Monday, March 20, 2006

SITREP. It ain't racial profiling. From behind my blue eyes all the top drug dealers in Alaska are sick albino rejects.

Hey dudes,

Nothing witty this morning, I'm half past dead. Or as Bob Sauve, the dog musher dope grower extraordinaire used to put it, "I'm a bit rusty this morning.” “What do you recommend Doc?"

Duh. Is there any breakfast better than a Talkeetna wake and bake with coffee and bong hits? And to think Alaska is full of monsters, just like me.

I seem to attract smart cops and some pretty bright crooks too. Which leads me past pre-ambilic rambling and to the truth why my cocaine smells like shit, or the other waysround.

I've put quite a bit of time into sniffing out cocaine distribution channels infecting the living shit outa my blessed village Barrow north of 70 lat. Swimming upstream is a tidy metaphor, but not entirely accurate. If we trace Barrow’s diluted coca product chain south to Anchoragua’s statewide bulk cocaine wholesalers, we oughta trace distribution backwards all the way to Mexico: America’s number 1 cocaine supplier.

In other words, it seemed only natural to work my way past all the indigenous village distributors, past the mules, pilots and smugglers, right into the Los Anchorage residences of highly recommended coke and weed dealers.

That’s a real resume builder: zero to klan mobster in 60 seconds: sociopath chameleon or some shit. Instant shite: just add powders. In nothing flat I'm snuggled cozy with some white zombie motherfuckers that'd give even Jim Ginley a woody. My flowery language and fine aroma that allow this stinky fucker, yours truly, to win friends and influence people in the nastiest parts of Alaska.

Today I’m squacking about Anchorage's Hoovervilles, Shanty Towns, Crack Houses, Little Galenas and Fort Yukon Mortuaries. Truly blessed reservation dumpsites for humans shy manners, rebs, and village darkies. And prime hunting grounds for a cereal rapist with alcoholic amnesia and multiple killer personalities only your parents could love. One of my silent partners REALLY likes shooting crows: Athabascan dumpster divers.

Bunnik says I have a keen sense of Nadar: the ability to sniff out crooks, then seduce them. Native Radar you dummies. Mine is adapted to include white, black, high stepping yellow, Martian criminals too.

But 'round these parts, I'm usually in the company of the ugliest and nastiest white dudes, blending in perfectly.

Which is what we've been doing for the last few months as our retirement hobby, played with bad guys that I find comfort in yet scare my Eskimo wife to shit. I’ll never convince her that brown folks high on booze are far more dangerous the white punks on dope. She and I can pass through any kind of closed doors, provided we play the Skin Game according to the Alaskan Rule Book.

Thomas Clark, 332-2442, big guy that you'll recognize in my pictures as a Hulk Hogan on crack-Lives in Apt #1 on the corner of Price and Richmond in Mountain View, real class joint. Not. Burned out Floridian dealer: exceptionally knowledgeable about bathtub chemistry and the metric system.

His half-bro Rick lives at 3132 Peterkin just a few blocks DTR (down the road). Good ol’ boy, in murderously racist way, salt of the Earth wretched skell from the lesser 48.

When you detect striking similarities with my crack head target you'll cackle tough cuz Sick Rick looks like that creature crypt fucker that hosts Tales From the Crypt.

Sick mullet teeth gnashing motherfucker: no shit, I pick 'em for their looks.

For the record: my chronic drug intake is merely simulated, but for the last month of Sundays, Me and bunnik been sitting around with some really ugly white dudes; all packing guns and product and willing to sell me as much as I can unload. To prove their cache, over the weekend they showed me a couple ounces of pretty decent cat piss diesel. Good coke for either free base/crack whore smoke, or toot for the rich guys: chunky and damp with fuel, just waiting for processing or drying.

I’m intentionally steering clear of the meth zone, out my league. Rich kids from the suburbs north of Seattle weren’t exposed to biker speed, crank or whatever; we were fans of bar hopping, pub-crawling from the King Dome, Pike Place or Goldies Bar and Grill out in the boonies then rally out north to hang with the Ewing Farmboys for live music, kegs of beer in the horse pasture and lots of drugs.

Just no speed or meth, wasn’t around Our Gang. Metal heads, motor heads and bake heads from the Killing Fields of The Pacific Northwest are oblivious to hillbilly jet fuels: “stoners and tweekers shall never meet” (M. Callahan).

You ask, "Why does that dumbass Karl always surround himself with armed convicts wasted away from healthy living and sanitary toilet habits?”

"It's my nature" (Dr. Logan)

Since a Leopard can never change its spots, you can bet yer nads I’ll forever torpedo crack houses and mortuaries, I'll also keep you posted.

Tonight I gotta date to inspect and taste some high grade block and break up some oz's with my newfound friends: sick-ass white fuckers straight outa Washington and Florida.

Sorry you boys can't hang. These violent wiggers think I'm Super Nazi and ALL of ye is too dark for this lynch mob. All drug food chains have white trash at the top, besides, I've never set my sites on any targets other than Aryan queers.

Racial profiling? Yer fucking right.

The only darky points I earn from my Ronin masters is 10 points running over sober Induns, 5 for drunks. Zero points for running over gooks, I need them around to buy all my machine pistols. The dinks in Kotzebue are heavily armed with butt load of Tech-9 hack job mods (boiled, oiled, filed, polished loading ramps), can't recall the crook that sold them all these guns, but he was mighty handsome.

I’ll never get any invitations to set foot inside Asian and Samoan criminal clusters, sign on the door says, “No Albinos.”

The Islanders and Gooks just had a shootout last night at 32nd and C Street with brass shells rattling off the ice in the hundreds. Despite no baby human bulls eyes on their scorecards, a fuck lot of parked cars and storefronts got shot to piss. Spray and pray and squint like Clint Eastwood, sans round eyes yet high flow Nubian nostrils.

Welcome to the Cook Inlet Freeway Roulette Hour, past closing hour teams of drivers race around in search of some puke ass aboriginal bag of shit to run over and Squish. Easiest way is to aim yer headlights on their shwag Native corp coats or whaling crew jackets, then punch it; real American cars do the rest.

Why so many natives wear all those dumbass coats and jackets is beyond me. Whenever I cross the road with my Ilisagvik Institute for The Mentally Retarded jacket on, I gotta book before the carbs open up, engines roar and screeching tires steer my way.

Them Anchoragua folks can spot rural haberdashery in an instant, shredding them under their car seconds later. If you want to cross the street safely in Los Anchorage, lose all the gay village jackets, coats, parkas and fur hats. Something about smelly ice nigger garments draped on the ancient ones really pisses off real Alaskans that enjoy rally racing and running over invisible little scralings that go bump in the dark-ness. Like that?

Back to forecasting the script in this cocaine cowboy game. I'll have to inspect larger weight product before this freelance torpedo will require your assistance-same bat channel all over again mates.

Sure wish one of you uniformed killers lived close by, I'm apt to trust YOU assholes to aim your sniper rifles up my ass instead of the weird out of town cops the Troopers bring in. I prefer to worry about the guns aimed at me INSIDE the house, not outside.

Perception IS reality. Here are just a few of the finely scripted parts our directors at Statewide wrote for us.

Some narc jobs require native players; some require badass black motherfuckers like our boy Tony. He played the role as my boss and supplier on the Capone Hall job back in November 1992.

The role Trooper Nay played was as the top food chain native distributor of fine village narcotics (UAF SAC apts). He scruffed up so good he was almost white, real pro.

Trooper Main played the Arctic Coast bootlegger and regionally protected weed dealer, greeting Logan and I at the Barrow Airport, helping us unload, refuel and scram Niggerville flying by night back to Bradley Field. On only 3 occasions I'll admit to.

If it ain't in my notebook or on tape, it never happened. Hence the polar bear poaching layered scam backfire when I sold Porter a splendid white bear hide for a skoatch under 5 grand. As I manipulate future events (and the constitution), the law of unintended consequences kicks my ass. Blowback in the entrapment trade is not a good thing.

I could never tell Porter he bought a bogus tagged hide, and Logan never learned of my unauthorized skimming, scheming and scamming all the loose odds and ends for my own selfish, yet unjust enrichment. To atone for my sins nefarious, I shipped the last of my 3 polar bear skulls to one our own crewmembers with a penchant for bear killing, figure it out.

On our last Logan's Run, we tried to swap-n-trade behind Karl Main's back and outside of airport video surveillance. No such luck, I had to give it all to the coppers cuz dumb ass Logan bragged to my associates to take a look at the quality of the sales bonus and care package he just slipped into my duffel bag.

Come on. Wake up fucks! By now and in this new century, you lads know this complex con game and war game on American druggies better than anyone, even my own wife.

How do you think I can do so many drug jobs for so many decades, with most not paying a single dime and financed out of the deep pockets of my blessed Siberian wife.

Like Mike Scott once said, "I only got one boss: Lydia."

Same deal here. She calls the shots and prays I don't get in her way while she shoots the guts and shit outa bad guys not expecting the fucking native lady to draw and fire from 20 paces behind me.

Lesser men have been stabbed through the lungs, had their fleeing truck shot to pieces by my quiet and extremely deadly scraling squaw, fuck all.

Would any of you graying gunslingers and uniformed felons trust YOUR wives to hot gun yer six? Looking around the room, I'd say a big NO. Ain't none of yer wives been battered and beaten sufficiently, their murderous native psychopathology has been diagnosed as only modulatory in periodicity. My pretty wife can't turn off her killing efficacy fer shit.

Bless my blood-spattered angel from a browner God, the chick can shoot so much better than I, it ain't fucking funny. She could clear a room with her nugger shooter before I can even mess myself.

While all the attention is on me, my photocopied money, and big fucking mouth, me bunnik always gets the drop on any and all upset druggy fucking white niggers. Needless to say, revolvers work best in me bunnik’s hands. I’ve been taught a lot about firearm theory, but she simply shoots heads and chests till they lay down, then with Indun vengeance she’ll hit ‘em in the head with a rock and scramble the yolks. Pray she don’t cut trophies.

When I open my coat to show I’m unarmed, she steps from behind me and zips ye with a cunt shot to yer face. She and our daughter Sara Magnum can shoot better than yer author on drugs: probably a good thing. Nobody assumes some fucking mute native gal could shoot worth a shit and I always get searched wherever I go.

No shit. I never carried a gun on any of our reversals, stings or controlled buys. Why would I need any guns? I got you cops itching to drill every single member of my Whites Only drug dealer nazi fucking club. My clients are always the same, exactly like me. Ain't that an honest appraisal?

Of course on all the preliminary field and intel work I prefer a heavy right side, but NOT when I’m wired to shit with buggering half-watt transmitters up my fucking arse.

KISS = keep it simple stupid.

Besides, I'm far more dangerous unarmed. Despite training from every single one of ye, I still don't shoot naturally or accurately, unless prone behind a bipod. Besides, I’ve never owned or even touched a firearm.

When the machine guns start haling hell upon my prey within the particular drug house I'm doing business in, my orders are to lay down and wait for the wood and paint chips to clear, then place evidence around as I please.

It's not just a job it's an addiction and habit to shoot first, swap ID’s later. I’m up to dick in alligators. Again.

Exactly where I like to be.



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