Thursday, March 30, 2006

Intel update and mining big old brains for smart ideas.

Hey Dudes,

Not the normal signature introduction today, just a
quick update and a very special request from you
graying gunslingers.

I've been burning daylight and my calling card
chatting with Paul and Dave: strategies and
contingencies mates.

What the fuck? Two ol' busted up cops make the best
conversationalists when fetching supporting data,
corroborating evidence and colorful insight to
horrific homicides and rapes (pre and post mortem,
with and without skulls or limbs) for these am cop
talk newsletters.

But best of all, these old spooks are great for
PLANNING shit.

Call me a dumb ass, but I've exploited all of you
uniformed fuckers as leaders, example setters,
supervisors and superiors: deference is mandatory in
the company of all you goddamned killers.

A brilliant chap from the village of Elaudio, Dutch
West Indies never failed to step up the bat and coach,
nor failed to graciously step aside when his teammates
required floor time shining. Think of this hombre as
an intimidating genius waltz and research presentation
dance partner, folks always stepped aside for my
interracial lab rat partner.

Yup, it's embarrassing to fess up to, but parts of his
cerebral tool belt and genetic mother board puts parts
of all or numbskull combat circuitry to shame.

1D25's quick draw kid kept my shit tight when weight
and balancing our aircraft, re-fueling and complicated
on-campus date-rape undercover narc jobs. No shit, if
I was left to tend to these duties, we'd see a
fireball and mushroom cloud where Ryan Air USED to be,
and even more raped and scraped campus bitch bait at
UAF: Shitbanks, AK.

I can't resist temptation, can you?

All the rest of you bastards don't need reminding how
many times you handed me my dick on a platter, fixed
my SR's AND attitude, and saved my ass with a million
combined years of NAVY, VPSO, and firearms theory.

On this mish, I tapped the old farts. Hooah!

Both these graying gunslingers shoulder burdensome
interracial marriages, so who best to ask if it's a
good idea to fly my Siberian Mrs. up to Kotzebue to
visit her golden girls and old lady network WITHOUT
her dumbass fair-haired, yet highly indiscreet
dickhead husband of non-native excretion.

See what I mean Lem?

Ain't none of ye have shoveled coal and manure next to
an Indun bride as long as these two old versions of
sober, yet busted to shit Wyatt Earps.

Shit, even you Eskimo killers can appreciate this: you
guys know how hard it is to keep a cross-colored wife
of a lesser God longer than 7 years score: and itch.

Them pretty gals tend to get lost and go native on ye
once in a while. Sometimes in their own front yards,
sometimes in another dude's foul trousers of similar
race and skin hue.

Wake up fucks! Unlike you blood-spattered yet wingless
angels, they are extremely mortal and earth bound
human beings.

Like us, they all gotta go back home from time to
time: as in bump with handsome Induns during the
Stampede or Yakima Pow-Wows, grope something truly
fine upriver Shungnak or Ambler, or share hugs and
smiles in the genetic glow and context of mirrored
beauty whilst tapping that tall Scandinavian girl
close to where 80,000 years of blond alien relatives
raped and killed arctic style.

The human genome has been appropriately called "The
Selfish Gene" by my professor of cultural and physical
anthropology, Lou Tarrant. He chuckles at custom and
culture's failed attempts to regulate and harness the
human drive to eat, sleep, shit, piss and fuck.

The only way to curb these overpowering logic
derailments and canine behavior loops is with chronic
alcohol, cigs and change yer name to Jim Ginley.

Fuck I'm funny.

Ain't none of ye are ever gonna discontinue yer
membership with the human race nor cease reinventing
yourself towards the prettier. Some of you will also
likely test drive yer keels in saltier water too;
without a bag on yer trash.

Further yet, some of us will likely afford an
apartment for our mistress above the hardware and
antique store leaving our wives comfortably set up
back home.

Some of our most precious moments of intimacy and true
wonderment are still a secret between you and God and
line of spouses, even maybe a fellow uniforms, which
could possibly include any one of you.

Romance is the very best drug on the planet, and I
recommend all of ye inhale fully when some of God's
most stunning females embrace your olfactory senses
AND thorax with all four of her limbs and lips. Like
that?


Maybe I'm off base and way out of the ballpark,
perchance completely wrong and full of shit.

But I doubt it.

God be with ye lads. Even if you think nobody's
looking.

Karl.

PS and special favor to ask of you, if you see my
blessed Siberian bride getting harassed or pestered by
any of Kotzebue’s riff raff: my former clients, feel
free to use extreme prejudice. Or she will, and that
wouldn’t be good for any body. She can’t turn it off.

As a professional courtesy, I’ll call John Ward in
advance. If I was Chief of Police in a rural violent
village, I’d fucking like advance notices of Karl or
his murderous wife’s coming back to town.

Maybe even arrest them at the goddamned airport for a
million fucking firearms violations and unpaid OTZ
phoneboxes on the side of 20 year old telephone polls
all shot to shit.

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