Friday, May 06, 2005

Broken Lads Repairing Broken Neighbors

Top of the morning gents,


Y’all wouldn’t be my friends if you weren’t
tremendously gifted.

And broken.

Via nurture or nature, hook or crook, you all possess
an evil genius and unhealed trauma, lest our back
channel chatter would be rendered nonsensical.

I think you understand me completely.

Coppers, Fire chumps, Radio Jockeys, Medics, S&R
pukes, the ghosts of Monson and Troxell, and even
asshole brass upstairs; broken lads specialized in the
repair of broken neighbors.

Did I miss anybody?

I sometimes miss wearing a uniform. Felt like I was
dressing up nicely everyday. Pity, my recent work
requires a different kind of uniform; long hair and
beard. I also had to isolate myself from normals.

For a period, I tried to extend my list of recipients
of this am cop talk to include a few professors,
friends and relatives. As I immersed myself back onto
the Prohibition Playground and signed on with the AST
guys at Statewide Drug Enforcement, I found my words
and actions highly inappropriate (unethical, illegal,
unconstitutional) for the civilian ear. Hence my
selective radio silence during the time I was flying
booze and drugs from Fairbanks to Barrow with the
infamous Economics Professor Robert Logan.

All jobs require tools and narc jobs bring
well-stocked tool belts. To snare a smart smuggler,
you have multiple communication channels at your
disposal. We tapped and recorded all covert chatter
on the mad doctor’s cell phones, household hard line,
UAF email, and his personal email accounts.

We also covertly cruised Bradley Field outside of
Fairbanks, found both of his planes and cleverly
attached GPS tracking devices to them. Safety was the
primary reason. If I'm gonna fly with an unlicensed
pilot through the Brooks Range and over the North
Slope, it's a good idea to know where me and my
wreckage can be located.

Within mere seconds of my sealed testimony and gaining
a pile of warrants, we could monitor Logan at all
times and know in advance when he arrived from the
Philippines, Thailand, and South America. We also
could watch his approach into Barrow on a device that
looked an awful lot like a video game.

When the whole crew set up in Barrow, we had 2 men
recording and transmitting, 3 surveillance video
cameras concealed around the FAA Building and Cape
Smythe, and 3 Fords (Taurus models rented from UIC)
packed with parabolic microphones and pretty fucking
cool self-stabilizing digital video cams.

Despite being a political and career assassination
job, I think strangling our target with
Prohibition-like legislation worked most effectively.


Within the layers of this scheme was the hidden desire
to remove Logan from the university, clip his chances
of ever returning to public office (city, borough,
state), and sling mud high enough to smear the AIP
(Alaska Independence Party) statewide, stridently so
in our beloved FAZ (fetal alcohol zone). I’m not
affiliated with any particular party, but my
benefactors are obviously Republican.

Come on, helping and assisting humankind is a
Herculean endeavor, and insane. Why not pick targets
that yield manifold upside political payout? Logan
hired me to clip the Dean, Dr. Collins by staging a
gun cleaning accident in his own home. It’s only fair
I return favor and bend the lad over, take a core
sample, and count the rings.

After a private chat with Collins about this
conspiracy to abbreviate his life and job as head
bitch at the School of Management, the future of
Logan’s political and professorial career immediately
darkened. Fate is a funny thing when a brilliant
criminal recruits a double agent into his drug
smuggling ring: funny thing indeed.

The mad doctor Logan never stood a chance. He was
overwhelmed with phantoms, baffled with bullshit, and
out of mere greed, he actually believed I was doing
him a favor.

My best advice: on the Prohibition Playground play a
clean game of chess against clear and present threats,
cuz my game is entirely devoid of clarity.

This last narc job of mine cost me plenty. The uproar
and shrill upset in the local press mirrored
McCarthy-like witch hunting blaming Logan’s
unfortunate demise on his evil partner in crime, the
double agent.

Westlake and Nolton were spot on; doing Logan in both
Fairbanks and Barrow was like stomping on their local
hero and predatory darling. Shit, after the trial was
over, the press painted Logan as the misfortunate
victim of a complex web of deceit and manipulation.

This is the funny part: he was.

Uniforms are the designated camouflage of God’s
children; you’ll never find an atheist in a fire truck
or a foxhole.

Over the last hunnert years, I’ve witnessed all you
angels jousting behemoth foe, thereby reaching yer
full quid.

In the battle to save the world, I’m putting my money
on the world. Sorry mates, heroes like you guys are
lousy bets. You soldiers always win yer battles, but
the war is leaning the other way. Nonetheless, I’d
never assert that any of you are of sound mind and
body.

I see men with big hearts; yet broken lads repairing
broken neighbors.

You boys be careful, if you see me greasing the cat’s
butt, CYA.


Karl.

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