally suffered speedy disassembly at the hands of an overly talkative alien partnered with a lovely human being of Mongol Asian descent.

We stripped every bit o' flesh off those legs, followed by a swan dive and 4 day acid bath in spicy and caustic brine sauce. We’re talking good shit dudes.

Soy sauce, smoke flavoring, pepper, and sugar, are the upfront dick in the dirt flavors, trailing off with a subtle nose of fiery red hot sauce and garlic. Fucking A dudes, hot ass SpicWapInuit foods work miracles. Ya gotta gnaw on more jerky just to put out the fire.

Hard nipples and steamy butt cheeks from chewing spicy dried caribou jerky ain't so bad when yer dumb ass is a couple miles out on an ice shelf within pissing distance of the North Pole and freezing yer dick off.

Me and Mrs. made you NANA boys look good. I bragged up a storm how sheefish from Kotzebue are bigger'n salmon. Damn straight, all day yesterday we pitched some gnarly big fish to some wide-eyed friends and neighbors already suffering from congenitally gookish eyes and micro nads. Way cool.

You know something?

Aside from our secret communications every morning, the only other relationships I can sanely manage are the donors and recipients involved with Operation Muktuk. Ya meet the coolest people once you’ve dedicated yourself to feeding the wrinkled, ancient, and wise.

I toil and labor, trade and barter everything under the sun for major tonnage of whale slabbage. We then ship it back to the remote regions that shaped and molded my wife, with hundreds of big fish flying upstream all the way into my front yard.

Way kewl.

Dean6Killer complimented me on utilizing my MBA in the study of spending decisions made by humans in vastly differing cultures, continents, and latitudes.

No shit. All commerce: every swap, trade, and sale made every day is dissected and analyzed by a handsome felon from Alaska, then documented and reported to a secret organization of retarded soldiers, coppers, and criminals.

I’ve traded almost everything for firearms, muktuk, and caribou corpses. In Finland I traded my own labor and brainpower by laying down hardwood flooring, tending bar and event coordination in exchange for cell phones, contraband, transit passes, and cafeteria meal cards.

Just like my passport, most of them had names on them that I can't seem to remember off hand. In Alaska, as in all my arctic haunts; the number 1 cause of amnesia is the abuse of alcohol. Imagine that?

On my bigger paying jobs I received compensation in the forms of gratis hotel, restaurant and bar tabs, airfare on Finnair, and Viking Rail and Ferry tickets from Helsinki to Tallin, Stockholm, and Riga.

I further subsidized this plethora of payments with ambiguous proceeds indirectly related to parallel and illicit importation.

Got your attention now, don’t I?

Just like bush Alaska, there’s a thriving black market (musta makki) everywhere I hanged my hat. Opportunities abound when humans refuse to follow their own rules and empower the ever-present invisible hand of economics.

Ain’t no secret why my professors at UAF sent me overseas dozens of times for ‘research’ and what not, I always came back with Cuban cigars, Dom P champs, and an assortment of gems and jewels for Sara Magnum and me Bunnik. Everything a thief owns, he has stolen.

Smugglers have an inherent understanding of economics, hence why they quickly respond to fluctuating market demands unmet heretofore. Nice wording, huh?

Like you lot, most humans don’t give a shit about local option laws, sovereignty issues, or international treaties; they simply want the good shit at unregulated prices.

This gang of grifters once operating out of rural Finland, were also outstanding tutors: Timo Aristo, Simon Butterfield, Paul Quinn and Peter Huffman were extraordinarily violent Euro-trash, but lectured brilliantly on how to smuggle fags (cigarettes) into the UK, tripling yer money, and still undercutting the extraordinarily highly taxed products selling OTC (over the counter) in chip shops, chemist shops, and pubs. Like I said before; genius is never pretty.

I see a future in smuggling cigarettes into Alaska. With all the new taxes on smokes, it’s quite expensive for indigenous aliens to take a ‘fag break, mate.’

Checking online, I found the average price for the good smokes; Gitanes, and Galoiuses at $15.00 per carton, my best price in Anchorage for the imported cigarettes is a skoach over $100.00 per goddamned carton at Carr's and Oaken Keg. Do the math, every government I've enjoyed evading still fucks ye best, longest, and last.

Even if you choose to smoke shitty American fags, you’ll get yer rectal moneymaker raped and scraped to the tune of $60.00 per carton. No shit. Smokes are now cheapest on the Indun reserve we fondly call stinky bush Alaska.

Prohibition, high taxation, etc are red flags to a smuggler.

Think of it this way: the opportunity cost is the opportunity lost, and internet tobacco purchasers are supposed to ‘voluntarily’ report, submit, and pay their respective state taxes in violation of federal laws.

I don’t intend on reselling any of the delicious French or Danish cigarettes I order, I’m waiting patiently for my pals overseas to get their shit together and lay out their plans to develop a trans-Alaska smuggling route for other contraband you boys will eventually be privy to. See how it works?

There’s still a hot market for stolen cell phone corporate software from Nokia, Finland to China, hot pellets to the Gooks and Sand Niggers, and the new gig; smuggled diamonds from the slave labor mines all over Western Africa. When Canada starts mining diamonds, we’ll funnel ‘dirty’ gems in with the ‘clean’ gems freshly mined near Whitehorse.

You’ll know when I’ve returned to my occupational forte, your morning missives will be sent on a word document, security locked, followed by the necessary password to read my shit.

My gramps once said, “Ain’t no profit in peace, nor fair play.”

Amen. Advice from a smart man that purchased a bankrupt logging firm in Forks, Washington; sold off most of equipment, leases, and commercial real estate, and was able to abscond every penny from the pension funds. All absconded proceeds henceforth were funneled into the new project; The Carnation Golf Course.

“Ewing” means Enron in a hunnert fucking languages and dang genders. Regardless, if yer an infant or a retiree crawling on yer hands and knees, we’ll still rape ye, give or take 40 years.

What the fuck, most humans live their entire lives in this politically correct position. Leap frogging and buggerin' vulnerable buttcheeks don't mean "bike rack" in Viking culture, it means "back in parking only."

I'm getting back back into character. I'm feeling as awesome as a dyke in Auschwitz.

Again, I apologize for such scant correspondence. My photo-processing mission is a time pig, and so are my new communications from London, Inari (Finland), and the Ukraine.

This new batch of high crimes and misdemeanors isn’t within yer grasp of jurisprudence, but you oughta listen up anyway.

Some items are carried internally. And since time is one important factor when outrunning the law, and death, “ya best git to gittin' and god speed ya Yank Fuckoff."

Dwayne Welleschuck took his wife on one smuggling run. He made it through Valnikolai, the Finnish/Russo border checkpoint, but his wife was detained by the Russian Authorities.

Detained is a funny term. In this context it means getting raped for 2 days while we stressed and drank heavily in Helsinki, waiting and worrying for her safe return. She emerged bruised and beaten, but still the same pretty Finnish farm girl. That is, if ya like shredded wheat.

"If I swallow anything evil, put yer fingers down my throat." (P. Townsend)

My phone just rang, and my caller ID displays "INTERNATIONAL".

I better log off with you chaps. Opportunity knocks.


Karl.

Variety is the spice of life. So is racism and drug abuse.

Top of the morning gents,

After every weekend I gotta take time to sort through my notes.

Ya see, just like you sentient beings operating from a highly modified monkey platform, I have to pen my thoughts down as they gush out my butt, or they vanish and are forgotten quicker’n a popcorn fart in a Deering snowstorm.

Yup, my best notions I pull outa my ass. Like all feral farm boys, I do my best thinking while my hands are busy doing chores on autopilot.

When I was chopping and shoveling our trail on the ice shelf out to the Brower's whale hunting camp, I stopped occasionally and penned trigger words and cryptic sentences that are only understood by you lot, tragically neglected boys that grew up to be heroes.

I'll apologize for my Finnish skepticism and dismissiveness, but the Mrs. is of the impression you gents have repeatedly gone above and beyond the call of duty in the service and protection of more than yer loved ones, but also yer extremely remote arctic neighborhoods.

No shit, the angel I married does a remarkable job of reminding me I'm a dumb ass, and she's the gifted and gorgeous gal occupying the significant position as "my better half."

As I scan through "me little black book with me poems in" (P. Floyd), I see mention of my multi-ethnic, multi-racial party I threw Saturday evening and the theory of spectral analysis of solitary creativity versus social synthetic groupthink.

(I'm stealing brilliant insights from my brother Cully. Next time you see him, tell him he was spot on).

Since I wrote it down, it must have been significant to mention a kick ass party we assembled Saturday evening.

An Asian chap I do crimes with approached me last week and requested I throw a party and allow him to purchase all the food and beverages, and choose the guests.

Fucking deal dude.

Friday, the day before this party, this Asian member of my criminally ambiguous crime family went shopping for grubbage and druggage appropriate for an adhoc Piraqtaq. An ancient native food and beverage party celebrating temps above zero, the arrival of Spring sunlight, and its predictable migration of whales.

This former intelligence officer employed by a previous regime in the Philippines bestowed the Mrs. with a whole turkey, cans of cranberry sauce, olives, celery and onions, and a coupla cases of delicious cold beer.

He also covertly acquired and delivered a large bundle of reddish brown weed I hadn't seen in a hunnert years: authentic Thai bud arrived from SE Tsunami Territory, notorious during the days when Columbo ran his own smuggling syndicate.

Don't think he achieved genius level knowledge handling undercover black bag narc ops from a fucking moron police academy instructor. Think again, he'd never have earned his nom de plum as Columbo had he not authentically possessed skills that supercede mine 1.8 times out of every 3. Do the math, I never win, hence his role as coach, mine as punching bag, walking transmitter and drug killer sniper target.

What goes on in the field stays in the field. Take it from a dope fuck, the field of undercover narcotics operations in such remote and arctic communities, totally sucks.

Back to our party.

The Mrs. baked her formula whole wheat bread, biscuits, and glazed cinnamon roles alongside a gorgeous turkey, while I decanted some bottles of port and chilled the beer. I also dug into my furnace room and shop to assemble a smoking device relevant to the ethnicity of this occasion.

Despite my existence on an Eskimo reservation, a lad can still surround himself with irrational numbers of souls from other continents; Asian, Nordic, Siberian, and a couple Alaskan natives too.

Ron and Josie Brower arrived shortly after Edgar and Chris (code name Carolina), with Heddy and John and few other Jap/Phllip/Zero demographic contributors showing at the fashionable dining hour of 8:00pm.

Sequencing arrivals allow a steady stream of hungry chinks to refill plates, grab fresh beers, and ingest complex hydrocarbons rich in stupefying cannabinoids bubbled through water. Still with me?

My odd vocabulary is derivative of Wertman's now famous Big Lake/Willow slogan, "dude, we smoked phat chiefs and got chinked", hence my non-racist use of the word 'chink'. Fuck ye.

Here's the part that affects you lot. I showed ALL my slides up on the wall as I simultaneously reproduced the same chemically agreeable singularity with my guests, as my photographed subjects: you pukes, minus a hunnert years.

Fun stuff Maynard.

These haunted slides are a trip. Rope swings, Meadowdale Beach, Bitches Beach, and building a covert recording studio near 85th and Greenwood. I also have photos of nameless coppers in KPD Junk Jeeps, muni Chevrolets driven by the Sgt. and 1D25's son, a crushed skull from a flipped 4 wheeler accident near the old rec center, and a frozen dude we buried in Selawik.

A short Eskimo gal at our party commented that my peers are all hyperactive, and look like big gorillas in heat. That’s us mates, big arms and beards, sporting wood, driving beaters and patrol cars, and butchering food. Fuck all.

I also lit up the house with large images of the SOM computer lab, and my coworkers and colleagues. One distinguished figure is our dude from Elaudio, Dutch West Indies.

If I'm ever on trial for crimes against sub-humanity, and Elaudio is a United Stated Supreme Court Justice, I'll wave these photos around and blame my felonious life style on the influences of my criminal friends from my youth and work at KPD/AST/ABADE, and Mat-Su Narcotics Task Force.

These good folks from all over the world were mesmerized. We took a trip without ever leaving the farm. Taking a 3-week break from frozen arctic hell some nights does a soldier good. When I turned off the projector and opened the drapes, we were all blinded by the laser bright midday sunlight, at 11:30 in the fucking evening.

It's still colder'n shit with blowing snow all fucking day and Vuarnet sunglasses are absolutely necessary to ward off snow blindness and conceal the true color and shape of yer eyes.

My brother Cully was right; I must first absorb volumes of data from the company of rich and diverse hominids. Then sift and sort this aggregate of gems and butt nuggets on my own time, alone.

Once sorted and washed, it’s my duty to compose a synopsis, and report to all you killers.

As always, this message will self-destruct in 20 seconds.


Karl.

A fool learns from his own mistakes. I learn from yours.

Top of the morning gents,

The Mrs. and I sat and chatted last night.

I made an exceptional pot of tea, Twinings and
Constant Comment, toasted some hard wheat Finnish
bread with real butter, and served up bowls of
reindeer soup.

Ain't that a collision of retarded Northern European
cultures; British, Irish, Finnish. The only native
contribution to our daily intellectual discourse and
evening chat was the pretty gal I had for dinner
company.

We chatted at length about the houses we've window
shopped, and how she's fascinated with Southern
Hospitality, yet annoyed with poor manners from
Seattle folks.

She don't want to move anywhere near the Pacific
Northwest, it's full of violent assholes just like her
husband. She's thinking South of the Mason-Dixon
line.

Now I'm intrigued.

I asked how far South was she thinking; Portland or
New Orleans. She said "New Orleans."

She went on to explain that she's growing weary of
reservation retards and the icky white niggers from
Washington State that've moved in to 'save them.'

At times, I grow tired of the culture of dumbness so
prevalent in Alaska, but I have a daily am cop talk
newsletter as an outlet. The Mrs. has me.

Since the goddamned kids are finally gone, we have
time to type, chat, sew, bake, and brine. Life
doesn't begin until the fucking kids move out, and the
goddamned dog dies.

That's us mates. I finally get undivided attention
from my best friend, my wife. She'll quickly remind
me that in this town full of ignorant ice niggers, I'm
her only friend. Smart gal.

I pity most of you lads, it ain't a secret that we'll
read yer divorces within months after yer kids move
out. That's a shame.

Guess it supports my choice of audience to write to,
all you chaps are men, not life support systems for
cunts.

Generation ago, women used to be as smart as me, and
understood men. Not anymore.

In the last 30 years, women have been encouraged to
resist family devotion. Like it's a sin to curb yer
femininity and individuality (bitchy women thinking
with their dicks) for the benefit of yer children, and
husband.

I'm perplexed, cuz my wife understands men far better
than she tolerates "whiny whiny cunts."

All you rapists had to halt yer random victim biscuit
splitting, car racing, wrenching and tuning both
violins and carbs, and devote all yer minds and
masculinity for the benefit of yer kids.

Like my wife, I know and understand you guys. And I
still forgive you.

Some of you quantifiably qualify to be labeled
serial rapists. Some of you are also serial killers.
Hey what the fuck? Takes one to know one.

Despite spawning heaps of bastard children, most of
you have done right by yer wives; all of them.

Even if they haven't done right by you.

Ya ain't selling yer ass short if you devote yourself
to your family, even if yer fucking wives won't.

Raising families is all about financing mini-vans,
infant seats, and skinny women's cigarettes (bitch
cigs). You're no longer allowed to roam around and
rape little Native girls, take bong hits with Karl and
Cully, hang out in the grow room, and drink dark beer.

Now here's the kewl part. After you kick yer retarded
kids out and take yer wives to the dump, you can come
up here and do everything you gave up, all over again.

No shit. Lots of hunting and fishing, beach combing,
and pilfering treasures. When you show up, you'll be
greeted with a cold one and a smoke, and a loaded
rifle too.

Some of you may know me. My most enjoyable pastime
is sitting with all you chaps at the dinner table and
talking over theories, concepts, insights, and good
honest tales of raping and killing.

None of yer wives or children should ever come near
me. My kind of evil genius really pisses off dummer
cunts, but evokes uncontrollable laughter and sexual
excitement in educated gals. I really like rubbing
salt into non-healing wounds of ignorance, and
infection.

Since we'll never again sit together at a physical
table to bullshit, drink, and talk man shit, I've
recruited all of you to sit here with us, a forum that
forgives and understands male behavior, hence the sign
at the door, no cunts allowed.

Ya best not let any of yer wives read my shit.
They'll cut yer dick off, if they haven't already.

Octuck, Westlake, Columbo, Larson, Callahan, Roger
Potter, Cully, are all current members at this table.
We'd be honored if the rest of ya would grab a brew
from the fridge and pull up a chair.

Sitting for hours and listening to your own troubled
tales of healing and growing are what we're dying to
hear. Cuz the sad truth, we're all a little bit lonely
for the company we used to have over a hunnert years ago.

If I drag you back in time say T (current time) minus
2 fucking decades or so, we'll see a crowd of men
sitting around a table chatting about 318 V-8's, mixer
boards, Gibson guitars, and what Karl's got under a
stadium lamp. The address ain't relevant (5708 180th
Lynnwood) but the company is.

Most those boys are dead now. I sure miss their jokes
and stories, yours too.

We're all still sitting at the table, waiting for the
rest of you to hurry up and grow yer kids, then come
back and tell us about it. We've already shared our
tales of teaching our kids, we want to hear yours too.

On my last mission to the Barrow Senior Center, I sat
and chatted with some nameless old gals about my
muktuk missions to Kotzebue and how these bags of
giant sheefish are paybacks in return.

Those old gals are smart, yet obsolete, they know what
I'm doing.

I told these old gals about shooting near the barge
north of Tent City, checking net and finding over 50
big salmon at Danny Burnor's party shack at Kivilina
Camp, and drinking in public houses all over
Scandinavia.

Not a peep, and completely fixed focus on each and
every syllable describing you lot. I sat and shared
all of you lads with all of those old gals, and they
thoroughly enjoyed your company.

After telling these old Eskimo gals about broadying
around 7-lakes, blowing up lockers at the Lynnwood
YMCA, and shooting stray dogs out of 6Killer's kitchen
window with a fully suppressed machine pistol, I had
myself surrounded by a fully attended dining table, in
the card room of an old folks home for dying
Siberians.

Ya see, these old gals are also as smart as me. They
understand men like y'all and love hearing from ye.
God bless 'em.

The best friends a lonesome man can have is elder
Eskimo women. They smoke at my pace, and fondly
remember you soldiers if I remind them of when you
were alive and kicking.

I don't know. Maybe that's what heaven is. A bunch
of kind old men drinking, talking and learning without
resentful dependants nearby, thus why men die before
their wives; they want to.

You see empty chairs at yer table. Not me, just long
lost partners in crime wishing we could hear their
stories.

The next time yer kids and dumber wives are bitching
about family life, or bitching just to bitch, I want
you to set them straight.

Slam the dinner table loudly, just to startle them.
Then explain how much you had to give up to be the
best dads in the fucking world.

I ain't kidding. They need to know now, not after
I've pitched dirt on yer face and whizzed good bourbon
on yer grave.

Right as the crescendo of mommy and brat whining
elevates beyond the hearing capabilities of mammals
swinging dick meat and heavy ball bags, punch the
dinner table and scare 'em shitless.

Then proceed to list the inventory of masculine deeds
that you've put on hold, but for only a few years
more.

Remember life begins AFTER the fucking kids die, and
the goddamned dog moves out. Or some shit like that.

Look them in the eye and remind them how easy it is to
kill an entire family. Especially if you call yer buddies
Dean and Karl to fly in and bag them up and torch 'em.

Fear from an upset father yields weeks of love and
affection. Devotion by fear of death...sounds a bit
old Testament don't it?

It ain't. I'm repeating advice I got from my sweet
golden Eskimo girls at the Barrow Senior Center.

These old gals told me that I'm a servant to my wife,
and likewise she is to me. That's what's meant by
devotion to family.

Since all our children will eventually leave us, I was
advised to marry my best friend, cuz that's all we'll
have for company later in life.

One really ancient gal told me that a man's peer group
will shrink from his youthful pals to just his wife.
Whereas our wives’ peer group will expand as she ages.


Motto: try to keep in touch with fellow soldiers,
cops, and criminals as long as possible. If any of
you fly up to party with me, I'm supposed to bring you
to the Senior Center so they all can meet you.

They already know who you've raped and killed, and
they adore you anyway.

They agreed that the skanky bitches you spooged and
strangled had it coming and busted a gut at the bimbo
trap door all men oughta install in their bachelor pads,
instead of marrying rude bitches.

Even dying Siberians know when a whiny bitch is asking
for an axe handle, and so does the Mrs.

I like advice from murderous old Eskimo women. If you
listen carefully, you'll discover they're nothing like
your wives.

They're an awful lot like us.

When it was time for me to leave I detected a few
tears and heartbreak, mine.

As I stepped out into the cold and started walking
back home, I felt really crappy because my stories of
you lot will die shortly with them.

Something really good just happened back there.

And it's all my fault.


Karl.

Radio announcers eventually leave town. Yer hunting pals will always be there.

Top of the morning gents,

Too weird.

I was listening to far away radio stations, didn't
find anything worth fine tuning.

When I returned to KBRW am I was pleased to hear Dean
Tongen from Kotzebue broadcasting on National Native
News.

You boys that never hung out at your local radio
stations missed out on partying with some good dudes.

You remember when Brian Higman broadcasted his
wrinkled hippy rock radio hour on Saturday evenings
and you ought to recall Len Anderson's gay ass polka
radio hour.

Al Sanders is working for KIRO TV 7 in Seattle, Nellie
Moore is working in Anchorage, and Martha Stewart is
rapidly smoking and aging for a Washington DC lobbyist
firm.

Ed Alexander is likely still doing his "Old Time
Country Radio Hour" in one of Virginia states.

Some talent flew the coop, some stay around for
centuries. Earl Finkler has established a comfortable
niche and will likely die behind the microphone here
in Ukpeagvik Child Rape Territory.

Strange how humans migrate the fuck outa this planet.
Brian Higman is only minutes from the school shooting
at the Red (neck) Lake Indun Reserve; living, working,
and raising a little girl in the town of Bemidgi,
Minnesota.

His little girl seems healthy despite Higman's
addiction to genetically damaging bits of paper, sugar
cubes, eye drops and some of the foulest pussy.

No shit, his Irish good looks did little to offset the
sheer ugliness and stench of the O-ringed sewer ports
he snacked and spooged.

He now is drowning in religo-faggot gospel surrounding
himself with other recovering LSD junkies: all with
shrunken brain stems and shrunken genitalia. This
church o' mystical people is about as relevant as
leaking gimps on public transportation.

We're talking sick puppies wearing t-shirts declaring
"Drugs Saved My Life."

People change, and rarely for the better.

One time, say pert near 20 years ago, MicroDot
(higboy) flew from Kotzebue to Lem's Mortuary and
Crack House in Mountlake Terrace. After 2 days of
shoveling snow (so to speak) Brian remembered he'd
ditched his ugly bride at a hotel with no money, no
car, and no clue she'd married a gimpoid.

I'm still indebted to Higman for leaving his man-beast
elsewhere, ugliness of her stature would have
introduced a serious buzz kill, resulting in our
boners fleeing from our bodies at the site of such
aboriginal genital and facial mutilation.

The Mrs. just punched me and told me she was born that
way. Yikes, someone unknowingly pitched the baby out
with the bath water and poured the afterbirth into the
incubator.

Brain Higman (mispelling intentional) explained that
Blanch, BJ, or Ho always despised things of beauty and
lived a miserable existence at the bottom of every
totem pole she parted her cheeks over.

I have difficulty maintaining friendships. We all
promise to keep in touch, but seldom do. It's only by
accident and serendipity that I learn clues to the
whereabouts of folks we partied with North of the
Arctic Circle, or in Shitbanks, Alaska.

I'll leave it to all you lads to shoot me encouraging
messages while I'll continue composing amusing
vignettes involving all of you but alternating my
abuse of each of ye. Fuck ye.

One girl that I can't remember used to work at KOTZ;
she didn't like me.

Her dog was loose and barking at my heels, so I fed
one to him. I booted that fucking dog like a field
goal punt, landing him against his owner's house,
yielding a screaming lecture about animal cruelty and
my lack of concern. Of course I responded with an
obligatory "fuck you" and "who gives a shit about a
fucking dog."

She seethed vaginal secretions right outa her face she
was that mad.

Here's the shitty part. I heard her announcing over a
Finnish Radio Station, NRJ. She was an intern for
Helsinki's local bubble gum club radio station. Ick.
Since I lived nearby the NRJ station, I thought I'd go
look for her dog to kick again. None such, my last
boot plant was hopefully terminal.

Spend some time at yer local radio stations, you owe
it to us to maintain broadcast balance and encourage
stories of violence in the form of killing,
butchering, and freezing our 4 Alaskan food groups;
moose, fish, beer and chronic.

If left untended, we'll only hear super religious
rants and raves, rap music, and ghetto mod language
only decipherable by this year's dying batch of
adolescent niggeraboriginals. Fucked up kids thinking
they're descendants from Africa, instead of Asian
Mongoloids.

Disposable generations. That's what I see here on the
reserve.

Dirty little kids with rusty rings around their mouths
from huffing on gas cans dreaming of some day
graduating to shitty booze, sick broads, and lethal
meth.

Looking backwards and forwards 25 years paints a
depressing picture. I've seen thousands of white
folks move in to village Alaska hoping to see
authentic natives doing authentically offensive stuff.


Sorry, that job is now mine. The damn tour busses stop
and watch me cut up animals both domestic and
nutritional. Dumb fucking gooks, I'm a counterfeit
imposter hiding in plain site, yet the stench from my
hair, beard and clothing is real.

Have you seen the muktuk man? Better described as
"Stink Man."

My front yard is a nightmare of body parts and filth
and according to the Super Dad from Unalakleet (code
name Sarin Gas) that from the odor of rotting whale,
reindeer, caribou and fish blood and guts, I'm more
native that he is.

Funny motherfucker ain't he? He kills far more food
than I, rapes more inlaws than I, but knows I'll
happily take crap in the form of veiled insults and
reversed racism only from honored patrons of my covert
bar and speak easy.

He and I are cofounders of the Barrow branch of the
C&B TnT Hunting Club (coffee and bong hits, tea and
tokes). He and I have maimed, killed and butchered a
shit load of geese, ducks, and caribou. He's also
pitched tonage of whale grub your direction. Poor
bastard gets stuck helping me pack and lift heavy
freight to the airport every goddamned day.

If he was truly intelligent he should've smoked a
round through my head. Poor lad's taken an unfair
amount of crap from folks 'round town.

"That tall white guy raped his 200 pound hybrid
wolf-dog and beat up my kids. He's also a narc. How
come he don't leave town now that he's done busting
everybody?" -aboriginally paraphrased requote
detailing my percieved sins of vigilance.

Deadly Sarin Gas is a smart lad and likely won't ever
leave this remote Eskimo village. Ya see, he ain't a
flake from public broadcasting, he's just a killer.

He and I chat about fleeing this stalag, but we won't.

Our kind don't last long in civilized company, modern
day subsistence hunters are viewed as cannibals and
are quickly incarcerated. Nope, we'll probably die
and be buried up here or dumped into an urn full of
roaches, resin and ashes.

He once told me some valuable advice, if I ever
decided to marry an ugly native. "If you want to know
what a Barrow girl will look like in 20 years, just
take a look at her dad."

I don't care where yer born, that's funny.

It's whaling season again boys. I gotta find a crew
to volunteer for. The Arctic Ocean doesn't freeze up
flat and smooth like Kotzebue Sound. We got buckled
piles and upheavals rougher'n shit.

Making trail is the hardest part of poaching
endangered sea mammals for sport. Even harder'n firing
up Operation Muktuk. One good thing I love about
global warming, our trail duties get shorter and
shorter every year. In a few millenium, I'll be able
to block and tackle our whale directly into my back
yard. How cool is that?


Have pick and shovel, will travel.


Karl.

Mommas don't let yer babies grow up to be coppers.

Top of the morning gents,

I awoke this morning to the soothing mellifluous tones of a man. Yikes, this isn't fucking funny.

My arctic landscape merged with my drug affected dreamscape and I unknowingly incorporated KBRW Earl Finkler's dreadfully fermented and cobwebbed wit into my dreams of raping and killing. This isn't a pretty picture no matter which order I drain my nut sack or work the kinks outa my dick.

I botch up simple shit. I even fucked up setting all my clocks in accordance with the Royal Majesty's scheme to prolong daylight and upset my internal gonad clock. I now get a piss hard on after lunch.

This can be a scary event, if yer tasked with lifting and hauling suicide bloat bags like June Nelson to the dump. Hey fuck you; Waller and Westlake suffer from the same uncontrollable gun swelling, so we were all packing heat, while lugging leaking corpses out with stacks of frozen dogs.

Ain't nothing new. Working graveyard shift is just like roaming intoxicated across numerous time zones. Enhanced lessons I learned a long time ago in the old jail in Kotzebue.

This was a major bitch, cuz phase shifting my eating, shitting and pissing schedule stressed me out, and I, like normal, was whining to my coworkers about it. Armed and deadly coworkers.

Late one evening, two old coots from down yonder, Georgia and Florida, lectured me on how old professional killers in uniform cope with rotating shifts. These vicious old coppers from Miami-Dade and Broward County Police Departments sat my dumb ass down and lectured rather sternly, "Let me show you how it's done, son."

These scarred up bruisers were named Lieutenant Eunice and Sergeant Mack, both now retarded (retired) and have long since relocated far away from the frozen shit here, north of 70 lat.

These graying gunslingers advised me to only drink coffee before shift and drink alcohol immediately after shift. Make that lots of alcohol, it allows hyperactive psychopaths to sleep in bits and pieces.

Sure, more like pass out in intervals while yer wife and kids are away at work and school. Monitoring yer intake of stimulants, narcotics and hallucinogens will enable a broken human the ability to mimic healthy ones. Cops are funny that way. Fuck ye

We abuse the upstairs brass, but we love 'em, and their quaint old wheel guns. I owe both those uniformed felons a big fucking debt of gratitude. Every time shit was missing (and smoked) out of the evidence locker, or guns seemed to grow legs and walk, they simultaneously forgave me and reminded me of behavioral parameters acceptable heretofore, with deadly force.

We're talking broad parameters, but boundaries enforced with dinosaur magnums that enjoyed digesting Hydra-shocks and Mag-safe ammo, supplied at no charge by yours truly.

If we could've planted a recording device inside KPD dispatch, we would've documented outlandish tales of chasing bad guys, shootouts, cocaine importers, and what 44 magnums do to human flesh and numb skulls.

Lt. Eunice showed me scars from high-speed pursuits where he'd clipped off side view mirrors with his limbs and motorcycle attire.

Folks down south allow fleeing felons to speed past, and then they'll fall in behind hoping to get to their destination quicker. Subsequently failing to detect the motorcycle right on the bad guy's ass, burning GTO (gas, tires, and oil) at 3-digit speeds. Old man Eunice said he'd torn off half his dang road gear, but still killed his prey in a roadside turkey shoot.

Automatics seldom exit auto glass and metal, but magnums always penetrate and displace cranial fluids atop minority scumbags with hot gasses and smoke.

Old man Mack also toted a 44 magnum. Claims they blast through freight containers as well as the doors of municipal Chevrolets. He also claims they vaporize bank robbers, druggers, and escapees just fine too.

Note to self. If pulled over by these two killers; be cool. When it comes to destroying lower life forms in gun battles, shootouts, and beat downs, those two sons of fucks don't discriminate. It ain't their duty to judge you, they'll simply arrange a meeting between you, and your maker.

I'm fortunate to have met so many distinguished killers in my life. I absorb treasure troves of information from all the lethal sons of fucks I've befriended and worked with.

"You could learn a lot from a dummy." -Crash Test Dummies.

While all you coppers were wrestling in the mud and snow, beating the piss outa drunken mongoloids, I was warm and comfortable sponging up devilish details from the minds of wicked shooters.

Mack had biscuit bitches phoning him at all hours of graveyard shift. No shit. That old goat split tiny cooters all over hell and back. Vietnam Vets never outgrow their cruel enjoyment of popping micro pussy in fine aboriginal fashion. His mantra was "put it in soft, then listen for the bones to crack." Fine rapist in my mind.

Lt. Eunice behaved himself far better, despite being a serial killer in uniform doing the Wyatt Earp gig.

Lots of old cops and soldiers pursue the same karmic path as the infamous sheriff of Nome, Alaska. Since the West is already tamed and there ain't no money in smoking pockmarked Induns, these gun toting mercs signed on for constabulary employment hoping to out draw and eviscerate subhumans in the line of duty.

"Just give me a reason." -Captain Wallace, Kotzebue Police Department.

Killers and rapists are magnetically drawn to where we live, up here north of 70 lat where the soil's gone bad.

It's a damn good thing we put uniforms on 'em and pay them to perform the cleaning duties our villages are incapable of doing themselves. Those old ghosts from the past, despite being hired professionals, were paid to do tasks local ice Negro folks were so afraid to undertake.

Shit, I'd be afraid too, had I not been part of this team. What am I saying? You bastards still scare the piss outa me. I like fear, cuz it bring me hard nipples and more boners.

Humans are capable of all things horrid, and all things wonderful. I find myself attracted to and surrounded by the most vicious characters any rural village script provides.

Cheers mates, here's to the old coppers that are long gone, but still deadlier'n shit.

More sex in your violence? Not me, how 'bout the other way 'round.


Karl.

RFP's and goat sex.

Top of the morning gents,

Apologies for the scant discourse, I’ve been busy.

I spent the last 2 weeks putting my MBA to work, and it’s giving me a real fucking headache.

The North Slope Borough School District published an RFP, request for proposal to provide rental housing. Every year, the local school district secures housing for their teaching staff.

The proposal is due on April 4, 2005 at 10:00am, but the Mrs. and I brought our paperwork down yesterday afternoon. Then I shit a fucking brick.

Wake up fucks. This is a 3-year lease agreement, and my crystal ball only reflects an ugly turd squeezer with red eyes, long hair, and foul disposition. If rents decline, I’m cool. If rents rise, I’m locked into a long-term (over 1 year = long term) lease; on the cheap. Fuck me in the goat ass.

My sample market is easy. There’s a half dozen identical duplexes within a stoner’s throw, and I know all the monthly leases.

Some drugs allow me to elicit more information than ethically acceptable. Truth serums can be smoked, snorted, and chugged, but the best is always alcohol. Jawbones from the descendants of both Siberia, and Southeast Asia will start squacking and jacking if the fuel/air ratio is optimum.

Ya can never have too much blood in yer alcohol system.

For these 6 identical duplexes, I’ve got sample rents ranging from $1250 per month, $1400 per month, pegging out at $1750. Don’t forget to double them to calculate monthly cash flow, cuz we'll be renting both sides of our duplex.

No shit, scary rents for a subdivision named after a clan of retards built next to Unnuk Lake.

The smell of raw Mongoloid ass paint ain’t the smell of victory. If you think yer tough, me and Nasruk will hold yer homo hand and walk you along the snow fence to where I let the neighbor’s dogs swim, and where subsistence fecus will gag and blind you a hunnert times better’n pepper mace. No shit, it’s that bad.

Again, the school district is the guarantor for payment and repairs, but they’ve specified lowest rent, livability, bus transit route convenience, and allowing dogs and cats. Locked in revenue stream for 3 years, with rights of first refusal for another 3-year lease.

We’re talking way cool shit here. I suppose my fixed costs are a steep mortgage, insurance, and property taxes. Remember property taxes?

You NANA Regional niggers bitch about poverty, it’ll vanish the instant you forcefully divert drug and alcohol monies into public sector infrastructure.

Guess you all like living in shit. Barrow has truly mastered spending habits that’ll never heal. Just like the fire hall and 3 new fire trucks in Kiana; ain’t no roads so they’ve been sealed and locked up like a museum novelty. Some village spending resembles numb nut motherfuckers dummer’n a post.

What I’ve been agonizing over is selecting a rent that won’t over shoot my competitors, but not too low that I’m double fisting myself. Make sense?

The Mrs. was cool with her first figure all along. My two demons, Fear and Greed, yanked my blankets off and woke me late at night just too fuck around with the simplest of mathematics. What an analytical buggering.

3-year lease. Shit.

I gotta get my shit together on or before July 1, 2005. Moving is easy, the real work begins when I start running behind caulking guns, beer cans, and paint rollers.

I’m happy to report that as of the date we dropped off our RFP (request for proposal) I spied only 5 names on the list of those that came in and TOOK a packet, no clue how many were completed and returned.

My gramps swears he only loses money when he stands on the sidelines and throws rocks.

After next week’s inspection, I’ll let you know what the announcement is.

I’ll also let you know if I’m a dumb ass.


Karl.