Friday, June 09, 2006

He who refuses to stoop and pick up a pence shall never be worth a pound.

Top of the morning gents,

Goddamn long flight out of Barrow.

We had 2 shootings in Barrow, a million ambulance
calls, and the brown shirts are on the warpath. I'm
getting too old for this shit.

The juries of the Barrow courthouse have given free
passes to teachers selling meth to our children at
school and granted freedom to 2 punks that beat an
Eskimo elder to death, stealing his money for drugs.
But the biggest breach and exemplification of our
existence here in the Dark Ages was the free walk
given to the 2 ice nigger punks that shot and killed
the Asian cab driver.

Ya see, out here in Darkyville, I ain't talking about
skin color, I'm talking a dreadful place and time in
history. As long as Eskimos believe in their own
cultural inferiority and obsolete useless ancient
aboriginal lack of enlightenment, village existence
will never be free from child rape, abuse of their own
women and exploitation from vicious bootleggers and
cruel drug dealers.

Alas the world's burden of sin lies upon your
shoulders, hence your real name being Hercules. But I
had temporary distraction from all this misery. Had
not been for a new medical doctor sitting next to me
on the plane, I'd a been bored as fuck.

The Barrow hospital, named Samuel Simmons Memorial
Hospital is like our old MMC shitty BIA native clinic.
This notion includes all the odors: asbestos ceiling
tiles, wavy and wobbling floor foundation and thick,
dumb service too.

On my flight on Alaska Airlines from the top of the
state all the way to the bottom the jet flies from
Barrow, Prudhoe Bay, then Shitbanks landing in
Anchoragua. 6 hours of coffee, salty snacks and truly
brilliant conversation with a rare gem sitting next to

This sharp lad is my junior of pert near 20 years, a
young medical doctor being recruited to do a 2-year
residency far from Harborview Medical Center in
Seattle. I forgot how stimulating a man from the
educated class could be.

He had just spent 4 days touring the 'infection
connection' and the rest of town: and was amazed at
the unspoken disaster he almost agreed to assist in

He hadn't signed the contract and needed time to think
it over upon his return to the Emerald City from my
youth: Seattle. It was divine and serendipitous he was
randomly assigned a seat right next to your author on

Sounding far older than I'm used to, I told him tales
of slaughter, trauma and death our beloved Dr. Jan
Shackles repaired, stitched, or wheeled to the
incinerator. I further elaborated with details
distilled from my years working with all you graying
gunslingers, your years of public service, and of
course, Tales from the Trox.

His eyes got real big when I told him about Roy Fields
answering Annie Joule’s choking and puking fart
sounding throat chants of the dead and dying while I
was communicating with Jewell, Westlake and Blanchard
controlling collateral damage from the likes of
Machine Gun Tony, Sam Lee high on bad crack, Ethan
Cooley, triple doses of murder and suicide at the Post
Office compliments of needle dicked Dallas Hannah. A
lad not unlike Gumby or Downing.

I love gory shit. He didn't. This man is a healer, not
a killer. Big difference. Every punch from Columbo,
ASP baton blow from the Sgt. and general mayhem and
death from the rest of us is just a butt load more
wreckage this medical staff candidate would have to
FORD: fix or repair daily. Not a pleasant prospect for
a learned man whom by all intents and purposes: quite
our antithesis.

We may relish in our bashings and bruising, but a
doctor is always the guy that's stuck with the fucking
job of patching this shit up.

Analogous to my zipping a bullet through a caribou or
dog skull, then dumping the leaking corpse off at the
hospital so that this MD may put the bucket of shit up
on the rack, change out the fluids, run diagnostics
undertaking any repairs to the chassis, frame, drive
train and body.

'Cept we ain't talking about a machine, but a highly
modified hominid built upon an obsolete monkey
platform. A monkey suffering from its own primitive
past sans neither industrial revolution nor religious
reformation, poor behavior control and habitually
destructive habits yielding a sick fuck only
occasionally bipedal.

It ain't pot heads, meth heads or cocaine junkies we
see busted up all over the ER, it's the drunks. And
you poor soldiers have stuffed so much intoxicated
tissue of Siberian descent into the Meat Wagon it
ain't fucking funny.

Alas, nobody holds a red devil down and forces fire
water down their gaping stink pie hole, this
predictably disastrous series of events is a
self-starter, usually triggering major fucking mayhem
to both victim and abuser.

Now get this, I had 6 hours to talk this particularly
clean and well groomed healer to go back to Emerald
City and find me a cure for diabetes, AIDS and the
common cancer. On no terms should he ever return to
purgatory (Alaska) or I'd be forced to dole out my own
medicine of a most painful euthanasia you lads know so

I wasn't kidding. After hours of horrific nightmare
tales from our crypt, better known as the smoking
section of this cat box I cordoned off in yer minds, I
think our upset and disturbed doctor candidate was
inclined to go have a tall and strong drink. So he
did: a double G&T (gin and tonic), the drink of the
upper crust, the healthy, wealthy and wise.

Ryan the bartender already served me up my usual, a
32-ounce mug of Amber with a bourbon back: the choice
of drink for us PTSD class of criminals and coppers.
Ryan is a Mick fuck from the UK, and as expected finds
my purely fictional tales truly authentic and
reminiscent of hard drink with his mates back home.

Like your author on drugs, he also never laid hands on
another human, never touched a firearm, and only read
about blowing up British fucking SAS storm troopers
with junker cars filled with diesel soaked fertilizer,
pipe bombs and time delayed cigarette fuses. God loves
red haired bombers and snipers, so long as they're
killing Induns and Muslim rag heads. Amen?

Being of Irish descent, just like my bartender, the
good doctor tried Ryan's specialty: an IRA car bomb. A
tall glass of Guinness black beer, settling the foam,
and dropping a double shot glass filled half-and-half
with Jameson's Irish whiskey and Bailey's Irish Cream.
Immediately upon dropping this Celtic depth charge, I
tipped back the whole fucker and chugged down this
Mick breakfast leaving a bit of white Irish cream on
me lips, tongue and throat.


My new found doctor friend looked at me with amazement
and advised me I could seriously damage my liver,
kidneys and pancreas by downing such vast quantities
of alcohol: on the heals of my big Amber and Beam.
Then he downed his drink fully aware of alcohol's
benevolent and albeit destructive effects, chuckling
at my quip, “If ye can’t join ‘em, beat ‘em.” Advice I
give all non-niggers wishing to blend into purgatorial
shit ass native communities. Remember, I ain’t fucking

We got destroyed together and continued chatting about
alcohol abuse amongst aboriginal bags of shit: all the
while drinking like fucking Finns.

Hypocrisy? You're fucking right. Between visits to the
shitter for a blessed piss mish akin to leaking
faucets, we stepped out for a fag break smoking
cigarettes, chuckling over my newest phraseology of
shock and awe, choke and puke.

Drinking and smoking with an Irish doctor, now that’s
interesting bullshit. Double standard? Nup. Us fair
skinned Northern European brothers ain't fucking stink
Induns nor baby raping Eskimos. Life sucks when yer

There we were sitting at the Legends Bar right inside
the Anchoragua Shitter National Airport, talking and
drinking like we was in Dublin, Copenhagen or
Helsinki. Damn it felt good to be drunk surrounded by
non-native Irish lads, despite my ancestry enslaving
and eating theirs.

As stated before, Vikings are the worst of the lot.

Both bartender Ryan and the good and drunk doctor are
very well educated non-native Alaskans, they too knew
about the Battle of Hastings in the year of our Lord
1066 AD. I still can't imagine my great-great grams
and gramps killing and chowing down on Irish rump

Ryan the bartender quipped, "No hard feelings mates,
another round on the house?" God bless that man, no
use getting his Ire up after a thousand fucking years.
A wonderful state of being, far beyond ancient
bullshit tribal wars we still smell in Africa and

The bartender used me and the good doctor as guinea
pigs and tested a dozen new drinks he'd heard about. I
refrained the sugary sweet pussy queer drinks
referring to them as gay bar stoolers or cheerleader

Oh, the bar stool joke. How do you get 4 fags on one

Turn it upside down.

They cackled evil when I told them only polite queers
will ask to push your stool in.

I'm a sorry, enough fecal freak fagboy joke.

On the whole, the mish to Barrow was a success. I
interviewed enough possibles, then chose whom I
thought would be decent tenants. I chose a pair of
young working moms that were more on the side of
modern. Most of the other lookers could be classified
as leaning towards the primitive side of the human
scale: welfare ice niggers that believe they are
frozen in a long line of degenerate inbred Induns and
all the rest of us hardworking killers owe them free
food stamps, free medicine and free public housing.

It's enough to make me puke.

We are our parents for Christ's sake. If you come from
hard working salt of the Earth good folk, that's what
your children will be. If you come from a long line of
handout freeloaders 'on the dole', then your children
will also be shitty niggers on crack my gramps used to
call 'porch monkeys'. But he's earned his opinions,
his education, and his 7-figure net worth. God bless
the man, he lavished my parents and us kids with
encouragement, employment and land lordly advice about

America is the place to transcend old-fashioned feudal
class systems. We're all free to migrate up and down
the totem pole of life, staying at the bottom is
Darkyville due so much shit seeping downward.

This free access to education beyond compulsory K-12
is something only the landed gentry and families of
substance enjoy outside America. We all can achieve
any level of greatness and affluence here in the good
ol' USA.

And consistent with my advice to the good doctor
candidate I ordered back to Seattle, all of us have to
sidestep a hunnert fucking native villages along the
way too. But if you encounter a red headed doctor from
Harborview Medical Center, it’s cuz you’ve been
shipped out for cancer treatments, burn treatments, or
someone made a big fucking mistake and let one of you
native killers into heavens Celtic, or Valhalla. Just
don’t bring yer dumber wives; else we’d be in hell.

On this path some Brits call the stairway to heaven or
reaching your full quid, we'll have to sidestep human
detritus, shit and syphilis.

The path of the righteous is a road without traffic,
except an occasionally graying gunslinger and
uniformed felon here and there serving strong drink
and lighting yer smoke. Only lunatics and geniuses
inhabit this polar paradigm of good and evil: that’s
you lot, take yer pick.

Good to have made yer acquaintances. Much obliged to
have such an audience amoral and lethal and smelling
wonderfully like gun oil and Death.



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