Thursday, September 15, 2005

Alaska is where bad people go when they die.

Top of the morning gents,

I like corruption, death and cruelty, I hate religion and philosophical bullshit, just like all ye earthbound misfits.

That's why I fled the Killing Fields of the Pacific Northwest and slithered my sorry ass to Alaska, or so I thought.

Ya see, Alaska is where bad folks go when they die.

Really bad people are sent out to rural Alaska. Every single soul I've abused or who's existential periodicity I've abbreviated or compromised, are all reborn way up North, not in heaven.

Ye notice there's a million identical dudes just like our boys back home yet now killing and raping north of 60? Cursed souls like mine find solace and safety when surrounded by mutilated and broken angels like you lot.

That's cuz ye died a hunnert fucking years ago but ye ain't aware of it yet. We're forced to discover the universe is exactly opposite to dogmatic gospel spewed outa the foul smelling pie holes of the heartless and unsanctioned surrogate parents, cruel teachers and clergy that tortured us.

Little boys are always the last to learn they're dead.

Every time I commit sin on the magnitude equal to you boys, I don't get sent to any fucking lake of fire to fry, I awake next to my blessed Siberian soul mate, or worse, to a dog licking my face a few miles out on the ice pack just out of ear (and telepathy) shot from you lot.

Since when was Hell supposed to be so fucking hot? I'm sorry to say, it ain't, it's colder'n shit and nibbles at my fingertips and toes, ears, knuckles and nuts.

You boys dole out so much death, yet miss the bigger picture. Once you've died a couple hunnert times, it don't hurt so much to help others find their way back home. Your own Death is something ye can put outa yer mind. It's quick and painless and far less traumatic than being born.

I can honestly state that there ain't nobody on the planet Earth that have held so many hands of the dying, carried as many children to their boxes for a dirt snack and dirt nap, and smoothed the silver hairs and shed tears for grandparents not your own, as you killers in uniform.

When I discuss aging strategies and topics only understood by elderly lawmen and graying gunslingers, I get furious refusal and quick draw dismissal from you lads. There lies the reason you're all so good assisting all others to the hereafter, but are fucking clueless why us soldiers are forever stuck here.

The last thing any of you numb nut stranglers, pugilists, and axe wielding homicidal maniacs care to read or talk about is your own death. Matter of fact, I can predict the moment you hit the 'delete' button whenever I rattle on profusely about yer croaking and my burying ye.

I died a couple hunnert times. And each time awakening in Alaska with the same lovely Siberian wife warming the bed right next to me, or worse a few miles out on the ice pack north of 70 lat surrounded by neighborhood pack dogs howling and crying, nudging and licking me.

I thought I'd killed all these fucking dogs years ago. What are all they doing here waking me in the middle of my Arctic Cap offshore ice nap?

Every piss-bag sack of knuckles and nuts I inhabit bears evidence of inhumane treatment dying unloved and alone. Birds of feather fuck together.

I see such a reflection of myself in all you sons of fucks, I get that warm all over feeling, drippy dick and hard nipples. My identity is best described by wearing a 6-foot 2-inch full length mirror walking down crowded sidewalks and busy streets, plethora personae; fragmented, distorted and confusing.

You boys are a despicable lot best described as my dirty dozen since your multitudinal ego structures are also fragmented and bleeding so fucking badly, thereby blinding you to your own legion of suffering souls that easily hitch a free ride on big hearted lads like you bastards.

You guys don't fucking get it. If your purpose had been served, you wouldn't still be breathing God's air, insulating the innocent from Evil, and tending to luggage of those frightened souls that went before us and whom are so deathly afraid to board their train. Yet y'all are perfectly happy living in the most violent places on Earth.

Your completed chores are a sign of maturity, your closed cases and excellent duty performance is admirable, but the second you sons of fucks finish the miracle yer sorry ass was tasked with on this particular reincarnative mission, you'll vanish right in front of our crying eyes.

Ask Trox, he's had a few coolers and floaters come back while some perfect specimens simply go away. There ain't no logic to this, some folks simply die easy despite blessed treatment from rescue and medical crews exactly like you boys.

When yer done, yer gone.

I'm awaiting the announcement of one of your deaths, but I'm not waiting to inventory the blessings you've bestowed on all the rest of us. Besides, I already know where to meet you after you die. There's lots of dog crap and icebergs with size 13 Sorrel footprints leading us back to town where we'll find fresh bread and good bourbon in my blessed Eskimo wife's soul kitchen.

Don't worry, I'll find ye.

If ye wrap up yer mission from God and start disappearing on our sorry asses, yet don't reappear a few miles out on the ice pack, folks left down here will have yer best mates to tell yer tales and honor your horribly painful existence of service here.

The reason I get thousands of hits everyday on my North of 70 Lat web log is cuz everybody around the world and on the Internet know and love you graying gunslingers, yet have never met you. Shit, they don't even know who in Hell you are, but they are familiar with the recyclable souls within ye and the divine deeds you've done.

Evidence that heroes have a thousand faces yet even more scars and repeatedly reawakes just offshore from my backyard.

Everybody has pals like Waller and Octuck, Westlake and Garoutte, Nolton and Nay. Poor suffering sons of bitches that despite trembling hands and scared to shit eyes, will perform mouth-to-mouth on our corpses, bag our mortal remains, and even chip and shovel our bits and pieces despite random dispersion and frozen in time directional spattering. The nicest thing I've ever seen in my life is witnessing the respect you all have devoted to victims of homicides and suicides.

It's been said that we must respect the dead. What if they continue to reappear in our lives over and over in clean uniforms, relieve us of our duties, flip us shit, buy our guns, share their cigarettes and pour far too much good booze down our pie holes?

That ain't life nor death, that's shift work. My shift relieves you of yours. The reason I keep dying and reappearing in the land of ice and snow is cuz I'm scheduled to.

I ain't bullshitting you, go check the schedule upstairs in the squad room. The Brass has it posted right near the patch collection above the coffee pot full of Karl's good coffee, cream and sugar bowls full and tidy, pack of smokes in me breast pocket of my jacket.

Us lot ain't welcome where all the rest go. We're living and breathing examples of the reincarnative consequences to knowing the Tree of Good and Evil better than most mortals.

Come on, why do you see so much death and dying all around you and responsible for the tickets and luggage for our frightened and unknowingly dead passengers on the next train outa town? Only mere humans need restoration and recharging, you lads don't qualify, you're angels on missions from God.

It's a hard job, that's why we have rotating existential shifts holding the hands of the dead and dying, carrying other parents' children to their boxes and smoothing the silver hairs whilst weeping for grandparents not our own.

Agents not yet fulfilling divine intervention never get to see heaven, just more shift work, more broken infants, children and mommies begging you to let them stay with their loved ones here on Earth.

Now get back to work you maggots. The lives you save will always be the lives of mere humans not yet done with their assigned duties here on Earth.

Graveyard shift mates: for us, there's no way out of here. Heaven is for those who've completed their missions, not soldiers with marching orders.

It's been snowing a lot this summer, the ice pack is nearing my backyard so soon I can hike out and see if Carlos or Kim made it back to relieve us.

I’ve returned numerous times to look for them and walk back to town with them, but I'm saddened with the feeling they've completed their duties and I won't be seeing them ever again.



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