Tuesday, November 14, 2006

I don't know. I was really drunk at the time.

Top of the morning gents,

Been having some weird dreams lately. A genre of near
lucid nightmares seems to put me in the same fucking

Frequent slumber adventures start with me playing hide
and seek in some shit hole where I can't make sense of
the language, my parent’s farm just beyond the 200th
street South of Everett or hiding from the secret
police inside a fish tote way in the back of the blue
Whitney Foods building.

Weird huh?

I once stole a bunch of guns, a walrus headset and a
tasty bundle of cash. Those thefts were easy enough;
we had keys to the building. Duh, why break when ye
can simply enter?

Being dumber'n posts, we figured that pickings was so
easy, we oughta return to the scene of sweet crimes
and take another rapist's run at the lowest hanging

You graying gunslingers remember that winter. Deep
snow, dark as hell, late at night and within the city
limits of Kotzebue: me, Chris and Ken sneaking about
early in the morning. One morning after cleaning the
trooper building and the courthouse, we chugged down 2
fifths of cognac and snarfed down way too many
tablespoons of cocaine, so Chris suggested we pukuk
all through the Eskimo building: again.

We booked along the packed snow trail to the Bingo
entrance and split up in search of shit to steal. I
immediately went upstairs to Manillaq's offices,
whilst Ken and Chris went downstairs to pilfer as much
building materials, hardware and tools out of the KIC

I rallied upstairs, opened up the stairwell door when
I think I crapped a wristwatch, some Crisco and a fist
fuck. I could hear music down the hallway so I crept
along the wall as silently as a cocaine/bourbon high
could allow. Some staffers leave their computers on
24/7 putting a password on the screen saver
effectively locking their station for the night. But
where the fuck is all this loud music and gaming sound
effects coming from?

Just as I leaned silently around the corner to get a
good look, a man in the dark cleared his throat,
flicked a lighter, lit a cigarette, took a deep pull
endeavoring to eat the entire smoke, then adjusted his
chair with loud squeaks.

I fucking had a heart attack. There in a dark office,
sitting at the computer playing a jamming combat game
was a fucking cop. Lorin Downing and his inept gun no

Over the subwoofer concussions and explosions I swore
he could hear me shit me britches. Nup, just the
excess drugs and alcohol talking through my chest,
ears and bloodstream.

I booked back down the hall, downstairs to grab those
two dummies and git the fuck outa Dodge. They thought
I was fucking with 'em loading their arms up with all
sorts of air driven screw guns, nailers, compressors
and hoses. I had to really fucking explain that we got
bacon bits overhead and he's gonna hear us for sure.
Ken went pale first, told Chris to shut the fuck up
and grab what he had and scram.

As we crept out the Bingo entrance, I shushed them and
pointed to the brightly lit office window, then Chris
went pale too.

We loaded everything into the green truck, idled
quietly backwards with the headlights off and rallied
straight across the snow-drifted field to the Capone's
to offload and lock up all the tools and shit.

Like a bunch of dumb ass rednecks, we discovered that
sloppy second story strafing could prove stupid. Wait,
that wasn't a dream. Hmmm, must have been before the
stroke. Wait, what year is this?

Where was I? Oh yeah, where I kyped the walrus head
set. Gumby's buddy James, the other fat fuck offered
to sell me an unsealed tusk set for $500. What a
fucking idiot, he stated that he'd hold them until
after he got back from vacation.

One week later, I booked from house 420 down to Wade
Laws' place for wake and bake, coffee and bong hits.
From his upstairs window I watched fat fuck II James
and Kathy Milligan load their luggage into a cab
heading to the airport. Another hour of foggy mountain
breakdown toke-latte at Wade's, and he was ready pick
up Mrs. Lane for lunch, so we parted ways.

Wade took off on his sno-go, I pulled out my most
scratched up credit card with the trimmed corner, slid
it forcefully down the door jam and walked into fat
fuck II's apartment and phoned Calvin Monroe at Yellow
Cab for a quick pick up at '10-plex back.'

This gave me only a minute or two to find and steal my
desired item. No fears mates, yer author on drugs is
highly trained in the ways of espionage: I fucking
ransacked the fucking place.

In all, I kyped 2 pistols, the walrus tusk head set, a
killer glass bong and Randy Kem's sister’s purse
absolutely packed with other people's credit cards,
checkbooks and a decent pile of cash. How her shit got
in my pillage path is beyond me, but not my Viking

I heard Calvin Monroe honk his horn from Tucker's
side, so I grabbed my booty filled trash bags, quietly
exited the newly trashed shit dump apartment and
headed for the dumpsters, and Calvin's Yellow Cab.

Nothing went into the dumpsters, but I did lift and
slam the metal lids as loud as I could, then hopped in
the cab greeted with "Hey there dumpster diver!" Funny
fucker Calvin Monroe, laugh it up faggot. We booked in
time and space reappearing here today.

That same walrus tusk headset is still hanging way up
high on the wall inside the Senior Center. Way back in
the late 80's the IRS received a charitable donation
receipt reducing my AGI-adjusted gross income by

Yup, fuck me in the goat ass, steal from the bitch:
give to the poor smelling.

I mailed all the weird credit cards to Marty and
Dennis down in Seattle. All the weird checkbooks I
stashed in Randy Kem’s porch enroute to deliver too
much LSD to Walter Banks waiting at the Hailstones.

This is the weird part; all these fictitious events
repeat themselves in dreams, yet feel like real
experiences I can’t get back to.

Understandably, I lost most of my data when I shorted
my ass out repeatedly with a shredded extension cord
by accident in Latvia, but duplication files were
stored in my rather expansive free disk space labeled
Word Werks and Shit.

I better save my last brain cell for my next bong

Here’s the shit that weird’s me out. My pops shows me
guns I can’t remember giving him and my pretty wife
wears jewelry I can’t remember buying her. I’m trying
really hard to get better and I’m trying to remember
where these scars on my back and abdomen came from.

She always cries when I get confused and ask her
what’s wrong.

My asshole friends back in the Killing Fields of the
Pacific Northwest seem to all have succumbed to
Alzheimer’s and Parkinson’s or both, cuz they look at
me with in wonder, then ask me what happened to me
while I was gone.

Nothing happened, as far as I can tell. When I share
my dreams with them, they all call me Charlie and ask
me if my trouser mouse Algernon beat me through the
maze again. I just tell them there’s someone in my
head, but it’s not me.

Make believe crimes cannot be prosecuted and pure
fiction is undiluted bullshit. I was never there.

Someone tell me to wake up. Dave is trying to call me,
the dogs are barking and I hear bunnik weeping in her
sleep. Besides, the cops are coming and the Willow
house is packed full of stolen shit.

As soon as I awake, I’ll thank her again for marrying
me. Sure can’t remember when though.



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