Wednesday, May 03, 2006

Ye can't kill the brain dead. Ye shant rape the infected and willing. Wanna race wheelchairs? My mom bought shitloads for us for Christmas!

Top of the morning gents,

In the kidnapping game, parents will always favor
their gimp retard kids over their tall, handsome and
healthy children.

No shit, I’m speaking from experience. Teachers all
over rural Alaska fawn and stroke their retarded
fucking native students while spitting, shitting and
abusing their very own healthy and smart kids.

Timo, Dwayne and I shopped all over Helsinki for
potential targets. Sure the town is plum full of
healthy children, but what fun is snatching a healthy
kid when we’re gonna pop his gourd and pitch dirt on
him, when a gimp-tard window licker will get a ransom
faster’n shit.

Dwayne and I drove all over town searching for a prize
mini-limber that met our criterion: booquoo buck
spoiling parents. We sat, smoked French cigarettes and
drank Finnish coffee in front of every mental
institution, gimp shack and tard-droid academy waiting
for any potential prize drooler being dropped off by
parents worth more than a few million bucks.

We passed on every opportunity for months cuz most
folks go broke tweaking and tuning their mystical
gimplets leaving us Three Pussketeers with little left
to extort outa their wafer thin wallets.

When Timo text messaged us to get down to the
Euro-Hostel near the Viking Lines Cruise Ship dock
ASAP: we let our captive tongue-wagger roll unattended
down a steep hill, hopped in Dwayne’s blue Ford
Cortina and fired that mother up in time to see a
wheelchair ghost rider bite it worse than an organ
donor yard sale.

We spotted Timo’s green Audi A8 in the parking garage,
pulled up and got into his car for his morning sitrep.
He was grinning and a toking on a fat Havana and
pointed to the limo in front of a doctor’s office with
a shingle out front stating in Finnish “Physical
Therapist.” As we waited and watched we saw a
uniformed and capped limousine driver rolling a
diapered droid out the front of the office to the car.

Dwayne smiled and I yelled, “Fuck me in the goat ass.”
We found our mark.

The following Monday morning, dressed in all black
attire and caps, Dwayne and I walked into the same
“Physical Therapist” office and wheeled our trophy
gimp right out the front of the office and into Timo’s
stolen black Mercedes Benz and simply drove away.

Now starts the hard part.

We had to record everything that little fucker burped
and gibbered, cuz when negotiating time rolls around,
a smart kidnapper will have long ago kilt the little
bugger. When the parents demand to hear their blessed
gimp tard’s voice, I’d have enough gibberish to string
together a decent recording for his dumb ass parents
to hear, validating our claim and demand for payment.

We had a safe house up in Inari, Finland where we kept
my electronic gadgetry and stash of bogus passport and
ID photography equipment I donated to the Ilisagvik
Institute for the Mentally Retarded, but we had 357
miles of transport distance to travel before we got
there.

Timo discovered we had a snag: the front of the
therapist’s office had video surveillance and after
the REAL limo driver arrived 10 minutes after we fled,
the Finnish Police Authority pulled the tapes and
viewed two handsome criminals rolling a golden goose
on wheels into a stolen black Mercedes Benz.

We ditched Timo’s green Audi and black Mercedes Benz
in Paul Quinn’s courtyard parking slot and borrowed
the BMW Z-3 to find alternative transpo, while I
baby-sat and recorded our retard charge.

When Dwayne and Timo text messaged me, I cleaned up
our window licker, grabbed my electronic gear and
rolled him across the courtyard, through the gates and
out onto the sidewalk of Boulevardier street. Lugging
our abducted gimp down the stairs of Paul Quinn’s
building, I dropped the heavy little diapered dweeb
down 2 flights of stairs: little fucker was heavy as
shit so I dubbed him ‘falling rock’.

Here I am standing in broad daylight in downtown
Helsinki and Dwayne and Timo are nowhere in fucking
site.

Then a loud trucker’s horn wailed and I jumped high
enough to wet my pants with green shit. A huge Viking
Lines Tour bus came rolling up to me and drove right
up onto the sidewalk completely off the street. When
the front door opened, there was Dwayne and Timo in
bus driver’s uniforms and caps smoking fat cigars and
toasting stolen cases of champs, ports and stouts
without me: those fuckers.

I shoved our ransom prize on wheels onto the bus and
climbed in after him. After sharing champagne rounds,
over the counter 222’s with codeine and delicious
French cigarettes and Cuban cigars all four of us felt
no pain, nor a shred of guilt. Dwayne also fetched
some 100-mg. Phenobarbital caplets, just in case we
needed to sleep dirt our fish twitching prey.

We drove all through downtown Helsinki in that damned
bus looking for another vehicle to steal, transfer our
cargo, then peel out northbound to Inari. Timo and
Dwayne had master keys to only a select few year,
makes and models of Audi or Mercedes auto products.

Nonesuch found and totally fucked, we decided to
simply drive that immense bus all the way up north
only if we fueled up in Helsinki brimming that bus to
the top with pert near a tribal chief’s ransom: $1000
worth of diesel fuel. Truckers may be used to 5 miles
per gallon but not us marketing genius MBA
motherfuckers. That fuel tab almost put the kybosh on
the whole fucking mission.

From the nugger shooter seats, I kept asking questions
and recording our gimp’s answers just so we had enough
bits, pieces and clips for me to cut and paste
together a convincing audio ransom note. Ya see, in
the kidnapping biz, cutting and pasting sections of
newspaper headlines to spell out our demands only
happens on stupid American TV shows. In real life:
nobody pays until they hear their darling gimper
dude’s actual voice. Pre-mortem or post-mortem it
don’t matter, the sucker parents believe it, the kid
gets it and we get paid.

Failing to plan is equal to planning to fail. But
since yer favorite high-priced narc and grifter was
onboard, I believed I thought out everything. Nobody
expects Mr. Murphy to tag along and fuck with yer
plans. But he was onboard and he sure fucked with the
weather and us.

After an hour of driving, snow started falling and the
wind kicked up making visibility a joke. The roads
were covered with a few inches of fresh snow covering
plate ice but that 20 ton bus had dual axles with dual
tires on each end, meaning we had 8 tires pushing us
from behind and 2 tires steering up front with ABS and
electronic traction control yielding drivability and
control as if we were on dry pavement.

Halfway to Inari we were forced to pull off the
interstate to get in line at a weigh station so we
figured it was a good time to take a “Wasilla Chief
Sesh”: stink Indun code for ‘stop and pee here’.

Timo drove up onto the scales, paid his Finnish
Interstate tonnage toll, then idled over to the rest
stop for coffee and smokes at the choke and puke
restaurant. To our surprise we saw an identical bus
getting it’s ass end lifted off the ground by a
commercial sized tow truck with all it’s passengers
swarming towards our bus.

Fuck, the crowd mistook us for a backup bus. We had no
time to book.

All those hardheaded Finns and their bus driver
struggled through the deep snow with their luggage,
yanked open our side luggage storage bins and started
tossing all their earthly belongings into our Judas
goat bus like throngs of miserable Heebs heading to a
non-existent resort and barbeque in the suburbs of
Auschwitz. Mr. Murphy sure fucked us in the goat ass.

Since only Timo and Dwayne had Viking Line Tours
uniforms on, they sat up front and greeted the herd of
cold passengers into their seats while I sat way in
the back with my now groggy and awakening gimp trophy.


After all the passengers’ luggage was secured in the
side luggage hull storage bins and seated inside our
toasty warm bus, the driver of the disabled bus
started harping with Timo in Finnish. He stated that
he was the senior driver and insisted he take over the
helm. Unbeknownst to this dumb fuck, Timo was making
circular hand signals to us behind his back,
punctuated with a gun signal.

After Timo turned off the No Smoking light, cranked up
the fans and music, Dwayne hopped off the bus, double
checked all the luggage storage bins, and then crept
behind the bus with pistol drawn. He sneaked alongside
the senior driver and simply pressed his pistol
tightly in the driver’s ear and pulled the trigger.

I didn’t hear a thing. I just saw Timo grab a
mechanics rag and wipe cheese and red shit off the
side mirror while Dwayne pitched the now silent driver
in with all the luggage to leak and freeze.

So far, so good and down the road we went. After we
got under way, the elderly gentleman seated directly
in front of me stood up to take his coat off whereupon
I saw something shiny that gave me a fucking heart
attack. It was a shield I’d seen too many times
before: he was a senior officer with the Finnish
Police Authority. After he got seated again and
comfortable, he dozed off.

Since my captive window licker was still dozing from
champagne and codeine I fed him through the tube
feeder in his abdomen, I took a chance and sneaked up
to chat with Dwayne and Timo. They surely needed to
know about this passenger and would plan accordingly.

All Timo snarled was “Just fucking kill him Karl!”

Oh that’s just great, I’m stuck with both our trophy
mini-limber gimpoid drooler AND a goddamned cop.

Since Mr. Bacon Bits was snoring and reeking of liquor
I felt his jacket and peeked into his luggage for his
pistol. Seeing none I took my belt off and reached
under his seat and gently secured his feet to the legs
of his chair to prevent him from backpedaling on the
ceiling or the backs of the seats in front of him.

I grabbed 2 wire coat hangers from behind the commode,
twisted them together, and then quietly weaved my
adhoc garrote through the headrest creating a large
U-shaped metal hoop just under his chin. As soon as
Timo boosted the music louder I put my knees against
the back of his chair and pulled the coat hangers as
hard as I fucking could.

This drunken cop went from slumber to panic in zero
seconds. His feet stayed put within the confines of my
leather belt, but his hands flailed in futility around
his throat. By forcing his finger under the wire he
merely accelerating his own strangulation
paradoxically aiding me in my very own fiendish
murder.

Chuckling and grinning like a hyena, I maintained
lethal force until my arms and thighs trembled. In no
time this puke went slump and quiet. A coat hanger
garrote is far cleaner than 6Killer’s wire jobs: those
always spray piss and shit all over.

I made a note of this as I waited for my hard-on to
subside.

As soon as my dick shrunk sufficiently, I replaced the
copper’s hat and coat snaking my coat hanger garrote
back from around his neck and through the headrest
pitching it out the window and down the snow packed
cliffs.

As we passed hour 5 of our 10-hour drive, my comatose
prisoner started yawning, drooling and whining. Poor
fucker hadn’t eaten in a day.

One problem: what the fuck do you feed habitually
drooling handy champs? Aside from cold stouts, port
wines and flasks of strong bourbon there wasn’t a
scrap of grub to be grubbed. So I crushed another
handful of 222’s with codeine, mixed in a half dozen
caplets of Phenobarbital into a cup of sweet port wine
and poured it directly into this muke’s feeder tube
installed in his stomach, next to his overflowing
colostomy tube and catch bag.

“Living on reds, vitamin C and cocaine. All a gimp can
say is ain’t it a shame” (G. Dead).

Last meals need not be nutritious or tasty, merely
lethal.

Something adverse occurred with all the fine and dandy
drugs I fed into this tard droolers feeding tube and
he started another round of seizures and convulsions,
so I grabbed the coppers glove, inserted my 22 pistol
inside and fired a short round into the top of my
gimper’s head. He finally went limp and quiet again:
fun, fun.

To prevent any cheese or red shit from leaking outa
his head, I grabbed another snap lid plastic O-ring
feeder into his skull, inserted another feeder tube
and started pouring narcotic rich port wine into his
fucking head.

A chubby gal wandered to the back of the bus to use
the restroom, but seemed more interested in tongue
wagging and smooch talking to my ballistically and
chemically dead sidekick. Not a smart idea.

After she squatted, farted and tinkled she exited the
shitter and asked me how old my boy was, to which I
contrived the age of 6. She then proceeded to pester
the little fucking gimp by pinching his bluing cheeks.
She then took a closer look and asked why his eyes
were staring without recognizing her, so I advised her
the sawed off runt suffered from herpes encephalitis
and end stage syphilis due to his mom being gaped at
an early age in proper aboriginal adoption fashion.

She seethed and shivered, then started scolding me in
Finnish that I wrongly inserted the feeding tube into
his skull instead of his abdomen or butt hole.

My broken Finnish along with my foul English upset
this fat chick, whereupon she scolded me that she was
a registered nurse with specialization in ‘special
children.’ My retort was that she oughta move to rural
Alaska and try saving dull runts slipping and leaking
down the legs of their drunk monkey fucking mothers.

Just like any Al Robbie Annungatoguk’s retarded mom,
she glared at me, and then wheeled around to head to
the front of the bus. Ain’t happening Biach, so I
again pulled out my trusty old 22 caliber pistol
loaded with 22 short subsonic bullets, wrapped it in a
poopy blanket and shot her rather quietly in the back
of her fat neck with an upward trajectory into her
numb cunt skull.

With a touching and affectionate hug hold I dragged
her back into the same toilet she just whizzed,
chortled and shat in, and sat her down on the toilet
seat: pants on, lights out and nobody ever coming
home.

To prevent her royal cunt fatness from leaking fat
blood all over, I wrapped the same poopy blanket I
just used as a suppressor around her neck.

I seen this same trick used by a child poacher in
Kotzebue almost 20 years ago. Gill Hall used a sand
nigger rag wrap and tight binding around his head to
contain his fiendish brains, teeth and shit from
exploding out the window and onto me and Higbitch’s
beer cooler and barbeque in the front yard of 321
Second Avenue.

Mr. Gill Hall decided to conclude a long, slimy and
juicy career of child pooper porking by eating a large
caliber skull smoker, only he used a much more
powerful handgun. Instead of my slow and shush quiet
22 short pistol rounds, he used a 357 magnum that was
heard over me and Brian’s loud stereo, convulsive
coughing and gurgling water bong. I merely needed a
spinal cord cutter and skull bucket blender, not a
devastatingly large Hydro-Shock magnum round like the
infamous poop stained and fecal hungry Gill Hall.

Funny, after I propped Mrs. fat cunt whiner bitch on
the same shitter she previously warmed, wet and crap
smeared, I discovered my spent 22 short bullet
floating inside her right eye. Yowza, that’s so kewl,
gave me a rise in my Levis all over again.

Hey man, nice shot. We had a dead cop in the seat in
front of me, a dead fat chunky bitch leaking piss,
shit and blood in the toilet next to me with a blue
lipped silent gimp sans bad breath and pulse back on
my lap with a silly feeding tube sticking outa the top
of his puny head, with a frozen senior bus driver
stiff as a Kagoona hard-on in the luggage hold
directly under me. Who ever said a blue-eyed albino
wouldn’t enjoy sitting in the darky seats in the back
of the bus?

Happy as a pig shit? You bet. Yup, I was sportin’
wood.

Some folks might pray we needn’t kill any more
interfering hominids, coppers nor soggy blue gimps.
Ain’t no matter to me, like all of ye, I was born for
this shit. Like witty British sitcoms, murder is way
funny, erotic, and truly gits me a nut.

As night approached, Timo dimmed the lights and loaded
some Mozart into the PA/sound system as ambient music
to die for. Most of the passengers had been asleep for
most of the trip, but after Dwayne poured free rounds
of RV ports, wines and beer (222 or Phenobarbital
random victim drinks) everybody else dozed off, passed
out or simply died in their slumber.

Dwayne slowly walked up and down the bus checking on
the breathing status of all our passengers by placing
a mirror near their mouths and noses just to insure
nobody was breathing. They weren’t, so we pulled off
and hauled everybody outa the bus and tossed all of
‘em over the cliff including the stiff and fat chick
squatting on the toilet, the copper stiff and the
frozen driver dude in the luggage bins, retaining our
prize dead mini-limber drooler in the way back of the
bus.

We also took this time to instruct gimper dude’s
parents the account number and amount to be deposited
for the safe return of the phony voice-over construct
and bait and switch scam we pulled with their now dead
drooler ‘tard.

Timo stared intently at his mobile phone-laptop
assembly to insure the deposit was made: ready to
transfer these funds in and out of 3 more Russian bank
accounts we already set up. As you learned with the
Canada-Alaska pot smuggling ring bust, the best banks
to play catch the greased pig and pop goes the weasel
game from bank to bank is to have the funds destined
to an account in the Baltic States, Russia or Ukraine.


Which is exactly what we did: at a price though. We
were skimmed 10% from each bank merely for their
2-minute deposit services in our rapid wire money
transfer scheme.

Our final resting place for our triple skimmed bank
transfers was Odessa, Ukraine: a banking community
analogous to the NAZI lovin’ Swiss Bank Accounts but
with even more privacy away from prying EU and USA
eyes.

As soon as we split the remaining funds and paid all
our cost of goods kidnapped, we also grabbed our
deceased captive gimp and pitched his scrawny bitch
corpse over the cliffs of the highway to Inari,
Finland.

The codependent parents awaiting his return will in
all probability continue to wait for their brain
damaged twisted monkey gimp to come back home.

Nonesuch butt fucks, best ye take care of the healthy
kids still at home.

But as you all know, they won’t.

Like our infected ugly white dudes and their predictably
herpetic encephalitic ugly white wives, they’ll ignore
their healthy children just to reproduce more spastic
window lickers. Not exactly what Maniilaq envisioned
a few centuries back, but EXACTLY what Maniilaq Inc.
makes bank on. LOTS of gimper dude FAS droolers populating
our Native communities and plugging up an already inept
and failing rural education system.

Even to this day his parents have signs all over
Finland in a desperate attempt to bring their
mini-limbed drooler back home.

Maybe you’ve even seen their signs around here, cuz
they even posted them along the Parks Highway.


Watch for Falling Rock.

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