Tuesday, July 25, 2006

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.

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