Wednesday, September 07, 2005

Dead law men wear uniforms, but they ain't dumped in mass graves. Not on my watch.

Top of the morning gents,

Fuck I'm funny.

Put more accurately by a little Eskimo girl, "Maybe yer not right in the head Pa."

Little Eskimo girl got that right, 'cept I switch out the title Appa with Pa. I used to like my Eskimo nicknames, now I'm weary of all things rural.

I keep remembering crazy man Harold Wells when he was PW-13, then he done gone postal. Westlake used to kick him outa Central Dispatch and get back out to sucking shit on the Devil's Lake Dredge, cuz he'd only hang around to fatten his overtime sheet, suck down my personally blended coffee and talk my receptive and attentive ears off.

Ya see Old Harold Wells is truly blessed with the gift of gab and is a candidate for existence in a long abandoned village site outside of Pt. Hope: JabberTown.

Old man Wells would squawk me on the public works radio channel and ask me weird questions like, "Hey Karl, ya got anything like me to drink? Hot and black?"

I'd reply with "Roger, 616, 300 28 hours."

Besides, I had no choice. During the late 80's I was bottom of the totem pole and took orders (and crap) offa everybody. So I burned up cans of my chronic coffees and packs of donated cigarettes, kept the sugar and cream bowls full and tidy and poured gallons of nitro bean toxic shock atomic laxative ScandiNegroLicious coffee down the pie holes of any city or state trooper roaming Kikiktagruk streets built on soil that's gone bad.

Storm Troopers Rudy Hecker and Kim Nay liked my coffee, so did Roy Fields, Tom Evans, Danny Burnor and Harold Wells. They all had stories to tell, so I wrote them all down whilst in simultaneous time periods, then and there, here and now, relaying them back to you bastards with a time delay of more than a quarter fucking century.

Harold Wells was full of Vietnam stories of gook headshots, slope ball bag and ear piercing via 223, and swimming with Chinese snickers chocolate bars in sewage treatment rice ponds.

Kotzebue's Unnuk Lake is a training cesspool for the Mike Kramers and Drunken Paula Burnors racing for Team Bacardi. The French Indo-Chinese use their liquid shit runoff collection pools as gardens.

Harold Wells was the first and the originator of the foul slang terms 'rice nigger' and 'ice nigger.' Pretty clever for a black GI suffering from PTSD flashbacks every time I asked him to tell me late night bedtime stories downstairs in Central Dispatch.

He also told me "you can never have anything nice in the Bush." "It's a ghetto exactly like my hometown."

My hat is off the man, he could sling shit with the best of 'em. He's a bit more lunatic that Medic One Douglass, but not as well educated, so his language was predictably crude and offensive; more than cop talk.

Graveyard shift mates.

If the front office of KPD was occupied solely by yer author on drugs old man Nay would pop in for coffee and share a few cigarettes with me. Whenever Hecker was busy at the courthouse with a prisoner, Kim would take the time to play 20 questions.

He told me stories of armed standoffs where he and some assfuck up in Kiana stood toe to toe and emptied their rifles at each other, yet not one GSW. So he chased the fucker down on foot, pepper sprayed everybody including himself, finally tackling the shooter and cuffing him with his eyes seared shut from the excessive oleoresin pepper spray all over hell and back.

Trooper Nay was a curious agent. He revealed little yet questioned much. My kind of chess game. None of you could've predicted him recruiting me to do field work for the Nolton and Nay Wrecking and Janitorial Crew: the guys you see backed up to the crematorium late at night, unloading kicking bags of trash.

Eunice and Mack were a pair of killers hired outa Broward and Miami-Dade County Sheriffs Office. Lt. Eunice worked occasional graveyard shifts and enjoyed a good chew and a strong cuppa Joe. Due to numerous high-speed police motorcycle accidents, he was blessed with arthritis, so I used his broke legs as a weather report.

If I paid close attention to how old law men shift their tool belt around before they pull up a chair and set a spell, I'll know snow flurries are upon us by the creak and crackle emitting from them old busted hips and knees.

Old man Eunice was a piece of work, and could keep secrets with best of 'em. He never once whispered a word about late night missions where Nolton and Nay, or Garoutte and Westlake were laying bait and inserting agents.

If any of you remember Von Clausen or Wallace, you'll recall how aging constables favor their bad backs and bum legs. Sides of injury and weakness ye don't ever want to be on. Unless ye like sucking revolvers and dirt.

More than their stories, training expertise and proficiencies, I also absorbed their language.

Way back one summer in Kotzebue, I got a phone call at KPD that there were numerous skulls rolling out the back of a Ditch Witch. That same week we had reports of more human skulls rolling out the bucket of a loader working the dirt on 3rd Avenue.

The most fascinating aspect of Kikiktagruk spit, is the number of mass graves. This aspect seemed to dictate the behaviors of the murdering motherfuckers killing each other and themselves, above ground.

Putting yer dead up on stilts or in small burial houses above ground is an invitation for plague and shortened life spans. Since cleanliness is close to Godliness, them savage runt-fucks needed to bulldoze Grandpas and Grandmas since Christ was a corporal, into big holes in the ground.

Friends Church is built on the bones of a coupla hunnert Eskimos, likewise under Monson's Motel on 3rd Avenue, with one behind Hildagard Sieler's place where all them MMC TB infectious and mercury barrels are leaking. You know, behind one of my covert party spot, Daisy Land's place? (No, not at the AC Marina, ye gotta be really stoned to pull up a chair and set a spell there: or dead.)

I ain't fucking kidding, I saved Daisy's life a hunnert fucking times. On my midnight missions to shoot loose dogs, buy drugs for the cops, or sell drugs to the bad guys, I'd occasionally find Daisy passed out in the snow, mere yards from her front door. Exactly where the cabbies dumped her.

That little tank of a shrunken head Inukun was heavy. She must have kept fishing weights in her pockets or bricks in her stinky mukluks, cuz I always pert near busted my balls lugging her inside her house, up onto her bed, heat set on 70, lights out and on to my duty assigned black ops at the direction of you killers in uniform.

With so many upset and cranky pre-Christian souls mucking about and spooking everybody all over the Kikiktagruk Spit, it's no surprise why y'all are so nasty to each other.

You ever wonder why a cops job is endless, and thankless, on soil that's gone bad? The last thing a sane lad would choose to do is move in and build yer homes atop so many mass Indian burial sites.

Mass graves are an awful thing to do to your enemies, even a worse offense to your unconverted ancestors.

As we age and cool in the beds at the Kotzebue Senior Center, we'll be expected to march on towards our graves too. Just your graves are a bit out of town.

A promise is a promise, I'll bury each and every one of you angels with tarnished halos up at the graveyard on Boot Hill overlooking the Kikiktagruk Spit where soil's gone bad and unfit for human decomposition.

Even if I'm all by myself stuck digging yer hole, you'll see lots of old law men and equipment operators hanging around smoking cigarettes and chewing, likely weeping with me too.

They miss us just as much as we miss them, and still bitching at me to hurry back to the old jail to make some more good coffee.

Graveyard shift mates.

Karl.

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