Thursday, April 28, 2005

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.



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