Saturday, June 10, 2006

Fiction mates. It's all pure shite.

Top of the morning gents,

You know when your old self creeps to the forefront and scares the living shit outa you?

My dad phoned me last night to wish me a happy Father's day, scold me for not calling mum on Mother's day and to wish me good health, long life and well wishes for my 45th birthday at the end of the month.

My dad NEVER calls me for such trite trivia.

After all the niceties, formalities and gracious chatter of the most bullshit distinction, he then paused and asked if we could talk about some other issues.

My stomach went all spasmodic and sphincter ani lynched. Only yer paps can evoke pucker factor stress of such an extraordinary nature. So I gulped and said, "What's on yer mind dad?" "Did you find an old chit debt I've yet to pay you?"

"Oh no Karl, it's nothing like that." "In the last few months, I seem to run into all your old friends. Friends I'd thought had given up on you as dead. At least that's the story Cully and Toby tell them, so does your mother and I."

I cautioned him that there isn't any unfinished business between any of us, and that as far as they're concerned I'm living in Estonia serving out the rest of my sentence.

My pops agreed, paused, then told me that Pim popped by the house, was really nosey and stated incredulously that his spies had told him that I was back in Alaska and that he'd read about me on the Internet.

When dad was over at one of his houses my brother Cully is renting and remodeling, Cully had told him that he was pulled over in Federal Way. The officer asked for his drivers license, registration and proof of insurance, then asked if he was related to a 'Karl Ewing'.

Cully explained to Dad that he'd lied to the copper and stated that he knew of no such person and that there's lots of Ewings around the Pacific Northwest. The old copper chuckled and told Cully “Tell Karl I said hello.”

My pops asked me to call him back using my Vonage Internet phone card on a fixed line (hard line) phone so we could talk openly and freely. So I did.

I told Bun to turn off the radio and keep quiet, then I phoned pops back with wet hands and a surprisingly nervous throat.

Dad answered after a single ring, asked me if I could talk, then told me exactly what Pim may have been implying in his usually candid banter. He asked who Karl suspected when he got shot out front of the college, and if he ever talked about a guy named Rob Fry or a black street thug that was found dead and buried out near Machias and Green River.

As coached, my dad just shrugged, and then stated that Karl assumed it was just a stray bullet from a random shot in the air, and I never talked about anybody named Rob Fry nor some dead black guy.

I shit may pants. Okay, almost.

Both my brother and my dad now suspect what I've always feared: my well structured deceit of well-compounded obfuscation and lies were tumbling like a house of cards. A lie is merely the truth awaiting disclosure. If more than one lone psychopath partakes in a crime, it's called conspiracy. My dad and brother detect my drug dealer days weren’t performed alone by my wits were blatantly threatened by folks jealous, betrayed by my unjust enrichment and failure to do business in good faith and fair dealings: meaning the poor sods (cops, crooks) scooped up without concern for their constitutional rights, yet smelling a rat in their house.

He stated that Pim seemed to be grasping to assemble ambiguous details about events he was feigning to not be a part of. My dad was fully aware of the details to my getting shot, and that the failed assassin was sitting right in front of him. I'd also confessed to my father that Pim and I were arrested for bombing the locker room where really bad dudes were lifting weights and showering at the old Lynnwood YMCA.

This was common knowledge to the whole community, all my family and the Edmonds, Lynnwood and Mountlake Terrace Police Departments. He also recalled a cop named Giddons, and that he had popped in from time to time to ask about a Karl Ewing AND a Don Bueler.

As all you graying gunslingers recall, he'd cautioned all of you not to mention his name, or the fact that you all served under him as Chief of the Kotzebue Police Department. This was acutely important when Wallace and the rest of you were in Washington for specialized training in covert operations, undercover something or another, and God knows what else.

Ya see, Bueler had exposed corruption, graft, assaults and murderous deeds carried out at the behest of a shit load of local corrupt police serving various constabularies in the greater North Seattle area. Some of these deeds executed with the assistance of shooter/bombers named Pim, Marty, Dennis, and yer author on drugs. Albeit not outside of the awareness of Officer Bueler despite my helpful distortions, deceptions and assistance of dirty local cops, and a father determined to halt some nasty aspects of family tradition..

Remember how folks in Washington State claim the best drugs are found in the truck of a patrol car? Deals on wheels? I think yer seeing how I exploited this corruption for my own interest, and profit. Looking back, this may have not been the smartest thing I ever did.

Organized Crime requires the sanction and blessing of local government insiders, dirty cops, and cooperative drug merchants. My role is merely that of a cocaine wholesaler sharing a few stacks of money with the really bad men. Men that come in counterfeit uniforms I used to call 'the hard guys.'

After Bueler exposed a whole culture of corruption, putting away councilmen, patrolmen, King and Snohomish Public Works heavy equipment diggers, truckers and garbage haulers, he received commendations from the Washington State Patrol, the FBI and nice letters from elected well wishers in Olympia. He still has a bounty on his head, possibly some other folks that you know also.

All immediately before he made me disappear and report to a Kathy Elam in some shit hole town named Kotzebue. Don't you remember me asking dumbly vague questions about Beuler and his destructive work back in Washington? I was well aware of what happened but it doesn't hurt to test the leak down time and who's inside the intelligence loop.

I suspected uniformed collaboration but was never sure why I was allowed to sell so much cocaine all throughout Mountlake Terrace, Edmonds and Lynnwood without ever a single knock and talk, summons or search warrant: a poisonous tenure of black market operations lasting a decade from 1977 to 1987, with my forced relocation here in 1989. See how the dates fit in with Beuler and Wallace's career time periods, my arrival and eventual flip to serve with Wallace, Nay, and Nolton?

Ain't never any coincidences in this business.

When Detective Nolton (different person) and Investigator Bueler arrived to shut down the infamous Lem's Morturary and Crack House, I knew the jig was up. Time to book, except where does a dirty dealing two timing double crossing drug dealer run when both cops and crooks want a corpse shot to pieces, carried away by dirty garbage men and buried by collaborative public works city dump employees? Now you know.

That old Washington system of drug delivery, body disposal and money transfer started way before my time, and enjoyed by all of the old timers of the community. This includes my grandfather's similar activities during prohibition with the shooting deaths, murders and burial of uncooperative bootleggers on the reservations, along the Canadian Border and over the decks of freighters moored in Puget Sound.

The Killing Fields of the Puget Sound likely have a couple thousand bodies burned, buried, crushed or sunk, but we pin a mere 40 to 50 murders on the Green River Killer, a dozen more on Ted Bundy, and hanged Wesley Allen Dodd for poaching a mere few. The remaining hundreds of Indians, Criminals and honest cops that have disappeared thankfully will never include Bueler, Wallace, nor your author on drugs.

Myself: I'm reported as a dead escapee buried in Estonia.

The poor Finnish lad I thought looked just like me took a shotgun blast to the hands and face and was only partially covered in dirt. Imaginary yet dirty deed carried by fictitious lads named Timo, Dwayne, and Paul Quinn. Phony figures imagined from stories told me in prison by more fictitious IRA lads whom also died in rendition and detainment black sites in Eastern Europe.

Yes, Pim did take a shot at me. Officer Giddons asked him to. But he missed my head, zipped a hole through my leg and sent me tumbling down a long flight of stairs, thankfully covered from further sniper fire.

Yes, Pim and I blew the shit out of Rob Fry's house, but he lived only long enough to be found drowned in Catfish Pond. Last he was heard, he was heading to Pine Ridge Indian Trails for a kegger and bong rips. Pity he couldn't swim as well enough to compete on a swim team as the likes of Pim Vanden Ende, Jim Hanson, Todd Larson, Steve Senn and yer author on drugs. After he got all fucked up drunk and stoned, he thrashed about, and then sank. He was found the following day floating in the middle face down by kids walking to Chase Lake Elementary School.

Real crew of first American Scandinavians, fine lads like you. Did you know that both fish and Hitler Youth have fins and gills, yet lack a conscience?

Bueler has passed away of natural causes, God bless his soul. Wallace is still doing unmentionable things between Anchorage and the West Coast. It’s safe to assume there’s more that meets the eye when it comes to a really secret relationship between Captain Wallace and myself, but a few of you already suspected something of this nature. Hence why you all have earned pseudonyms and nicknames, cuz in the not too distant future bad folks will arrive at your work or home and convincingly ask you about your involvement in some characters, events and supervisors non-existent and imaginary.

Shoot first, swap ID’s later, these sordid gents are best killed quick and immediately by you gents, lethal albeit graying gunslingers in DLP: defense of life and property. You’ll know them when you see them arrive, don’t balk, stall or miss. They’re likely quicker and faster at killing humans than even yer author on drugs. For your own sake, don’t miss.

6Killer knows Pim by voice and resume, Agent Octuck carries one of his signature firearms and the Sgt is fully up to date about Beuler’s work. Columbo knows pretty much all the rest of the details and can contact Wallace and my father with a mere pinky finger.

Conspiracy requires confidence with deadly men: you lot. Yet again, a lie is the truth awaiting disclosure.

Years from now, more of this fiction will become evidently truthful, but I'll be long gone, dead and buried up on boot hill. Of course it'll be another similarly looking lad with his hands and face shot to piss with a shotgun. On that day, you'll have to upgrade 6Killer's name to 8, 10, or 12Killer: whoever that man's real name is.

If all goes according to plan, he'll have an alibi, you all will be busy responding to a drunk cunt domestic violence call and I will be shot dead in the middle of writing more far fetched tales of pure shite in a staged suicide with my hands still on this keyboard.

Fiction mates. As with all my fictional stories and crewmembers, and just like all of you, none of these people or events are real.

Where's a good killer when ye need one? Just look in the mirror and keep your eyes on the horizon, I’ll continue making up nonsense.

Remember, just like all of you graying gunslingers, I never neither laid hands on another human nor ever touched a firearm.

That’s my story and we’re all beyond culpability, reproach, indictment, or bullets.

It’s the holes that’ll kill us.



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