Saturday, August 20, 2005

"Car 54 where are you?" "10-4, roger dodger, 10-80, KRJ, Out front." "616-K7." "Is Karl on duty?" "4" "Send him out, request assistance-code Ginley."

Top of the morning gents,

"10-80, enroute to KRJ."

I can recall that excited feeling whenever Waller or
Garroutte would radio for help extricating a prisoner
from the patrol car.

Bobby Richards, Jim Ginley, and a few hundred
screaming 'skimo bitches seemed to be good cooperative
prisoners, until Joe or Jeff pulled the patrol car up
to the front of the jail for processing. That's when
the fights start.

Folks are so cool until they see the front gates to
the 'house of pain', then they soil their diapers and
irritate my eardrums, knuckles and nuts.

Shoot, sometimes their antics also irritated my
goddamn back cuz we had to push, pull or drag our
flailing clients like malfunctioning Jap rice burners
from the rear of the patrol car and into the booking
room for paperwork, COR (conditions of release)
verification, or kneel and bob on the Intoximeter
3000.

Nobody can refuse to submit to a chemical analysis if
they believe yours truly guarantees an extraordinarily
violent and concussive flying, flailing, and falling
down the old jail corridor that has no video camera.
My knuckles ache when I recall such delicious
violence. Gives me hard nipples and drippy dick too.

Aside from my duties covering the VPSO position in
Kiana, I don't think we ever lost any cuff monkeys,
nor shackle jack offs.

Tough regs mates. From the time a prisoner has been
cuffed to the time the court documtents and release
from custody papers are signed by the judge,
magistrate, or jailer, we're responsible for our
custodial customers.

Even if they escape.

Oh sure we can add additional escape charges, but for
every victim injured or killed during an escape or
while the escaped convicts are on the lamb, the city
and state are on the hook for all damages. Sucks, huh?

After serving a stack of summons and warrants in
Kiana, one sneaky fucker ditched me for a cigarette or
toke. They'd all been served but I waited cuffing my
brood of brown violators until Kosloff and Nay landed
and loaded up King Erlich's court requested special
guests.

For about 20 minutes, I thought I'd lost one. Until he
emerged red eyed and baked, chinked and chiefed.

Scared me shitless.

No search parties nor bloodhounds, just a fresh baked
Kianamute baked like a clam and now happy to fly to
Kotzebue for free meals and jail accommodations far
classier than the dismal grovel he shit, pissed and
puked in.

Flights to Kotzebue to serve a few weeks is a fucking
vacation where a rural rodent can fatten up and get
some good deep and sober sleep.

Some of my transport 10-80 village clients were booked
in looking like holy fuck returning back home to the
village after 2-8 weeks in our college dorm hooscow
looking handsome and healthy.

On their day to TSI (turn self in) on schedule or by
warrant, my fall and winter book-in customers were
true and accurate examples of what a baggie of mashed
up assholes looks like. A combination of foul BO,
seeping stink teeth, and a face akin to a gaped
starfish and poopy butt.

I ain't fucking kidding, just ask any of the folks you
see listed on this am cop talk newsletter, they'll be
happy to remind you that some humans taste and smell a
'hole' lot worse than others.

At this precise moment, most of you mates are likely
having a PTSD public service flashback of some mighty
odiferous and gag-worthy customers you've all had to
blow, hump and compress, hoist, gurney and transport.

Shoot, take another gander back at Medic One's
synopsis from just 2 years ago of lugging mountain
climbing accident meat piles down the pass; shoes,
clothing and faulty climbing equipment in a separate
seeping duffel bag.

I ain't fucking kidding. After a few weeks or months
of good food, showers and hair cuts, and plenty of
rest, our newly free Eskimo brethren can justifiably
qualify as healthy, wealthy, and wise. Limp in. Leap
out. Even the clothes they're wearing on their free
flight back home are pressed and cleaned.

You older guys might remember when I was schooling at
UAF, and flying back home to Kotzebue on weekends,
breaks, and vacations. During these visits I was the
894 4-plex janitor. I did quick and dirty clean ups
between tenants. Scandinavian Jewish tune-ups that are
little more than a thorough vacuuming, kitchen and
bathroom wipe down, window Windex and half-day airing
out.

One summer night, one of our tenants had a major blow
out, booze binge and brawl.

Me bunnik nudged me the same instant the building
shuddered from the breaking and collapsing of a sofa
with 2 drunk monkeys slugging skulls on top.

I phoned Edith at 3353 with a brief complaint of
minors consuming alcohol, a couple of highly likely
COR (conditions of release) and probation/parole
violators, and of course the full combat fist fight.

Downing and that Spanish/Mexican drug dude, working
rotating patrols under the FTO tutelage of Lorin,
responded and were quick to arrest the easy meat
refusing to cease their battery despite coppers
yelling and performing their KPD 18-hour Wonder Bra
duties: lift and separate.

With those two cuffed and in separate patrol cars,
Lorin and Spicola did a line up and ID check yielding
a simple majority score: violators 6, "free to go" 5.

Can you tell I really love packing the jail? Gives
Ward a fucking migraine, ulcer, and nicotine runs
simultaneously producing a chorus of amusing body
sounds of Gumby gaining weight and Ward losing it.

One of the aboriginal combatants arrested was the
younger brother of Peggy Brown (sour pussy). This fuck
was able to kick apart the plexi-glass partition and
flee the KPD patrol car.

I swear. I never intended on giving Lt. Columbo a
fucking migraine, ulcer and nicotine runs. The escape
from custody was just bonus amusement, fuck ye. Who
could have known that a drunken moron would choose to
add escape charges to a minor VOCR charge?

For the rest of grave yard shift and on til pert near
lunchtime the next day, KPD's finest (and worst) were
on red alert and aggressively on the lookout for the
aforementioned Nigerian candidate with his arms cuffed
behind his back.

Mr. Sours was recaptured and booked with no
casualties: aside from the gastric discomfort I caused
our beloved Lt. Columbo. Sorry mate.

I don’t get ulcers I give ‘em. Besides, where’s a cop
when you need one?

Have gun will travel. Plus counterfeit ID equipment I
ought not sell to the gooks.

What’s in your wallet?

Karl.

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