Wednesday, March 08, 2006

In both Barrow and Hell-sinki, we're cookin' with gas. Once in a while, this kid from Kotzebue gets cooked with lawn fertilizer and stove oil.

Top of the morning gents,

Time is such an elusive concept. Now I learn that time
fluctuates according to yer velocity and proximity to
large mass holes. Like that?

Time also slows enough for us deaf and blind dumb ass
Alaskans to dodge bullets, punches and flying debris.

Within the universe of your imaginations jacked with
our rural Alaskan memories poisonous and plethora, we
might get a fucking clue behind Einstein’s relentless
pursuit to catch God in the act, completely missing
the larger picture that “God was both Garden and
Gardner” (Capt. Jay Gardner).

In this growing region of your brain I’ve staked out,
I try to facilitate realization that yer all divine
and full quid character constructs, authors and devout
readers of your own design. Only if your intent and
heart are both golden, and perchance some lad reads
about ye long after Nolton & Nay Disposal Services
has long ago backed up to the crematorium out the
back of MMC and pitched your mortal remains into an
industrial strength bong and smoked yer bitch ass.

Since nothing viewed goes unaltered, the more I
examine your memory banks and review transcripts of
our conversations inside the AC Marina card room and
speak-easy or the squad room upstairs above the old
jail, the more distorted yet physical our once
ethereal relationships have now become. Instead of
staffing non-existent nightmare remote arctic houses
of pain and contract prisons, I occasionally awake a
resident. I hate getting arrested.

Re-examining brief periods in time, it’s easy to see
seeming magic in the power of life. Instead of moments
of death, dying and no hope, we see miracles far
beyond my explanatory and your comprehensive powers.

As stated before, it’s great not to be sucking dirt.
But why aren’t you? None of ye should be alive and
reading this shit every morning, yet by the grace of
God go ye.

It ain’t luck, or good fortune, it’s magic concealed
within quantum mathematics and physics. Your alive for
reasons far beyond your petty 5 senses: so I. Einstein
tried in vane to catch God in the act of flexing his
field theories, special theory of relativity, and
theory of everything.

According to Einstein’s unpublished Theory of
Everything, “God don’t play dice” with your mortality.
If you ain’t dead yet, yer here fer a purpose.

Seeing Finnish Polis waiting all around my apartment
meant I couldn't go home. Normally I like the company
of coppers for tea and biscuits, but these ain’t rural
Alaskan coppers visiting for coffee and bong hits, no
sir, these were uniformed gunslingers without badges
nor borders.

The reason why these fucking cops knew where I lived
is cuz I work for ‘em. At least I did until my most
recent detainment on yonder Soviet soil. Ditching the
bacon piglets without borders is like trying to stuff
some bravo sierra in Nay and Columbo’s pipe. A little
frosting on the turd may turn yer corn grindage rectal
into silk pussy: but only some of the time.

The easiest patrol assignments involve smoking
cigarettes in an unmarked car, watching one Finnish
city block and simply arresting the suspect wearing
prison garb spattered with other convicts’ brains,
burnt hair and beard, suffering horribly from
hyper-extension spinal pain, multiple cuts, contusions
and concussions.

I’d just survived a car bomb that I swear was intended
not to free me, but kill me. Muslim assistance is like
a Dutch handshake or an Eskimo promise: put yer arm up
yer ass and block the punt.

Now all I needed was a long shower, shave and hair
color. Super glue and gauze tape will get me through
Frankfurt and Fairbanks, but at the moment, I was a
homeless smoldering and broken to shit convict with
only a cell phone and some Mat-Su green bud. Yer
looking at and smelling one filthy fucking hominid
mere hours out of jail and minutes out of a shredded
Mercedes van, my other ID don't got a beard on it,
just the dark brown hair, which sucks ass cuz I
currently have half my silver hair and beard burnt or
blown off.

After crawling from the prison van I ran full speed
from Latsipalatsi (glass palace) down loading alleys
and courtyards and fetched my other cell phone, pipe,
micro-stash of chron bud, a few Finnish marks, cigs
and keys from my toke hideout in Paul Quinn’s attic on
Boulevardier, then booked over to the Helsinki School
dorms to pick up my disappearing pills and shit.

Stone grottos are wonderful places to sneak away to
get stoned and make covert cell phone calls, my secret
place is in the attic of a 600 year old building and
seemed like a natural refuge and hideout for
Scandinavian Jews out in the cold, yet between wars
and incarcerations.

Despite climbing outa the back of a prisoner transport
van that’d pitched its motor and passengers a hundred
yards in opposite directions I felt perty dern good. I
must’ve looked just fucking hilarious: half burnt
convict in handcuffs struggling to climb a rusty fire
escape ladder six floors up.

Sure, I still had a really awful headache and sore
back and couldn’t hear fer shit but this fleeing felon
from Kotzebue looked absolutely fabulous running full
out for almost a mile and climbing up Paul’s building
one-handed, bleeding AND deaf as fuck. And you guys
thought I’d lost all that weight dieting. Any diet
plan than includes lots of torture and starvation
would make any fat rural Alaskan thin and fit.

On my drive from one contract prison to another we had
numerous chances for my escape. The only limiting
factor was the fact that I had a Muslim mother-fucking
partner jacking my ass outa jail. Meaning any mish
Muslim means every mish blown to shit.

As scheduled, Yusef blew up Dwayne’s old Ford
Cortina. What I didn't plan on was all the windows in
my prison transport van to blast over my head and
vaporize the upper torso of my jailer, my driver AND
two accomplices. Ivar and Kahar were two Estonians on
trial for holding items for the mob, or so I they
thought. Like an old military atomic bomb movie, all
the glass and passengers evaporated with the prisoner
transport van tumbling rapidly to catch up to it’s own
shock wave, with this feral Finn tucked down tight and
holding my ankle shackles and floor hasps for dear
life.

Of course, this Finn had an unfair advantage, I knew
when to duck: Dwayne Welleschuck's beater Cortina
hadn't run in years and I myself put the "Frank Zappa
Lives" bumper sticker on it. Seeing this
non-functioning rust bucket from inside my prisoner
transport van was my cue to "duck and cover."

It's a beautiful site: bullet proof glass and junker
car both accelerated rapidly thus converting glass and
plastic laminates, along with all the metal junk Yusef
piled into the Cortina, launching and toasting full
grown human skulls all over Finlandia, along with a
few baby carriages and strollers.

I got no count for taste; infants don't count in my
unforgivable scorecard. The craniums of infants can’t
withstand Alaskan fireworks. Baby skulls and meat
completely take a shit and fragment, practically
vanishing alongside subsonic car parts and airborne
pedestrians.

Pity my mates had to eat it too. Fuck ‘em, they'd do
the same to me, they're old school thugs that would've
been impressed with my plan had they survived. Yusef
poured our entire stash of lawn fertilizer I nicked
from the Helsinki School of Economics into the boot of
that Cortina, soaked it to piss with petrol, and a
blasting cap wired to a Nokia cell phone ringer. I
still can’t believe it blew; Yusef always fucked up
his car bombs if I wasn’t around to hold his
sand-nigger hand every fucking step of the way.

Seeing Dwayne's piece of shit brought back memories of
booning all over bumb fuck Egypt right outside of
Inari, Finland like drunken rally racers. Knowing it
hadn’t run in years, with it's rear end sagging so low
was a beautiful and reassuring site, it was loaded to
the gills with way too much Muslim lawn care products.
Amidst the flying rubble and sprayed hominid liquids,
you likely seen a huddled kid from Kotzebue grinning
like a chinked chief.

Seeing at all through battered and swollen closed blue
eyes was wonderful enough, but to have my sight back
and un-hooded along the entire route of my prisoner
transport van was a fucking miracle. Ducking in time
to fly a different direction as my puke and shit was
an act of God, nobody’s ever survived one of Yusef’s
Random Muslim Phone Calls and detonation jobs. My
ankles were fucked cuz I was literally blown outa my
shoes AND shackles.

After Dwayne's Cortina went to the afterlife (along
with 2 guards and 2 knee cappers) I had to run full
speed to the #10 tram, then to my dorm room where a
stateside asset, a gal I'll call agent 113 had already
assembled and sent out my evade and evacuate package.

This chick is still one of the world’s best spooks in
the business. She has the SABER flight software on her
wireless laptop and takes late night overseas cell
phone calls from feral Finns requiring unique travel
arrangements in a real fucking hurry. On schedule and
per my last text message from inside prison, agent 113
sent me a new passport, visa, tickets, cash (euros and
dineros), and a slew of hotel vouchers for all the
national chains doing business between Helsinki,
Frankfurt and Fairbanks.

Everything was perfect, except the goddamned Finnish
Polis nixed my plan. Now the major bitch was directing
the DHL spook at the Helsinki Airport to stay clear of
the campus dorms and meet me at Old Skipper's Pub on
5-Corners and Jaakarinkatu with fresh clothes and my
disappearing kit.

I really needed to go to the hospital, something was
clicking in my hip and shoulder, but fuck it, a shower
and change of clothes was better than a flight in an
unmarked jet back to bum fuck Egypt.

My burnt convict appearance wasn’t even appropriate
for rough sleeping, picking up can and bottle deposits
to feed a Viking's thirst for Jim Beam: my face was
still so swollen I doubted I looked like the picture I
cut and pasted into the bogus passport I made with all
the equipment now conveniently ditched at the
Illisagvik College For the Mentally Retarded north of
70 lat.

The burnt and bloody prison clothes I was wearing were
basically fucking arrest warrants waiting to happen,
but what were my choices? I'm covered with the blood
of others, soot and shit, wearing bright orange jail
cover-alls. Black soot, burnt blood and God knows what
else just don’t make for a convict camouflaged.

A disheveled and badly bleeding street bum drew less
attention than a naked American man with cut feet,
scabby wrists, ankles and neck, scorched groinulars
and poopy butt.

My extensively compromised immune system and hobby
drug craft history rendered chemical interrogation
useless. Surgical and electrical injuries were much
more effective and worked like a fucking miracle: I
shrieked like a cat caught in the fan of a choked
6-cylinder engine compartment and sang happy and loud
as a dyke in Auschwitz. Whenever I awake there on the
wrong side of the Iron Curtain, I’m chemically
restrained and wired with 220-volt direct current.
Since this is not America, I don’t have to suffer
110-volt alternating current and do the fish like a
fucking gimp.

I never knew what was in the package. I wasn't
supposed to. If I did, I forgot. But try explaining
that to some uniformed assholes that don't speak a
lick of English slowly killing the man they’re
convinced would confess: if I only knew which language
they were yelling and spitting.

You try to refuse questioning while yer upside down,
holding yer aching nuts, kicking and screaming
underwater longer than 2 minutes.

Do you know your oxygen deprivation limitations?

I do. I always shit piss and see stars, then I cease
thrashing and screaming into big huge air bubbles.

My sin was that of parallel importation ignorant of
all rules, regs and rads, hence my deserving to awaken
every day for half a year to kicks and punches, with
mucous redness and membrane soreness worse than a kid
from Selawik. Most of the sores and bleeding were from
my captors, the rest from my hygiene and radiation
poisoning. Nothing like a car bomb to cauterize yer
leaking cuts and bruises

Something awesome about being in the epicenter of a
giant car bomb fireball, almost like being in the
center of a hurricane. Wind speeds are pert near zero
and spiraling destruction roaring at edges of the
visible universe racing away sucking my hair, breath
and spit away from me in all directions.

Its getting harder and harder to escape these lucid
dreams. Someday I’ll likely get stuck over there. I
pray I actually get stuck in the middle of putting
these memories to paper. I best git to my computing
station and write this down ‘afore I die, or worse,
get arrested.

Compressing and expanding time like a fucking
accordion in the region of your mind I’ve staked out
is really quite elementary my dear cone of silence
consultants. Even under continuous review, magic plays
such an important role in our lot in life.

I still can’t believe I made it outa there. Okay, call
it luck. Which makes us the luckiest soldiers on the
planet. We’re blessed with heaven sent angels
assisting us in our divine werks and 113 being our
lucky number.

Maybe the big guy manning the helm created agent 113
solely to save my life. She’d built multiple
contingencies into my itinerary off the reservation
and facilitated my trip back in from the cold. Her DHL
spook was tipped to avoid any police and to circle Old
Skipper’s Bar, parking directly under the fire escape
ladder I previously bled all over.

None of you will ever learn the identity of my Alaskan
asset and lifesaver. She’ll even scoff at my
insistence of her divinity, but she’s got it through
and through. If any of you spooks get got in a tight
spot and at Death’s door, 113 is truly your lucky
number.

Step aside; let agent 113 go through. Today, yer gonna
take yer hat off and have a drink on this gal.

By the grace of God go I. Okay; with the help of
wingless killer angels whose wonderfully timed
lifesaving help has allowed us continued contact. She
is likely dismissing her contributions at this very
moment: if she's still monitoring back channel narc
chatter between Kotzebue and Hell-sinki.

If God were dead, so would we. Alas, most of our
material is merely letters of heartfelt thanks to the
universe. Prayers come in many forms, some loaded with
cuss words too.

If I go missing again, Commanders Columbo and Craig,
and agent 113 can ALWAYS find me.

Like worn souls, some moments in time are stretched
beyond repair. Seems my protecting Nordic helmsman and
his most lethal angels will always bring my dumb ass
home: wherever the fuck that is.


Karluk.

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