Tuesday, November 14, 2006

Gone Shootin'.

Top of the morning gents,

Goddamn long walk.

I just walked me bunnik to work, then dropped my mail
off at the Post Office. Sent out a giant check
eclipsing the balance of my Alaska student loan. If
you thought education was expensive, try ignorance.

At this point I went out to the beach for an
unobstructed view across the bay towards our private
Idaho, bun's 160-acre allotment. Clear, crisp sub-zero
dark mornings give me wood, and an urge to travel. Or
shoot.

So I did both.

I hiked down past the Evak camp, booked past the new
warehouse at the airport, then crossed the runway. In
no time I was hiking like Paul Bunyan past FAA and
into Little Kivalina.

Ain't nobody living at south tent city no more. So I
picked out some items of curio, then shot the piss
outa them.

NICE fucking gun. Smoothed action and larger rubber
grips work in unison beauty as I touched off a
selection of 38 specials and a few full strength 357
magnums.

Unbeknownst to yer author on drugs, I didn’t know some
primitive tent-dwellers still maintained residence
further down the beach near the old dump (Kotzebue
K-Mart) where me and Danny Burnor used to go pukuq for
Chevy axles, wheel assemblies and hubs and struts. We
also are the guilty parties for lighting the dump
afire every year.

Funny, after us vicious white fucks left town, died or
were incarcerated, some stupid fucker covered the dump
over with a butt load of dirt, thus forever thwarting
our pyro-maniacal masturbation, but also forever
buried all evidence of other horrible crimes you
graying gunslingers have suspected for decades.

After a few rounds I pulled my earplugs out, looked
around for cops, then reloaded. From way down the snow
trail, a pair of loud ass barking dogs came booking
towards me, so I assumed somebody must be living
further down my stretch of snow drifted dark shooting
range on the beach.

I cautiously walked to the old shack me and Cully used
to ditch to a hunnert years ago as a stone grotto,
stepped inside and waited to see how tough these dogs
were.

Those fucking dogs ran all around sniffing the snow I
was just standing and shooting in mere seconds ago,
stood still, hackled their manes, then growled towards
stink man standing inside a dark shack pointing my
revolver directly back at the black lab, keeping my
third eye on the yellow lab.

Those fucking dogs crept towards the cabin, in super
stealth mode, growling really low displaying bright
fangs that made fucking brilliant gun sites.

As they closed in and approached a target distance
easier’n shooting ducks in a bucket, I pulled the
trigger.

Fucking bright flash man, followed by some really kewl
Inuit emphysema throat chanting. My eyes adjusted in
time to see the yellow lab scamper full speed down the
beach ditching his darker brother from another mother
to leak out like a fucking garden hose.

I can just here that yellow lab's thinking, "what's
this 'we shit' nigger?"

I couldn’t even see well enough nor shoot that far
down the beach with a handgun to knock the yellow lab
off kilter into a red slurry tailspin, so I quickly
leveled my revolver back towards Mr. Butt gush and
choke ‘n puke.

No need to cover the black lab cuz it didn’t take
more’n a few seconds fer my wood to simmer down and
fer all the mess to finish and soak the snow like a
strawberry and chocolate snow cone. Which was weird, I
could only see evidence of entry trauma in the nose,
upper shattered dentures and just under the tissue in
the roof of the dog’s mouth: no exit wound. Sure the
bullet yaw and expansion likely shredded blood
plumbing in the neck, but no reason for all the awful
smell. That fucking dog hatched a handsome 6 pound
steamer with a bouquet superior to Child Mo and Reilly
Ko’s honey bucket cabin across the street from
Felton’s.

In the black frosty silence that followed, I again
keened by ears for cops, 4-wheelers or sno-gos and a
mob of angry Inuit peasants.

None such, so I grabbed the leaky mongrel by the tail
with one hand and dragged it into the sigluk next to
my stone grotto Kivilina camp cabin. I tipped the
plywood lid aside, rolled that dead dog into the hole
and then dragged the plywood lid back atop.


With my Sorrell’s, I kicked and shuffled snow all over
that shit ass butcher mess, cleaned my debauchery
boots off, then took a walk further down the beach
after that golden lab. There was still plenty of room
in my abandoned sigluk, like a new SUV, room to seat
8. Fuck all, that dog’s shit is smoked.

Along the way I fetched another fresh round outa me
pockets to replace the single SJP magnum round I just
touched off.

Fuck, I couldn’t find hide nor hair of that beast. I
walked almost all the way to the old shipwreck but
found no signs of dog nor sub-human life to shoot the
piss outa.

Following my footprints in the snow, I backtracked
from the shipwreck up near the dump, hopped that wire
fence and proceeded down that Unnuk Lake Lane back
towards a sleepy snow covered town aglow in blood red
first light.

In the shit ponds there were lots of seagulls and near
where KIC was dredging vitamin-enriched, fecal
fortified sand and gravel from Davis (Unnuk) Lake even
more. Yup, you know what I was thinking.

As I walked in the deep snow, I opened the gun,
emptied it of all the magnum rounds and replaced them
with 38 specials from my bandoleer holster. With a
good ground covering of snow, the sound of slower
hunks of lead won’t carry all the way to the airport
nor town. Besides, plinking and thumping with cheap
ammo, lobbed towards ghetto chickens is still good
fun. Don’t you agree?

Some of the seagulls took flight as I approached. The
frosty beard and long frosty hair may look like Santa
Claus to baby Finns, but likely not to white birds
that eat shit. Plus my gun smelled like hell from
serious boner action and seagulls are like sky rat
ravens, just white trash scavengers equally cagey and
annoying: deserving of my kindness and affection.

To even the odds, I decided to shoot at only the
grounded birds but with only one hand, on the fly, and
walking.

I missed every fucking bird but exploded a lot of
holes in the ice echoing to Squirrel Canyon and back,
followed by cracks and pops in the ice back and forth
across shit pond.

I ejected the spent shells, played pocket pool with
Mr. Wobbly and my mud flaps and counted the hot loads
I had left. Fuck, only 6 rounds remaining. Rules are
rules. I gotta walk all the way back to town: best
load the gun and holster the fucker in case I need
these last 6 live rounds.

DLP defense of life and property, or as I tell me
bunnik on my daily escort walks to work: defense of my
bottom and penis.

Guns are bad and you shouldn’t play with them.

Fuck that. The rule around me bunnik’s house as our
salmon crunching daughter Sara Magnum grew up was
simple: only play with loaded guns. Just take the dogs
with ye. Oh yeah, and take Karlauka moona una with ye
too. He’ll show you how to clean up if you make a
mistake.

You boys have one fine fucking day. I’m bushed and
chilled, that was one damn long walk. If I was
smarter, I’d buy a wheeler or sno-go instead hiking
all over hell and back.

My wife points out the fact that if I did, I’d be as
chubby as old farts my own age. A face a man has when
he is forty is a face he has earned. The secret of my
eternal youth is frequent beatings and lots of drug
abuse.

I’m kidding. Putting a fucking muzzle on me snout and
stinking pie hole along with biking and walking like a
dang fool is more accurate in explaining my drop pert
near 300 pounds down to a skoatch over 2 hunnert. I
see all you happy fuckers driving all over town like
mad fucking demons. I shant covet the junk in yer
trunk cuz I gotta walk or bike, or I’ll die. In my 10
year hiatus on campus and behind bars, all ye bastards
have aged a hunnert years.

Besides I’m trying to keep my felonies to a minimum,
drugs and alcohol, like guns are also bad. Drink and
drive and drive real fast. If the secret police can't
force ye to land, they can't pull ye over.

If any of you graying gunslingers and uniformed felons
want to a menu and wine list from the Viking bar and
grill, ye gotta pop by the wrecked center weight room
from 5 pm till ‘round half 7.

Wake up fucks, I don’t want to attend all yer funerals
cuz I’ll be alone without any violent motherfuckers
with scarred knuckles and tarnished halos to write to.
That’s okay; I’ll pop in on yer wives for a
Scandinavian tune up, core sample and ring count, and
to make sure they are FINE.

What do you care? Yer fucking dead, and I’m not. Be
quiet, I think I just heard somebody yell for womb
service.

Karl.

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