Tuesday, May 03, 2005

Property development job, retirement gift, and narc job near Ruby Ridge, Idaho.

Top of the morning gents,

I needed to sit with and chat with you boys, and it's
conversation that stays within you lot; uniformed
felons with rusty halos.

I'm so pleased with my new tenant, he's been rotating
his choice of on-call vehicles thus parking a
different Fire/Police/Medic rig out front.

My neighbors up and down my street have been shitting
green bricks, drawing all their drapes, and concealing
all trace of their bootlegging, meth sales, and chron
bud deliveries. Way cool or what?

I also have a weird opportunity I'd like to share with
you all, further down this page.

Glad y'all liked the pictures, it's fire season in
Alaska again. I like forest fires.

Fuck, who am I kidding? I like any kind of fires,
especially house fires. Mike Perlatti, Cully and I
loved playing with matches inside abandoned houses.

Yup, we torched a couple before we turned 8, lots more
after we had our first boners. Kids did most arson
jobs in the racist triangle of Edmonds, Lynnwood, and
Mountlake Terrace.

I truly believe we're in for a bitch of a fire season:
nature's way of renewing her forests with fresh greens
and exploding moose and caribou populations.

Quick way to clean up tree garbage and forest trash,
and a necessary step in launching the seeds from the
pine cones of most Pine and Spruce trees. Burn down
the infected trees and sprout new ones.

Way cool.

On a new topic, I got a phone call from my paps last
night.

He spent considerable time to explain to me that my
hyperactivity isn't my fault, just the way "you
blonder kids were born."

He went on to list all my grandparents and great
grandfathers identical to me, similarly all scarred
up, shot up, and cut up. Some even blown up,
occasionally with their own explosive devices.

My darker bastard siblings lacking blond hair and blue
eyes are the opposite. In my opinion, slow, lazy, and
not as pretty.

My father never calls me to make small talk, so I
graciously accepted his kind words of sympathy and
support in my endeavor to understand this specific
genetic culprit. A divinely modified A-4 allele on
each and every one of my DNA molecules, specific to
only fair skinned, fair haired Northern European
fairies.

That is, if you're tough enough to call a Viking a
fairy. That's why I take exception to Induns calling
darker Caucasians 'white'. If they ain't Hitler's Wet
Dream; white, tight, and outa site, they're all
scralings. Scraling behavior is so much closer to
monkeys.

(Scraling is the Scandinavian derogatory term for
short and brown little people; non-alien non-hybrid
Inukuns on yonder continent)

I believe all humans used to be colored. Had it not
been for brave and daring Native women sneaking out
for a piece of alien meat, I'd have brown hair and
brown eyes too. God bless all the brave Native women
that dared to breed with non-indigenous tall blonde
and handsome motherfuckers.

History is plastic and flexible, not real. Revising
bullshit is still revising bullshit.

Back to my weird predicament; my father's long
distance and extraordinarily rare phone call.

I'd advised him that me Bunnik was retiring and that
we were in the market for remote properties and the
such.

He paused and retold me what my mother had
recommended. She wished I would move out to an old
piece of property located in the mountains of Idaho, a
little over 50 miles upland from Ruby Ridge.

My grandfather had purchased (meaning raped robbed
murdered) a wooded property and it's been uninhabited
for over a quarter century. It consists of a bit over
50 acres, a stream, and a sawmill.

Remote Idaho surrounded by warring tribes of humans on
all sides: Induns, White Separatists, pot growers and
meth chefs. He thought I'd have a bit of fun killing
and burying all the above, adding to the numerous
corpses all ready dead and buried on site from the
previous century.

From gramps to Karlukmun and his lethal Eskimo wife:
killing is a family tradition.

Pops wants Bunnik and I to move there, build a cabin,
and die there, taking dozens of lesser life forms with
us in the process. Ain't that sweet?

He also liked the idea of someone re-establishing
ownership of this ridgeline property with my permanent
presence, target shooting, pipe bomb perfection, and
narcotics work. Ya see the other reason he wants his
murderous son up there?

He confided that he's been dying to send me there to
torpedo and disintegrate the shitty culture of bikers,
dopers, hippies, and natives.

If you think that Indun Reserves and Eskimo Territory
are shitty alcoholic and drug pits, ya oughta visit me
in Northern Idaho.

I may even need your help.

As mentioned before, Bunnik pegs the double nickel on
Sept 12, scheduling her retirement the following
October.

We had a visit from a fine white couple wishing to
purchase our duplex, hijacking it's revenue potential,
and wishing to move in as soon as possible.

Weird huh? All this time I was planning on being a
long distance landlord. After the scolding towards
the contrary from my father and this new offer to
purchase this big duplex, I think I have more to learn
in the art of property management.

I also have to exercise rapid flexibility and expand
my thinking to include adopting a long forgotten
property as a retirement gift from my folks.

You boys will have lots of fun visiting us; we'll take
you on a guided hunt so you can bag a trophy Indun,
Biker, White Nigger Separatist, or even a slow moving
marijuana grower. Them dopers make real easy targets
and are fatter and tastier from all the cookies and
beer they subsist on.

This is a surprising and wonderful world we live in.

Mind you, this back channel chatter stays coded and
strictly on the Tactical Frequency I see here on my
Dispatch Panel.

Review the list of recipients; this isn’t information
for anyone but uniformed felons.

10-4, 616-1000 hours.

Keep you posted.

Karl.

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