Hey Slim. Why do ye drink? Why do ye smoke Indians? It's a family tradition.

Top of the morning gents,

A hunnert years ago humans didn't have rights.

Oh sure, kings had rights, queens had rights, and so
did the wealthy, but humans didn't. Neither did folks
cursed with aboriginal sin: something we all suffer
from.

As mentioned previously, part of the duty roster
expected of farm boys is the burial of dead animals.
The magic depth to prevent stray dogs, coyotes and
wolves from smelling and digging up these rendering
trophies is 6 feet. This recommended burial depth also
applies to corpses of mostly hominid structure and
function.

When Cully, Callahan and Tom Girvan assisted me in
burying a rather large and bloated Billy goat, we
struck metal and pieces of flat windshield glass:
pre-float glass technology pegging the vintage of
truck to the era of prohibition. Another clue that
this truck was a crime scene was the obvious
perforations in the truck metal consistent with 30
caliber rifle rounds and shot pellets. Yup, and I
could’ve been born bright.

The significance of these readily apparent clues was
intentionally disregarded so that I could pack you
graying gunslingers with an untold numbers of year's
worth of daily miscellaneous ramblings serving as a
preamble relying on the murderous tendencies I see in
all you sons of fucks serving as my bullshit character
and plot development.

In our old age and wisdom, we no longer drink good
coffee and smoke cigarettes together in the same squad
room, central dispatch office nor cruise Little
Kivalina (South Tent City). We also don’t get together
for drinks and bullshit sessions at the offsite KPD
bar somewhere in the 400 block shooting stray dogs
from our particular drinking station right out the
open window with really quiet firearms. The only
places you’ll see us known felons consorting is in
your inbox and out here in your imaginations safe from
deletion despite repeated blows to the head, strong
drink, drain bramage and shit ass jobs.

Shit, my randomly damaged memory sectors are still
polluted with neglectful, abusive and inhumane mpgs of
village coppers, VPSO motherfuckers, municipal bacon
bits and piglet troopers all blowing a million
goddamned dogs to bits and pieces. These dumbass
images include goddamn Mack pert near blowing my arms
off cuz he thought it’d be fucking funny to kill the
mongrel pulling me out the back of a blue van.

That guy is a really funny motherfucker, I couldn’t
hear all week and I tasted animal butt pussy in my
mouth all the way back from the fucking dump. I worked
the rest of my shift smelling like burnt dog ass paint
and Lt. Eunice kept yelling at me, “What’s wrong with
you boy? Is you deaf?” “Damn son, tell yer nasty Indun
wife to try a douche once in a while.”

How pleasant. I get stuck working with you fucking
comedians while stinking just like Cecil Hawley after
forcibly manufacturing a dozen canine punk ports into
cream filled donuts. Still with me?

During my hiatus on campus I spent many evenings with
Murphy, Boobus, and Nash chowing on grilled burgers
washed down with strong ice beer, but since my
departure overseas, out of sight out of mind and
vigilant schizophrenia in Barrow I’ve been forced to
find replacements for you graying gunslingers by
partying with pale Nordic tribals and primitive
aborigines. Call me a dumb ass, but I’m a fool to look
for party replacements: ain’t nothing better than
winding down from a butt load of public service stress
with lots of rum, whiskey and cold beer in the company
of killers.

Pity, but try as I may, there aren’t any replacements
quite like you wretched yet blessed butt-fucking
gunslingers. That’s why we reassemble every couple
fucking centuries to show off new battle scars and
tell of heroic deeds of justifiable cruelty. Just last
week I was 3 doors down and pert near under the table
fucked up yet rapt in fascination at the smuggling
possibilities canning icky black meat and seal oil.
Probably I best stick my two-year drinking vacation
and daily arpeggios on this keyboard proving my
literacy.

I'll need to guide you boys back to the smoking
section of this cat box I cordoned off in your minds,
past the 200th dirt road behind the goats pasture and
near the bonfire I see you lads drinking keg beer,
horking down industrial bong rips of pine chron while
leaning against the four horses steaming in the fire’s
heat serving as leaning and drinking stations for
fucked up, armed and dangerous youth.

If you look around the bonfire you'll see 6Killer
rolling a hand rolled cigarette, leaning against a
horse of the same eye color, Columbo and that trigger
happy fucking kid from Janton, California chatting
next to the keg with some Navy thug tattooed with a
rooster on his leg. Next to me are native guys
completely foreign to the continent with congenitally
Siberian eye structure, loaded pistols stashed in
their coat pockets going by the nicknames of Boobus
and Nash.

Good crew in all, save their wonderfully horrific
habits of pounding the fuck out of, wailing the piss
out of and filling temporary cavities of hominid
abdomens and thoraxes with extra doses of ballistic
discharge. Just like a hunnert years ago and in this
bent time temporal singularity, we see a crew of
drunken murderers without a single gray hair, yet
steadily scarring knuckles from jerking off to gun
magazines.

As things change, things stay the same; just look
honestly at your family tree. Don't believe me? I'll
quote a wise fuck from Janton, California, "If I
hadn't a met all you goddamned ruthless assholes, I'd
a probably gone back in time and space to see where I
have been and killed everybody dead."

After we attained a belly full of beer, hydrocarbon
enriched breath and LSD goose bump dopamine elevated
levels, we piled into Cully's van to rally down a dirt
road to go looking for mushrooms to pick, a sauna to
stoke and a box of guns to play with.

As we rolled past Smokey Point and drifted crossed up
and sideways on wet dark back roads, we saw a giant
semi-truck backing across the road blocking our path.
Cully regained control, slowed a bit, then yanked the
parking break skidding the van sideways and to the
precise trajectory to reapply throttle and brody into
a wooded lot with a trailer, sauna and small field of
pot plants.

It’s not everyday ye see a tanker truck backing across
both lanes of a rural road: with all its light off so
Cully quickly shut off the lights and all of us piled
out of the van to sneak under the brush to the edge of
the road to watch history in the making, but not in
the writing.

We all laid in pitch-black darkness concealed under
berry bushes and shrubs directly above a large culvert
adjacent to the fuel truck idling across the road.
Down the road came a motorcade of trucks and cars
traveling directly towards the fuel truck concealed in
darkness and rain, directly below us hoodlums.

As the motorcade of trucks and cars approached all the
headlights on the fuel truck ignited blinding the
oncoming line of cars in a glare of wet high beams and
side mount spotlights with another giant fuel truck
backing across the road directly behind them.

The motorcade of cars and trucks came to a skidding
halt, and then there was a moment of silence. We could
hear men shouting and see the cars back up towards the
other fuel truck blocking their escape from the rear
further down the road. Then came the fireworks.

Unbeknownst to all of us and much to our surprise we
saw a dozen or so men rise from the pitch-black bushes
just mere yards from us, level their rifles and start
shooting. The explosions were deafening and could be
felt from our concealed hiding place. Boobus and Nash
were just grinning with typical subsistence
excitement, as was 6Killer. Columbo, the kid from CA
and the navy thug watched in awe at all the sparks
ricochet off the pickled convoy and the concussive
sonic shocks blew our unruly hair back.

Most of the ambushed passengers in the motorcade
emptied out of their cars and trucks hiding in
doubtful safety behind their vehicles. Then there was
silence and the gunmen right next to us laid down.

Another war erupted. From the other side of the road
we saw muzzle flashes lighting the night sky and
illuminating the dark ambushed figures running for
cover under and behind their now bullet ridden
motorcade, most falling and flailing about on the dark
wet road screaming foreign curses until the continued
fire shattered their clothing shooting Indian teeth
and body parts six ways to Christmas.

All of us kids likely saw little of this volley of
ordinance; we were directly in the crossfire. Due to
all the fragmented stray bullets ricocheting off of
the road, the trucks and barrels of liquor we had
ballistic projectiles screaming over our heads and
thumping into the ravine just below our faces.

Then the shooting stopped followed by a few seconds of
thunder from the gunshots echoing throughout the
fields and valleys between Everett and Marysville.

After a brief silence a tall man exited from near our
duck blind and crept towards the pickled motorcade. As
he carefully stepped around the cars and trucks, we
saw his pistol flash downwards illuminating the barely
moving injured. From his flashlight signal, all 12 men
from our side of the road and the crew across the
street emerged surveying the useless cars, trucks and
corpses leaking gallons of shitty rot gut booze
occupying the kill zone.

After the last squirming corpse was pistol popped into
silent leaking submission, a few of the gunmen jogged
down the road and into the woods. More headlights
ignited and we could see additional trucks driving
from out of the woods up onto the road and drive into
the kill zone illuminating a slew of ruined vehicles
and even more bodies: bodies of most obvious of
non-European ancestry.

At this moment we all could plainly see that the
victims of this massacre were Indians: Indians that
sprayed red blood and white teeth all over fuck and
mixing with rainwater and shitty home still booze.

With UN military precision, all the bodies were
pitched into the back of the trucks, covered in tarps
with the junked vehicles hooked up with tow chains.
The two larger tanker trucks started and quickly drove
away followed by the trucks full of warm leaking
corpses with their convoy towed behind.

In under 3 minutes the road was clear, wet and quiet.

I looked around at all my grinning hoodlums lying in
the wet shrubs next to me. Every single one of them
was simply staring at the empty stretch of road that
was just moments ago were filled with armed killers,
dead bodies and shot up Indian cars. Janton looked my
way and blurted out, "Holy shit!" “What just happened
down there?”

Nash, Boobus and 6Killer displayed masks of amusement,
excitement and glee, while Columbo, Cully and Callahan
giggled and whispered, "That was fucking cool!” Cully
and I didn’t know what to say. Both of us recognized
the tall figure doing all the pistol headshots and we
also knew where the tanker trucks came from.

After a few seconds we vaulted down the embankment out
onto the road to inspect the evidence of an event that
we almost got caught in the crossfire of.

There were some teeth, shreds of clothing and lots and
lots of blood rinsing away in the heavy rain into the
ditches on both sides of the road. Diluting all this
blood, guts, teeth and aboriginal bits was gallons and
gallons of cheap sugar liquor. Moonshine that drained
out of all the bullet-ridden barrels and jerry jugs
packing this trapped parade of dead Indians. Aside
from the ringing in our ears and scant bits of bits of
human blowback, I barely comprehended what just
happened in front of our very own eyes.

Realizing our proximity to a mass murder crime scene
we picked up a few souvenirs then booked back up the
road and down the wooded trail to where Cully ditched
the van. The idea of a hot sauna and more partying
sort of slipped our minds as Cully spun tires and
brodied the van back out onto the highway and headed
straight back to the goats pasture past the 200th dirt
road and just out of ear shot from the smoking section
of the cat box I maliciously staked off in your
imaginations.

We horked down more industrial bong rips and chugged
down some more keg beer until the shell shock and
excitement chemically dissolved. Then one by one you
all simply vanished reappearing at your desks in
remote locales Alaskan.

You lads are no longer boys, you're fathers now and
pert near fucking grandpas. But you are the only
living witnesses to a very real massacre that truly
occurred. You also know that the sins of the father
are visited upon the son, but in this case the sins of
my grandfather are visited upon you.

In subsequent discussion with you lot, not one of you
recognized the tall gent whom administered the sweet
headshots, and none of you revealed the company
emblems on the semi trucks that blocked the kill zone
fore and aft.

For this, I thank you. And so does my grandpa.

Ya see, nobody nibbles out of the pockets of
rumrunners, bootleggers nor operators of illegal
moonshine stills, hence the sanctioned terrorizing of
the Killing Fields of the Pacific Northwest. Not even
fucking Indians.

Besides cleaning up competing business, a clear
message was sent to all the tribal smuggling
operations. No segmented bodies, no shot to piss
trucks, no scant trace of this incident nor were body
parts and trophies left behind as calling cards. All
the poisonous gallons of illegal liquor are mixed with
the mud and the blood further sterilizing a now
non-existent crime scene.

'Gone Missing' was suffice. No runs, no drips, no
errors, save a few unwitting witnesses now grown to be
proficient killers in their own right haunting the
farthest reaches of remote Alaska and my fertile
imagination.

Organized crime mirrors government in granting
licenses, permits and charging levies, taxes and fees
on your particular business of ill repute. No pay, no
play. Further regulatory noncompliance results
extensive cleaning charges against your life span
without disregard for race, creed or ethnicity.
Organized crime don't give a shit about sexual
preference as exemplified by all the pock-marked
Induns fucking themselves in one big heap bloody
fucking orgy 6 feet under bonfire and keg of beer in
the goats pasture out back of the smoking section in
this cat box you all so kindly donated.

No need to worry your selves with extraneous burdens
of sin, each and every one of you is blessed, forgiven
and wonderfully dangerous. There's Angels of Mercy and
there's Angels of Death. Both teams are blessed and
divine, but it seems we got picked to wear the black
hats in this blessed incarnation. This secret stays
out here near 7-Lakes just past the 200th dirt road.

In my usual caveat of deniability, ain't none of the
players nor witnesses are real, merely imaginative
artifices, save one sole assassin: an old man past the
age of 100 residing in a convalescent home. I pray we
all live so long.

Like you lot, my blessed graying gunslingers, he also
has scarred knuckles, stinks of gunpowder and money,
and yet possesses a crystal clear conscience.

To know your self is to know God. You'll reach your
full quid when you realize that some divinely good
deeds require extreme brutality, overwhelming force
and lots of ammo. As I watch all of ye age and grow
old, no need to ask me for help cleaning up
particularly nasty problems, I’ve already volunteered.
Friends help you move: really good friends help you
move dead bodies. As you see, I already got yer back.
Night or day, if ye got a leaker to ditch or a corpse
to torch: call me. I’d be happy to assist ye in
cleaning up yer murder scene: even if its yer wife.

“Sometimes all a woman has left to hang on to, is
simply being a bitch” (Stephen King-Delores
Claiborne).

The best way to raise your children is to simply love
your wife. But as menopause steadily drives you mad,
consider my offer. You’ll know the instant yer wife is
just begging to play a game of catch the hammer or
chase the bullet. These things I completely
understand.

You killers are golden in my book: my gramps thinks so
too. Both he and my dad bust a gut whenever I get to
telling tales from remote Alaska. You boys make great
characters when I transpose real events onto you
assassins: besides, yer much better looking and better
armed. He’d a not relayed to me his tales of
extraordinary violence unless I’d already told him all
about my experiences working with you lot. Besides
being good for the soul, confession and satiating
liquor also work well to loosen buried secrets old men
reluctantly share with their equally violent grand
sons. Present company included.

This obscure historical event would not be as
believable had we not all partied hard together in
this sphere under the Get Smart Cone of Silence way
out back behind the smoking section of this cat box,
then rallied out to watch splendidly orchestrated
massacres. This is a space unhampered by physical laws
restricting the imagination I borrow from you chaps
thus allowing me to ramble on about tragedies we can
now cackle evil about whilst thanklessly serving the
public 5 days a week. If only our clients,
constituents and coworkers knew what we’re capable of
doing to any of them, at any time.

Keep your powder dry and your dick hard and the world
will turn long enough for me to continue writing
fictional tales rife with imaginary characters thus
revealing evermore locations where lots shot to piss
trucks and cars and good dead Induns are buried.

Fuck all, right mates?


Karl.

Chores always put me and my problematic mind back on track.

Top of the morning gents,

I sure am putting a hunnert miles on my mountain bike
every fucking day. This includes miles on my poopy old
boots, sore hands and back and soul too.

Every blessed morning here on spit Kikiktagruk I awake
to a mystery radio hour, sometimes just static,
sometimes far away Soviet broadcasts, sometimes heavy
duty Native music compliments of Pierre the lone
technician tweaking and tuning our local broadcast to
put out all 10,000 watts of rural epistemologies. That
guy deserves a goddamned medal for all the crap and
inane management he’s endured over the centuries.
Alas, ain’t no medals for dream walkers like Mr.
Lonewolf, and present company.

Every day here on God’s green Earth I pedal with my
Siberian Mrs. to the Eskimo Building swerving to avoid
puddles and wayward pedestrians heading home to sleep
off their cirrhosis, alien enzymatic upset and tooth
decay. Most days we ride a direct route past the MMC,
hanging a right past the old jail, city hall rallying
straight to me bunnik’s work, while other days we
cruise Front Street searching for treasures, fossils
and finds.

On the ride back home, I daydream under the influence
of hypoxia ignoring the aching muscles in me legs and
abdomen. This daydreaming is purposeful providing me a
portal across time and space delivering me to former
haunts that are no longer real, just imaginary. Or so
I thought.

On my morning treks across town, I’ll meander to the
green grocer for purchase of bulk produce or fresh
fruits listed in the manual I wrote on the care and
feeding of Inupiaq wives, children and grandchildren:
even if they’ve been dead and frozen for a thousand
years.

Some mornings I’ll rally over to the open market in
downtown Helsinki for select cuts of meat and fish,
then down to the Alko Store to pick out a couple
bottles of domestic wines and Koff Stout beers.
Finally onwards to the Florists Shoppe to pick up odds
and ends clippings and trimmings to either smoke
myself, or decorate the MBA office and computer lab at
the Helsinki School campus. Counter to my acrid and
vitriolic scribbling I enjoy decorating my environs
both occupational and imaginary with fresh flowers, a
smile and generous amounts of chocolates, coffee and
strong drink.

Some days I awake to hard manual labor such as cutting
and stacking firewood, feeding horses and milking
goats or helping an old Russian man named Pietro
pasture his livestock.

I don’t get this fucking guy. Pietro is a cranky old
man that never says thanks, but merely looks my
direction as I split and stack cordwood in his sheds,
nods, grins and then continues with his heavenly
chores of muck, mud and generations of agricultural
servitude. I can never exactly pin point the exact
moment I sneaked off the train and swapped out my
business attire for the filthy boots, gloves and muddy
trousers, but for the sake of my disheveled soiled
appearance all the villagers of Kubaka and the Russian
police walk past me like I’m not even there.

At sun up and without saying a word or inviting me,
Pietro will leave me in the middle of our chores and
stroll to the cabin. After completing our early
predawn chores he’ll go back inside for breakfast and
to make sure all the kids are awake eating mushuk,
bits of fried meat and scalding hot camp coffee:
grinds and all. Maybe it’s my poor grasp of Russian or
his absolute lack of English but neither Pietro nor
Sasha will speak to me or even look in my direction.
My theory is village life in the middle of Siberia
don’t require chatty banter nor esoteric jaw jacking.
Besides, I’m safe here.

All dirt-poor Russian villagers set an empty place at
their dinner table. Not for unexpected guests, but for
loved ones that have ‘gone missing’ or simply never
returned home after the war. Hell, I’m hungry and
dying for hot coffee and a cigarette, I dubbed that
empty chair mine, pull up a plate and saucer and dig
in.

Susceptible to narcotic and alcohol amnesia and
disorienting starvation induced mood swings that
propel me to places and deeds I can’t recall, awaking
in strange places is normal: for me and you. I’ll
sometimes awake next to a smoldering campfire, under
dusty dirty burlap sacks or saddle blankets, sometimes
on a train half way across Siberia or riding circles
on the 13B tram through the suburbs of Helsinki. Lucid
dreaming, alcoholic swimming and sober fleeing all
tend to blend together creating nightmares, day-mares
and a fine appreciation for being above ground instead
of sucking dirt.

After breakfast, Pietro barked at Sasha whereupon she
arose, grabbed her heavy coat and arm-in-arm walked
with Pietro out the front door and down the dirt road
towards town. Since I wasn’t invited, I sat still and
waited for the parents to leave.

As soon as they were out of sight and earshot, the
kids gathered around to stare at me and poke me to see
if I’m real. My broken Russian and their crude
English, blended with pictograms and diagrams allowed
me to ask and answer a few questions.

We chatted about all sorts of things. I told them
stories about my comrades back home in Helsinki and my
graying gunslingers from long ago way back in Alaska.
I also told them what America is like by explaining
how clean Seattle is and how well mannered they are.
Most of the older kids simply ignored my stories
watching the younger children clamber around me in
fascination.

The eldest girl of almost 17 years scolded the younger
kids to leave ‘it’ alone and finish their breakfast.
The distinction startled me; despite my poor language
skills I knew the contextual mistake was intentional.

I asked one of the younger kids what I was doing here
working on their dad’s mud farm and which way is home.
They shrugged and asked me why I didn’t know very much
and stated that their dad believes me to be his
guardian angel, but their mom believed me to be
something entirely different: a curse under her roof.

A curse. Why the fuck would a poor starving Russian
mother think I’m a curse? So I asked the most lucid of
the younger children what that meant.

“My mom says we’re not supposed to talk to you.”

“Not supposed to talk to me? I’m eating, drinking,
smoking and working right in front of her busting my
fucking balls in filth milking goats, shoveling shit
and stacking piles of soggy wood: and she scolds you
not to talk to me.”

“My dad says you’re a friend of our eldest brother
that died in the war and that you’re here to help
before snowfall, but my mum says if we ignore the lost
soul, he’ll find his way back to where he came from.”

“She’s afraid of you when you bang dishes and slam
doors and that men like you are the last to know you
are dead.”

“Are you dead?” asked the most lucid youngster.

“No, I’m not dead, I’m just trying to find my way back
home.”

“Where’s your home?”

I tried to reply but couldn’t come up with an answer.
My home is wear I hang my hat pull up blankets and
sleep. This historically has been numerous farms, a
junkyard, ungodly jail cells and remote Eskimo and
Russian villages where I’m surrounded by peasants I
can’t understand.

“My mom says you’re not from this Earth and that she
can’t see you, only hear you stirring your coffee and
sometimes sees you when you smoke.”

I ain’t fucking dead. Just lost and disoriented. I’ll
figure out what I’m doing after I finish breakfast and
filling up the wood shed. Chores always put me and my
problematic mind back on track. Which is what I did.

When Pietro returned from town, he surveyed my
progress grinning from ear to ear. Apparently, my
presence isn’t disruptive as long as I stay outside
with all the goats. He noticed that I raked and bagged
up all the wood chips and bark to dry inside the wood
shed. He also smiled in admiration at all the milk
pales filled and porched with all the goats fed and
watered inside the barn for the night.

While in town, he’d fetched a pouch of tobacco, so he
rolled a couple cigarettes and set them on the table
next to me. As I grabbed a smoke and lit it from the
candle at the dinner table he just watched in
amazement muttering something like “tupaq espiritu.”
Whereupon his most lucid child commented, “If he was
dead, he couldn’t smoke with you could he dad?”

“See Mr.” “I told my mom that you weren’t dead and
that you would find your way back home after you
finished your chores.”

I replied, “Hey kid, shut up about the dead man talk.”

“Do ghosts dream when they sleep?” “Or do you travel
to other farms to help with their chores?”

Which reminded me that on the other side of the world
an Eskimo woman will need me to put on a pot of
coffee.

Most days and dreams are abruptly shattered by the
alarm clock or sheer fright. This morning I was
absolutely overjoyed to awake next to my blessed
Siberian Mrs. It’s hard work to moonlight as a laborer
and farmhand in other countries and foreign time zones
and alien centuries. As you can tell, I completed my
chores and awoke on the wrong end of the North
American continent, in another remote village.

I’d like to believe it was all only a dream, but will
one of you please explain to me all the sores on my
hands, aching back and manure under my fingernails?

Next time you have a slew of unfinished agrarian or
subsistence hunting chores left untended, send me a
smoke signal, I’ll give you hand. I am every father's
long lost son.

Have dreams, will travel, but keep a candle lit for me
and a few hand rolled cigarettes on the table. I'll
likely need all of your help finding my way back home.


Karl.

Precipitate derivative concepts and opines from my interviews with a proud Negro and decades of debate with a lethal crew of graying gunslingers.

Top of the morning gents,

God Damn! I love rainy mornings. No bugs, no stray
dogs and no roving gangs of native youth harassing our
morning village rush hour. These kids wander aimlessly
'round town in search of shit to steal, old folks to
intimidate and drunks to shake down for lunch money.

Lunch money my ass, these kids are merely jiving down
every dirt road and short cut scanning their Inupiaq
ghetto domain in the most obvious mode of predation.

To quote a really funny phrase from me bunnik's bent
brother Bobby, "Nice thing about the rain, there's no
seagulls and no niggers." He was merely rephrasing a
tidbit of soggy Seattle banter he'd heard while
working as a chef aboard merchant marine vessels.

One noteworthy distinction between Pike Place Market,
the Central District and Capitol Hill of Seattle
versus the mean streets of Kotzebue: the rain didn't
drive away the indigent, the homeless and the roving
gangs of wasted native youth of Kikiktagruk spit.

I ain't shitting, despite down pouring rain cleansing
the air, street and spilt unnuk aside my neighboring
grovels, me and bun heard loud wanna-be negro native
thugs talking shit awakening neighborhood dogs. I
watched in amusement as Leonard Sage's gang, the fat
Sumo chick gang and Donald Tucker's gaggle of shredded
rectums meander by pitching ghetto hand signs,
declarations of ignorance and poverty all while
flashing inane gang hand signals with filthy, stinking
brown hands. Not black, just brown but equally
destitute and so unwashed and greasy the rain fails to
disburse the scavenging miscreants lacking guns and
enlightenment beyond feline or canine dumpster diving.

Amidst all this chaotic posturing and posing I
discerned only two words: help me.

How fucking depressing, we got racially and chemically
divided gangs of the most darkest descent shooting the
piss out of each other in Anchorage with smaller and
dumber gangs of Negroidally derivative turds migrating
all night all over a truly ancient village and
directly below my bedroom window. I'm betting there
are some ancestors and grandparents rolling over in
their graves cursing in self-deprecation it's
'nobody's fault but mine' (Plant/Page).

This newest generation of future inmates, substance
abuse and alcohol addiction clients are the resulting
product of drunken parenthood and grandparenthood. The
bars of Kotzebue may have been a steady paycheck
vaporizer for the Mrs. generation and her parental
units, but the vacancy in groceries, clean clothes and
child rearing affection has yielded a town filled with
a hunnert punks believing they'd last a New York
minute in a New York mafia gun battle. Sad shit eh?

The majority of kids listening to hip hop music, rap
videos and TV shows depicting fictional black on black
violence ain't blacks, the target audiences are kids
with much lighter skin hues.

According to Al Sanders, the former announcer at KOTZ,
his UW classmate employed at Tower Records gave a
graduate JB (journalism and broadcasting) presentation
of customer preferences and customer demographics
shopping at the record store he managed.

The more dark, depressing and black the artist, theme
and music genre, the blacker the bottom line and the
whiter, redder and yellowier the cash paying customer.
He went on to conclude that very few hip hop or rap
genre media was ever sold to customers of truly
Negroid descent and that these musical genres were the
largest revenue drivers in the whole record store
chain's revenue structure.

Bet ye didn't know that did ye? Most nauseating ghetto
music is purchased and embraced by Asians, Europeans
and Native Americans.

I think I'm gonna puke again.

We've spent billions on capital projects, new schools
and health services yet we have most of our native
youth chewing, spitting and smoking anything that'll
burn, drinking anything too thin to chew and huffing
everything more volatile than a cunt fart under Akka's
rocking chair.

The new native youth gang war paint ought include a
rusty rings 'round their mouths from a gas can, or a
brown chunky ring 'round their face from huffing
alcoholic fanny farts: hence Al Sanders referring to
Kotzebue's punk youth as 'suck ass nigger lovers.'
This entire dollop of “elephant talk” (King Crimson
diatribe) coming from a black man educated pert near
to the level of Dr. William Cosby or Dr. Morgan
Freeman.

Good ol' Albert Sanders is now assistant director to
Dave Ross at KIRO 710 radio in Seattle and heavily
involved in the Sno-King (Snohomish and King counties)
Big Brothers and Big Sisters program.

When I asked him why he doesn't return to Kotzebue to
do the same wonderful works of philanthropy, he
replied that he only tills fertile soil: the cradle to
grave coddling of our retarded native youth will never
improve until we eliminate the social and healthcare
services that prevent drug addicts and alcoholics from
what he phrased as "hitting bottom."

Ain't that a slap in the face.

In the analysis of cause and effect, I see the
vaporization of disposable (and in-disposable) income
out of the wallets of our blessed rural communities
directly from the purchases and devastation of
alcoholic beverages. Opportunistic natives purchase
bulk orders from Anchorage yet the loss of work,
cooking and cleaning and overall availability of
affectionate and responsible child rearing is still a
glaring externality (unintended consequence of
commerce) nobody can afford.

Those dysfunctional alcoholics I see wandering 'round
stealing and scamming any dollar for bootleg bottles
are the most visible cost to our shit hole society
here on the edge of spit.

Barrow, Bethel, and Kotzebue are the last big nig
villages that legally allow the purchase of alcohol.
One problem, the majority of the populace in each of
these respective villages can't assimilate, digest and
assimilate liquor. Not even close.

Those that can drink responsibly, and I mean this in
the sense that a responsible drinker has ZERO alcohol
related offenses on their criminal records: DWI, DV
and DO (driving while Inupiaq, domestic violence, and
disorderly conduct) still contribute to the dullard
petty criminal rosters the Sgt, Columbo and Squish
gotta indict, try and incarcerate while thinking
they’re part of the solution instead of contributing
to the problem. I’ll refrain from mentioning the
obvious disasters Agent Octuck and 6Killer have
endeavored to FORD: fix or repair daily in their
capacities at OCS and CPS.

Sad to report gents, I can't cut the mustard neither.
I put a couple bottles of spendy VSOP Cognac and Jim
Beam Rye in my luggage enroute to Barrow. The TSO
gonad busters snagged the booze and I received a
summons in the mail. The rule that's being enforced
ever so vigorously on ALL of Alaska Airlines flights
is ONE fifth per passenger, "no ifs, ands, or buts."
Keep this in mind when you travel

I paid a nominal fine, 6 months probation and the SIS
(suspended imposition of sentencing) bonus allowing me
to deny ever being convicted of a misdemeanor.

So as I preach loud and proud, I'm also cast into the
masses of sinners and would happily forego my Viking
indulgence in spirits if my domicile went absolutely
dry.

What a cheap price to pay? When I closed down Lem's
Mortuary and Crack House in Mountlake Terrace, albeit
at the stern urging of Investigator Beuler a shit load
of money wasting scumbag addicts went hungry for
crystal vapors and snot drainage. When I shut down my
Scandi-negro bar in Barrow a shit load of money
wasting ice nigger alcoholics went thirsty and were
forced to buy groceries and diapers instead of waking
up hung over as shit, hungry and surrounded by browner
babies crying and soaked in their own creamy baby butt
poop.

I'm excitedly imagining how much our frozen ghetto
Kotzebue would improve in odor, congenital IQ and
populace the day we cease all liquor purchases. Sorry
gents, but no means no, and there ain’t a single
Native American equipped to enjoy, then destroy the
ethane molecule and I ain’t waiting 5,000 years for
aboriginal genomes to mutate and adapt.

The chronic alcoholics that can't go years without
liquor will follow the native garbage disposal
pipeline and move to Los Anchorage where we see former
neighbors of all colors sleeping in shelters and
eating rank foods at Bean's Cafe. Virtue is its own
reward as wickedness is its own punishment; the folks
that can't exist in sobriety will eventually slide
down the slippery slope getting permanently marooned
in Alaska's aboriginal dumpsites and urban
developments.

Ignoring my Viking's thirst for Jim Beam is a small
price to pay. I returned to Kotzebue because
everything good that ever blessed me happened here on
Spit Kikiktagruk. I owe this cursed village in a big
way. My wife, daughter and grandchildren, my education
and all the best friends a man could ask for, you lot:
my blessed graying gunslingers.

In my old age and questionable wisdom, I now count my
blessings: present company included. Now it's payback
time and I intend to honor my debt to this perversely
backwards and congenitally and chemically retarded
society.

As my blessed Siberian Mrs. declares, "Let God take
care of it", I now understand why we were all placed
on Earth and why we all collided with each other
yielding compassion and thorough understanding of our
own divinity here on Earth.

One of the first rules of civilization is to recognize
our duty and obligation to our fellow man and that we
must treat others, as we would like to be treated
ourselves. These rules hurt like a motherfucker with
the explication (explicit vs. implicit) that I have to
treat everybody here in my community including all the
wanna-be niggers, stink Induns and spics like a
well-educated and enlightened gentleman: despite the
thick inbred hatred of taller aliens with blond hair
and blue eyes.

This Christian shit is hard shit: fuck me in the goat
ass. Virtue ain't inborn, it's beaten in to us.

I owe you lethal fuckers my life. I hope you don't
mind my paying this debt not to you, but to your
community and families.


Karl.

---

PS. In the battle to restore funding to Alaska's
remote village public safety and basic Community
Healthcare Providers I'm still torn on the issue of
opening Pandora’s box (liquor cabinet). The pursuit of
tax revenues derived from the legalized sale of
alcohol to an entire race of people least equipped
(stomach, liver enzymes) to tolerate city operated
liquor stores may prove to be just even more
disastrous. I doubt many of you have ever partied on
the rez with stink Induns drinking legally purchased
booze: it’s all shit.

Compromises such as selling only beer and wine, but
not hard liquor may work. But as we all know, Induns
prefer firewater and Eskimos prefer R&R rot gut
whiskey. Mad euphoria in the form of dopamine rushes
is a high far more difficult to achieve when yer
sucking down sacrament grape juice and foamy grain
beverages instead of chugging down jet fuel.

Time will tell, albeit ever so painfully and at the
expense of their blessed aboriginal children of a
lesser God.

---

Nulato votes on liquor today
YUKON: The village-owned store would raise funds for
services.

By ALEX deMARBAN
Anchorage Daily News

Published: July 11, 2006
Last Modified: July 11, 2006 at 03:42 PM

Nulato voters head to the polls today to decide
whether their city should become the fifth in Alaska
to run a liquor store.

A city-owned liquor store would pay for police and
other services in addition to supplying drinkers with
booze. But the measure is controversial in Nulato, as
it has been in other villages that have considered
city liquor stores, because of the problems that have
followed alcohol into Bush towns.

Nulato is currently a "wet" village -- possessing
alcohol is legal there, though it's not easy to get.
Villagers who buy liquor now must travel about 15
miles up the Yukon River to the Last Chance liquor
store or get booze at high prices from bootleggers in
the village.

Opponents say the Athabascan village's drinking
problem will grow if the measure passes, as cost and
distance will no longer dissuade drinking.

Supporters say a hometown store will make the village
safer because residents won't risk their lives
traveling upriver for a drink in subzero or stormy
weather.

There hasn't been a death of that sort in a few years,
but several travelers on liquor runs in the past have
died of exposure or drowned after falling overboard,
said Mayor Glenn Demoski.

A liquor store could be a breadwinner for the city
government in the riverside village of 310, he added,
paying for police and youth programs, including some
that combat alcoholism.

Nulato has no police or safety officer, he said.

Demoski was appointed mayor six weeks ago after Royse
Purinton, a co-sponsor of the initiative, stepped down
for health reasons, Demoski said.

Purinton could not be reached for comment. Neither
could the owners of the Last Chance liquor store, who
have said they oppose the measure.

The Last Chance is the last place where travelers
headed downriver can legally buy alcohol. After the
Last Chance, Yukon River villages for hundreds of
miles have banned alcohol.

The City of Nulato hasn't calculated how much the
store might bring in or how it will operate because it
can't take a position on the measure, said city
treasurer Rebecca Agnes. The city, in part because of
high fuel prices, is barely making ends meet, she
said.

Polls are open from 8 a.m. to 8 p.m. at the teen
recreation center.

If the measure passes, Nulato will be the first
village in 13 years to open a city-run liquor store.
Klawock in Southeast Alaska was the most recent.

Fort Yukon and Tanana in the Interior and Kake in
Southeast also operate city-run liquor stores. The
stores regulate sales and raise tens of thousands of
dollars a year, supporting police, youth programs and
cultural activities.

City-run liquor stores can make a village safer if
they limit individual purchases and refuse trouble
drinkers, said Bill Roche, head of enforcement for the
state's Alcoholic Beverage Control Board.

But many villages don't see it that way because
alcohol has devastated generations of Natives, he
said. Booze is blamed for disproportionately high
assaults, deaths and domestic violence in rural
Alaska.

Many villages will have nothing to do with alcohol, he
said. About 80 have banned possession; 20 have banned
sales.

Area trooper Anne Sears, based in Galena, said every
complaint that brings her to Nulato is
alcohol-related.

As a rule, more alcohol means more serious crime, she
said. But if the village liquor store carefully
regulates sales, crime may fall, she said.

That seems to be the case in the upriver Yukon River
village of Ruby -- with about 185 residents -- where a
privately owned liquor store controls purchases, she
said.

"I don't have near the complaints (there) that I do in
Nulato," she said.

Many elders in Nulato oppose the measure because
they've watched alcohol destroy lives, said resident
Dee Stickman.

The retired elementary school teacher said children of
alcoholics suffer most. She's seen them drag into
class bleary-eyed for want of sleep or hungry because
their parents bought liquor instead of food.

Teenagers in the village drink more than they used to,
and a nearby liquor store will fuel the problem, she
said. The city needs to find other ways to pay bills,
she added.

"Not at the cost of lives and children," she said.

Playfields, school yards and basketball courts make the best open drug markets. Our village market demand for drugs is the prize worth dying for.

Top of the morning gents,

More aptly this missive should start off with "My dear
blessed graying gunslingers and uniformed felons."
6Killer always recommends ye "bring the battle to
them, and if ye can't kill their will to fight, ye
best simply kill them all and let God sort them out."

The news of Alaska reflects old news from the Killing
Fields of the Pacific Northwest: plus or minus 25
years. This is too weird, drug gangster punks chasing
kids away from playfields just like the playgrounds of
Seattle’s Central District better known in ghetto
slang as ‘the CD.’

Playgrounds and playfields are the best places to sell
little bindles and plastic pouches of heroin, crack
cocaine and meth because of the unofficial cone of
silence hanging over every little Anchorage kid like a
terrifying sword of Damocles. Kids never tell their
mommies and daddies for fear of brutality at the very
ball fields naïve parents are sending their very own
kids to play and get their asses kicked by angry
coaches, angry parents or cool drug dealers. Besides
kids make the best long term loyal customers, just
look around Alaska, the best cigarette and alcohol
customers ain’t even teenagers yet: some you even
married.

I remember this kind of 'random victim' violence. It
sucks; the local Mountlake Terrace police authorities
always overlooked the underlying rationale, gun
battles always occurred when I didn't have a fucking
gun at my disposal.

Who brings their gun to the ball field or basketball
courts? Just the niggers and the best I could do is
dive behind cars or lay REALLY low. My scars indicate
way more pistol and rifle butt markings and knife
wounds, but regardless, I still picked up a couple
stray bullets, some not so stray.

The rampant drug business in Anchorage and the Mat-Su
valley is primarily aimed at Alaska's outlying native
villages. My friendships with Sick Rick and Thomas
Clark proved to be golden opportunities in Bethel,
butlost opportunities to drug dealers in here in
Kotzebue, because you graying gunslingers are on the
job. Had not been for you uniformed felons blocking
incoming volleys of shitty cocaine, frozen bud and
bypass mail smelling like whiskey, this town would be
even more retarded with FAS ice nigger monkey fuckers
running the place. Oops, fait a compli.

It's no secret that brown ‘tard aboriginals on welfare
are more than happy to pay more for their bootleg
booze and shitty cut down drugs than anybody else in
the world. These rural Alaskan illegal drug pipelines
are fat cash conduits worthy of a fight to the death,
especially since all the customers, indigenous dealers
and mules are darker than my fucking dick.

To quote White Mike Baker, “I got a million dead ice
niggers in my wake.” “Them fucking mongoloids either
choke and puke or fall out of their fucking boats, but
either way ye get a blue monkey.” “Just get yer booze
to Selawik and yer a rich man.”

Who cares? Just a bunch of darky motherfuckers barely
worth three fifths of a vote never exercised at a
ballot box anyway.

The current turf war is a battle over the distribution
channels and wholesale networks infesting South
Central Alaska with the ultimate consumers residing
miserably in Barrow, Kotzebue, Bethel, Dutch Harbor
and all points in between. All these spray and pray
gun battles between the wiggers, niggers and nostril
tribals are all over the drug trade pipelines and
conduit channels serving drug addicts and grabby abby
alcoholics right here in all of our own villages.

Put simply, all the native welfare money we pay to
local village porch monkeys flies straight out of town
back into the pockets of these Samoan, Nazi and
Negroidal drug-dealing gangsters. It's okay to use
racist terminology when referring to the business I've
enjoyed unjust enrichment from. Civil rights aren’t
intended for minorities that can’t behave in a civil
manner.

A creative tool of demand destruction utilized by the
King Cove, Cold Bay, Naknek, Dillingham and Unalaska
slime lines and crab butcher factories is the legal
enactment of frequent and random drug testing for all
them out of town workers and out of town fishermen.

No shit, the workers are mostly non-Alaskan imports
shipped in from the lesser 48 to do the hard work
Alaskans really ought to be doing. But few Alaskans
qualify to earn honest fish/crab money, our urine is
so hot, it'll melt glass Allvest beakers and lab ware
in mere seconds.

I can't imagine anyone pulling a whole summer of
gutting salmon and whiffing rotten green crab guts 12
hours at a time without a personal lifeline (priority
care packages) of CRB (cancer research bud) from
Mountlake Terrace.

Just read John Steinbeck's Cannery Row, drug free
alcoholism drives a mortal crazy; hence my shock turn
amusement watching so many knife fights inside and out
front of Carl's Elbow Room. Seeing such horrible
beatings and stabbings is best viewed through beer
goggles, not industrial glass bongs.

All my cannery slimer pals aren't with us any longer:
most die early due to chronic alcoholism, chronic
living so that they can die quickly and easy like all
Alaskans. I befriended quite a few folks much like the
Burnors, Bakers and big fucking Induns like my closest
pal and body guard I named "Chief" a tall son of a
bitch Native hombre that covered my 6.

No shit, there’s lots of cruel knife wielding sick
fucks from the Philippines, Pacific Islands, and
Washington all mixed up in rotating shifts with only
liquor and tobacco as the legal stress relievers. Not
necessarily a recipe for success. Unlimited diversity
brings unlimited possibilities: good and bad.

Come to think of it, he watched my back almost as well
as you lot: my blessed graying gunslingers. Now that's
weird, I just realized I prefer the company of men far
more violent than I. When we see Barrow’s meth problem
arrive here in Kotzebue simultaneously as Asian and
Samoan gooks, slopes and dinks armed with powders and
liquors you’ll hear only one favor. “Give me back my
bullets."

White owned marijuana grow-ops, Mexican cocaine
importers, Asian and Samoan meth mulers: all serving
the needs of bush Alaska. From Wasilla, Willow and
Palmer to Kotzebue, Bethel and Barrow: all this drug
and race related violence is all for the benefit of
your local sloppy raping drunken native in-laws and
baked and chinked native punk kids next door. Don’t
that just piss ye off?

According to my monitoring of back channel narc
chatter, in a few weeks you lads will have the whole
gang here again: your very own star chamber. To
activate this crew, ye just gotta ask.

You boys keep up the good fight. The life you save me
be your own kids. Leave the dubious suicides,
accidental gun deaths and unsolved murders to those
angels of Death. God works in mysterious way. Amen?

Karl.

---

Gunman opens fire at Anchorage flag football game

The Associated Press

Published: July 10, 2006
Last Modified: July 10, 2006 at 07:06 AM

ANCHORAGE, Alaska (AP) - At least one person was
injured when a man with an "Uzi-style" weapon fired
numerous shots at a crowded flag football field in
Anchorage then fled.

Witnesses said as many as 50 shots were fired across
the Anchorage Football Field near Sullivan Arena about
7:45 p.m. Sunday during a pickup game of flag
football.

A 22-year-old man was shot and there were reports of
possibly more victims, according to police. Police did
not identify the victim, who was taken to Alaska
Regional Hospital. One witness said the man was shot
in the shoulder and below his left eye.

Police said it was too early in their investigation to
speculate about possible motives.

Zach Ziemer, 18, told the Anchorage Daily News he was
standing on top of the grandstand watching the game
when he heard one shot, followed by three, then dozens
more. Ziemer described the gunman as a black male with
dreadlocks.

After the first shot, players dropped to the turf,
then scattered for cover in all directions, Ziemer
said.

Milt Pagano said he heard about 50 shots, then saw two
SUVs take off.

Police Lt. Paul Honeman said a dark-colored SUV sped
south on Gambell Street. Witnesses said many vehicles
took off from the scene before police arrived.

"It was Fourth of July all over again," said Nick
Mincks, a witness. "Everyone was running for cover. I
was ducking behind the wall."

Hundreds of people were gathered in the area Sunday
afternoon, enjoying the sunny July weather. Two adult
baseball league games at nearby Kosinski Fields and
the championship game of an American Legion Baseball
tournament at Mulcahy Stadium were in progress when
the shots were fired.

Donna Fox, a nurse who was watching one of the
baseball games, said she rushed to the football field
after hearing a man had been shot. Along the way, she
saw two men climb over the western fence of the field.

"They ran into the woods with blood dripping from
their shirts," she said.

All games were canceled.

45 caliber birthday partying can be harmful to your health.

Top of the morning gents,

Busy weekend. Fuck me in the goat ass, but there was a lot of drinking AND a lot of drunks staggering around town.

Kotzebue's brisk drug trade enjoyed a bull market session from July 1st and still rallying as evidenced by lots of seriously fucked up ghetto gorillas, porch monkey fuckers and drunken ice niggers bellowing in praise of their successful dopamine rushes facilitated by rapid ingestion of a veritable plethora of intoxicating substances.

Me and bunnik rode the dopamine rush wave too. We rode our brand new mountain bikes all over town visiting all of our party mates from the old days back a few scores and 20 years ago. Most of the players are deceased, in jail or domiciled at the homeless shelters in Anchoragua and Shitbanks, but I’m still alive and equipped with fine legs that propel my mountain bike and me at breakneck speeds all over Kikiktagruk Inupiaq Soil that’s gone bad. What the fuck? It’s my party and I’ll fly if I want to.

Replenishing the old drug guard we got characters like Tami Stevens rolling in Cokeville peddling shitty grams (foot powder, baby laxative and biker speed) to droves of impaired Asian descendants inhabiting the Low IQ (low-income) compound (A1, A2, A3 and 16 unit). That chick is SO ghetto: true believer in the most tragic sense of the word. This chubby ice nigger bitch is hell bent on spending the rest of her wickedly miserable life sucking on convict pussy and stink fisting incarcerated skank biscuit.

Ye know something gentlemen? Lt. Columbo is spot on. A while back we chatted how fun it was to party with our fraternity pals on campus or in foreign countires, but how fucking awful and inordinately depressing it is to compress a 2-year drinking vacation within the Independence Day four day weekend.

The weed biz is kicking butt too: delivery is just a phone call away. Sunday morning I was awoken to a seriously packed Sally Melton pounding on my front door inviting us over to there house for Heineken Beers and bong hits. Tell 'em my motto: "Green beer and green toke?" You bet.

Just as I passed my 50% throttle with lots of really good Russian vodka the doorbell rang indicating the other half of my Finno-Ugric breakfast of champions had arrived. (The hoocha-maroonie delivery gal is a half black half Eskimo gal we all know, but my respect for my readership prevents me from mentioning her name.) Even with a natural blend of 17 herbs and spices, I barely cured reoccurring damage I was already repeating.

My favorite places in the whole fucking world to drink is Frankfurt, Germany, St. Petersburg, Russia, and Helsinki, Finland: in reverse order and sobriety. Someone bitch slap me, the reservation is a sucky place to party down, get fucked up like a Viking, and stagger home in terms I heard: "Walk like a Norwegian."

I laughed a lot and much to my own embarrassment I sounded callous as a fucking white Mike Baker. My cacophony of sick jokes would’ve cracked all of you up, but were chorused by lots of crying, lots of yelling and fighting and misery upon the next generation of fuck ups: their children. Call me a dumb ass, but why would anybody want their children nearby when I'm telling long winded stories about fishing accidents, shooting accidents and fucking accidents.

Beer isn't just for breakfast anymore. A Mexican breakfast is coffee and cigarette, a Russian breakfast is a glass of vodka and a smoke and a Finnish breakfast is scalding hot coffee, a table spoon of reindeer lard with a shot of vodka to serve as blending agent, emulsifier and antifreeze.

As I smoked and staggered past my 45th birthday this last weekend I enjoyed citizenship in all three zones of geographic impairment: but it's not the same. Getting hammered in the company of mad blotto ice niggers ain't no fun at all, but so second nature to me, I feel quite comfortable drinking and smiling while the rest of the party is screaming, fighting and abusing each other. When in Rome: do as the Romans, I guess.

I even retold funny tales about Sheila Romaine and Gil Hall eating a cannon, Dallas Hannah turning penis envy into facial destruction yielding 3 corpses that strangely appeared to have cunts on the front of their craniums.

Ethan Cooley's shooting the piss outa Chey Yuk redeemed me, cuz I can always crack up an Eskimo with humorous tales of Stink Indun Half-a-gas cans shooting the legs and abdomens of gooks, slopes and dinks. The finale of my tale ended with the comparison of bullets found in Sheila’s and Gil's hair and brains: both magnums, 44 and 357, yet Ethan Cooley's pissy little 22 rifle round screeched a mile out the top of his nappy head.

I resisted joking about the 3 little kids that drowned in the lagoon, cuz that ain't funny no matter how I tell that tragic tale. Plus it makes me think of poor Agent Octuck, Wallace and Trox smoking cigarettes in the squad room: red eyes and trembling smokes.

Describing Katy Norton's strangely stretched face yielded zero chuckles, even when I used my hands upon my own face and pulled my eyes and cheeks in opposite directions. But I'm cackling evil as I relay this entertainment bomb to you gunslingers.

I did get applause when I described Al Robbie Anungatoguk's rubber lips and no-teefer mimic speech after detailing the hunting knife slash that dropped the lower half of his face so that he kept tripping on his own lips. I don't care where you was raped, that's funny.

No references to last week's deaths: them's is too fresh and painfully sensitive. Common folks don't got stomach for gallows humor, nor ER banter. Pity, time heals all wounds, but nobody cares to save their last brain cell for my next party.

I could bust guts on a whole crew of Euro trash rich boys with these tales but not this weekend, all them browntard party animals got upset and quarrelsome. I gotta stop laughing at darker folks' misery. Fun, fun.

The method to my madness is simply reminding humans of their own madness. Drinking miserably yields darkness and despair. My job is to remind habitually bipedal hominids that God is a comedian and we're too stupid to laugh, “Silly human race” (Yes).

No, I didn't bring up the Adams kid that nose-dived his own plane into Squirrel Canyon, but I did wax fondly of dispatching for a S&R mish where 2 German hunters were found in their underpants, sitting on the edge of the ice dangling their legs in the open water. Another Tale from the Trox/Wallace archives: hypothermia and frostbite in the advanced stages feels like burning skin on fire. These 2 hunters started freezing so they stripped almost butt naked and cooled themselves in the frozen river: at 27 below zero. Wallace told me that they had cheesy grins on their faces: yet frozen solid requiring rescue personnel to axe chip their butts off the ice.

Ain't that a bitch to get yer mind around?

Alas, where the fuck do I get off importing my Scandi-negro drinking habits out here to the northernmost isolation on the edge of the universe and the edge of sanity? If any of you graying gunslingers hung out with me over the weekend, you’d surely question my wisdom. What the fuck? You already do. Your readership is vicariously evident of my own stupidity, unrelenting guilt and my inane fun derived from such painful and conflicting emotions. Had not you walked in my shoes, all this correspondence would prove all for not.

Contrary to cultural devastation and eventual obsolescence Alaska continually suffers from and may likely never escape, the entire rest of the world drinks to their health and celebrates life in general here on Earth, and specifically how we’re taking Heaven and this blessed garden of Eden for granted every time we choose to be stupid and hateful. Being stupid is a choice, so is depression, anger and resentment. “If you choose not to decide, you still have made a choice” (Rush).

I remember exiting the Grand Hotel Bar in downtown St. Petersburg with Dwayne, Timo and Paul Quinn after a night of caviar, oiled salmon, Minky whale from a pickle jar, real Cuban cigars and lots of rounds of drinks. Paul was telling us a story about his Brit and Mick pals, comparing these recollections to my horrific village tales from Alaska. Approaching us was group of Russian sailors in uniform, arm in arm and staggering to the songs they were singing drunk. The frosty sidewalks of St. Petersburg are always crowded with pedestrian citizens Russian but happy to step aside for these jovially intoxicated uniformed comrades on leave of their duties and out on the town for some honest hard drinking.

As they neared us, I got a little nervous. But watching the elderly ladies and gentlemen make way for these sailors they too smiled in understanding and appreciation. My nervousness was uncalled for, cuz I wasn’t in Alaska, nor was I in America.

Both Timo and Dwayne smiled and expressed salutary greetings of “Harra-sho” etc. in traditionally harsh Soviet staccato as they staggered past us. It’s handy to have a few multi-lingual mother fuckers in yer crew: their Russian was perfect hence revealing nothing of our ex patriot status, nor Paul Quinn’s loathe of all things non-Anglo: fucking Brits are funny that way.

There’s nothing out of the ordinary to see groups of people staggering from pub to pub. Overseas it’s an activity called ‘Clubbing.’ Join up with yer mates and go Pub Crawling or Pub Hopping with everyone taking turns buying rounds of drinks at each drinking establishment. Most simply walk to sober up in the cold frosty air; some hop the trams, trains or busses if a bar is all the way across town. Even the drivers will ring the bell and yell cheerfully to their intoxicated tourist traveler when they have arrived at their destination. Why is it that in other countries it’s perfectly okay to rally around town hammered, but not in Alaska? This icky stigma of drunken natives clings even to responsible good folks like yer author on drugs.

Some cultures sure know how to celebrate, these fucking Eskimos sure the fuck don't.

As mentioned heretofore, "The common reaction makes the attraction" (Frank Zappa). I usually abuse this quote to infer hard nipples, steaming biscuit or handsome boners wrapped in trash bags, but I’ll oft stretch this analogy to what happens when diverse negroes suck down identical chemicals.

I've sat with all of ye fer chats, adhoc bullshit seshes, coffee, chew, cigs, and occasionally mucho glasses of liquor. Did someone teach y'all to drink like gentlemen, or is the fact that y'all have generous amounts of Norwegian genes in yer sperm? All of you lads keep a stiff upper lip, a smile on yer face and cheers in yer toasts to good health, good company and undying friendships that have stayed with me all around the world and in and out of jail.

We can debate this and any other discussions controversial at our next symposium of mutually enjoyable impairment and intellectually leveled playing field: the chemically agreeable singularity all humans enjoy when we're all retarded.

As we all regroup and renew our vows of friendship here on the rez, let us not forget our duty and obligation to our neighbors: here in isolation, and over yonder wherever you gents exist.

Tomorrow is Independence Day and we gotta pay special attention to the fact that us Alaskans are nothing like our lesser 48 counterparts. But like our fellow American, we’ve shrugged off numerous monarchies and dictatorships in order to enjoy freedoms unlike any other country I’ve shit and pissed in. Like the proverbial caged rabbit that ventures out only to return to the safety of his own self imposed prison, we too must refuse to shoulder the sufferings of our native brethren. Thusly, Hercules is a mythical figure created to remind us that the sins of our neighbors and ancestry need not visit our families and friendly festivities.

Misery is a choice just as poor is a state of mind. Repeating wisdom from a Nazi concentration camp survivor tells us that no matter how much murder and suicide we witness. We always have freedom of choice in our attitude. The misery and unrestrained carnage we witness and mop up after is merely our duties, not our responsibilities. I’m not gonna let it bother me tonight.

We may be employed in fields of public safety, public healthcare and duties to ease chemical dependencies of our blessed native brethren, but we are still free to blow the froth of a few, knock back rounds of drinks and bless our company with good cheer.

You lads take care of yourselves; we’ll all get together again, either here or hereafter. It’s this simple notion of what keeps a smile on my face, and an ever present sense of humor that I thoroughly enjoy preaching and sharing with you lot: my blessed graying gunslingers.

Hands are meant for shaking, not tying.


Karl.

Busy day for the undertaker.

Top of the morning gents,

Me and bunnik gotta be careful when we stop and chat with Squish's sister in law. She was undertaking the duties of landlord turning around House #634A on fifth avenue, and took a breather to chat with us and catch up on muktuk business, our relocation to Kotzebue and who we have renting our duplex in Barrow.

In the middle of our chat, we seen No-dick Mike Kramer lose control of his Manure-lick truck, driving far too fast for his particularly slow neuron frequency. His endeavor to appear professional whilst multi-tasking with radio and vehicle controls albeit ineptly: would be amusing had he not been on company time, public right of ways and company liability automotive insurance coverage.

Never give a boy a man's job.

In direct contrast in ability and professionalism I seen the Sgt blast me and the Mrs. in the opposite direction behind the wheel of the Narc wagon stressing the coefficients of friction capabilities of all four tires, exceeding the travel limits of the Jeep's chassis and suspension, and visiting engine temperatures not seen heretofore.

What a contrast. First we see a complete dweeb slip and slide all over the road DWI: driving while Inupiaq, then we see a cool professional wheel man push a municipal vehicle surprisingly beyond my wildest performance expectations.

After the dust settled, we continued our pleasant chat, then leisurely strolled home for crumpet and tea.

Then the phone rang.

Our aboriginal informant explained that a 19-year-old Snyder kid had just eaten a rifle. With suicides commonplace amongst elderly white men and native youth, I shrugged my shoulders and proceeded forth with my evening activities of cleaning and husbandly duties only a man would understand.

Ya see, where I come from, it’s quite normal for septuagenarian gents to eat a gun after a chronic health diagnosis, whereas, it’s abnormal for an elderly gentleman to jump from a high rise building utilizing deceleration trauma from the pavement instead of lead poisoning from a gun.

Some things are all part of life, and some things aren’t.

Old European dudes don’t eat poison they eat guns. Any time you discover poison inside an aging lad’s corpse, ye best pull the Mrs. in for questioning, and quickly: she’s likely the cause of the toxic ingestion. It’s a sure bet she’s a black widow, or the old gal is sucking shit and puke from her own cyanide tablet chewing the moment you knock and talk with her.

Some behaviors are distinctly ethnic and racially predictive: right down demographic lines. This Native youth that kilt himself is also ethnically and racially predictable.

So is the correlation to the young Mr. Snyder’s suicide to his own cousin killing himself just last year: similarly equipped hominids behave similarly, hence familial and cluster based suicides. I’ve yet to draw any conclusions if Mr. Snyder’s suicide is remotely related to Mr. Booth’s suicide up in Kivalina last week. Alas, in fine Eskimo tradition, expectation and realization: all blessings and tragedies come in threes.

Another tragedy I could never predict is the death of Benny Hensley Jr. He was too old to qualify for Native youth suicide, and too young to receive news of chronic illness. Sadly, there isn’t any age categorization in my quantitative abilities explaining and predicting violent accidental deaths despite my scouring countless tables and charts I’ve copied, pasted and attached in my daily missives to all you graying gunslingers.

All the charts and graphs in the world won’t aid me in understanding plain facts of life such as why Benny Hensley Jr. got busted to pieces in a 4-wheeler accident and died on the way to Anchorage for treatment. All that remains of the wreckage is now sitting in jail: sobering up and failing to comprehend the fatal outcomes he’s now burdened to pay for. How can David Melton shoulder irresponsible motorized vehicle sins if he can’t even remember them?

Through the exaggerated fog I dubiously claim from decades of chronic drinking to my health, I remember this Benny Hensley Jr. He was what I loathingly called a Fetal Alcohol Poster Monkey from way back in the day when Brian Higman and I used to frequent local bootleggers to drink, smoke and stagger home to our blessed Microdot domicile: House 321 bong hit.

All FAS children stand astronomically increased risks of death from accidents; suicides and externalities common to everyday violence hunter-gatherer cultures take for granted. This blatantly simple fact of life was lectured and absorbed during a visit and sleepover at Agent Octuck’s Fairbanks residence. Smart man, ye ought to listen to him when he’s talking.

Benny Hensley's sister, Paula Hensley married and spawned with David Burnor. She also drank heavily with her husband David and Danny Burnor, ‘cept she weren’t designed for such genetic alcoholism as us Euro-trash dudes. The Burnors could drink like no other. Even after me and Brian stumbled our way home and David Melton passed out, them dirty white boys from Long Island, New York could carry on in fine Scottish tradition whilst my Mick fuck roommate and this Finn were either heading home, or under the table. Combat drinking of a village and “almost human nature: this will not do” (Pink Floyd).

Rational emoting isn’t included in the ownership manual I received when I arrived out here to serve the rest of my life in isolation. I read and memorized all of the Inupiaq values, even so far as to assimilate these values into my behavior, my marriage and my existential epistemologically based structural modifications atop my pagan Nordic codebook. There are no outlets for adult males to express morbid depression, save self-inflicted expression such as suicide.

I read, write and express my sufferings by means of detached humor, objective data summaries and embarrassingly touching analysis of needless human trauma omnipresent and ongoing in every remote village I’ve shit and pissed in. But none of it adds up to a hill of beans in ceasing or reducing this unstoppable carnage we must witness, endure and shovel dirt upon.

My first thought folly was following orders from an investigator from Mountlake Terrace and enjoin you graying gunslingers in the service of our public health and safety, but the burn out factor was impossible to outrun. I then seized the opportunity to work with Alaska’s best spook handlers employed in the battle to target, torpedo and eliminate illegal bootleggers and drug dealers wrecking havoc upon our blessed Native villages. Such targets are easy to spot when they are characters identical to yer author on drugs: suburban white devils immune to the products they distribute. To quote the infamous 6Killer, “It takes one to know one.” Amen?

Overwhelming conflicting emotions burdened with overwhelming guilt are personal aspects that make my vigilante schizophrenia so overly stressful, we’ll never know if we should pat me on the back, or arrest me along with my compatriots I’ve double-crossed and betrayed. Long hair hides a redneck and my red coat tails are occasionally visible under my traitorously dapper blue coat uniform. Make sense?

The way I look at it: one way of preventing native youth suicides and native male violence, trauma and accidental death is to remove distilled spirits from the modern aboriginal diet: leaving fermented beers and wines on the dinner table. Notice I specified leaving malt beverages and table wines “on the dinner table.” That isn’t a joke or oversight on my part.

The preferred drink of choice out here in the bush is whiskey, rum and high-proof vodkas. These are the same preferences I witnessed whilst working in Inari, Finland: another arctic region that suffers needlessly from the ills of excess drink, violence, suicide and death. In the Southern ports such as Helsinki etc, the choice of beverage is simply beer: and lots of it. Finns drink just as hard, perchance even harder than their aboriginal counterparts elsewhere, but the preference of beer dilutes their inherent susceptibilities to acute intoxication and alcoholic psychosis we witness in our blessed villages north of 70 lat.

If you browse the top shelves of the Vodka section in your local liquor store, you’ll see Viking brands such as Gray Goose and Absolut, with Kettle One a Danish import. All of these super premium vodkas are low in congeners: toxins associated with fermentation and distillation: the same toxins responsible for most alcohol withdrawal symptoms. Meaning, you won’t go native crazy or suffer much of a hangover. It also explains why they’re called “Finnish White Wines”, due to their palatability and drink ability unequal to all other brands and types of hard liquor.

Single malt highland Scotch contains slightly higher levels of congeners due to the barrel aging, with the triple distillation and triple charcoal filtering processes omitted because the caramel coloring and oak smoke flavoring would get stripped out. The characteristic color and flavor we enjoy in whiskey is yet another cultural preference inherited from the UK.

This strikes me as odd, because the highest population demographic in America is German-Americans who traditionally enjoy premium beers and malts, and wine producing nations such as Spain and France traditionally enjoy wines and wine-based distills such as brandy, port and cognac.

Nowhere in my alcohol based preamble do you see my mentioning of ‘traditional’ consumption of alcohol by our native brethren.

Did Eskimos or Athabascans ever produce fermented beverages besides ‘stink flipper’ or ‘mikiuq?’

Siberians from the Mongol-Asian Steppe have enjoyed fermented horse milk and fermented goat’s milk. Both never exceeding 12-14% alcohol by volume due to the alcohol being a waste product of yeast and killing itself in its own shit: the first alcohol related death.

Analogous to the Africans with sickle cell anemia being immune to malaria, Eskimos possess stomach and liver enzymes allowing them the digestive capability to consume sea mammal blubbers, aged fish, ripe land mammal meats and rendered fats in the form of oil delicacies serving as both nutritional and flavorful digestive supplements to everyday meals.

Did this historically and genetically advantageous digestive capability prove to be a disadvantage in the digestion and enzymatic breakdown of ethanol alcohol?

I don’t have to answer that: my iconoclastic Mrs. with her Siberian liver enzymatic complex already has.

“Adii Karlukmun, I can’t drink any liquor cuz I’m Eskimo.” “An eater of fish and meat can’t also be an eater of refined grains and grapes.”

I couldn’t have put it any better.

Ya see, she is one of very few Eskimos that abstain from all alcoholic beverages, thus leaving lots more booze for me: the Viking in yer midst that refrains from his own culturally habitual violence. At least until I finish this article.

Common sense sure as hell ain’t all that common. Neither are expert drivers like the Sgt.

It’s a real pleasure to watch such expertise in the handling of a speeding automobile. We could all learn a few tricks from the lead-foot and trigger-happy kid from Janton, California.

Someone ought to take the car keys, radio and bullets from Kramer: he’s a danger to the community behind the wheel. No amount of training will teach that FAS poster monkey to drive or shoot like any of you graying gunslingers.

I’m apt to start calling him Barney Fife, or Barney Reuters, except neither of those characters display even subtle traits of Fetal Alcohol Exposure like Mikey. I guess it’s best he’s working for Manure-Lick: good place for FAS monkey fuckers.

If we don’t do something about aboriginal ready access to distilled spirits, we’ll only get more and more of these medical and health crises, and no dick dumb shits like Mikey that are too retarded to kill themselves.

I dare say we need another assisted native suicide job. Do any of you know of such a killer skilled in creative crime scene Masterpiece Theater? I do, and he’s due to arrive in town any minute now.

Hey man nice shot.


Karl.