Thursday, November 30, 2006

In Homer, Alaska-Extreme violence: Mountlake Terrace style sans blond hair, blue eyes and stunning good looks.

Top of the morning gents,

I'm glad to hear that Mountlake Terrace violence has
now crept into the FAZ-fetal alcohol zone.

Most of you don't know Todd Turcott, or Dennis
Singleton, but you all have met Marty Hall AKA marto
international. He was one of my messengers that I flew
up to Kotzebue under the auspices of working for me
remodeling houses 676 Caribou street, 711 front street
and some work on the 369 renovation and expansion.

Over the years, I flew up lots of hombres for work
because I've never found anybody willing to work for
$20.00 an hour, plus 3 hots and a cot.

I put the Burnors to work, hired Clyde Shagloak for
painting and bong loading and flew Harley Bronson up
to help me with a butt load of mud/tape/paint
projects. I even bribed Shane Hildreth with lots of
LSD to help out too.

I flew up Big Dumb Dale, my 300-pound mongoloid for
lots of work here and at the Willow house, followed by
Scott Wade, the lad David Caleschman interviewed and
recorded playing all sorts of hard metal guitar at
KOTZ, whom proved to be one hell of a carpenter.

Ya see? I've done my part in converting pure Hitler
Youth felons into fairly decent property managers. The
lads I didn't fly up to help me were far too
dangerous. Namely, a couple of aforementioned killers
named Dennis and Todd.

These guys were best in breed when it came to killing,
but unlike yer author on drugs, and Marto
International, the can't maintain composure as not to
reveal their inner murderous hominid separatist
violent human natures. Dennis and Todd would've either
went serial on our killer asses, or would've drawn yer
fire and simply fucking died.

Just this summer, them fuckers got me all anxious when
they phoned me to brag about how they eliminated my
enemies and that I owed them, to some bizarre logic,
some work up here.

Nup, ain't happening.

A few years ago, make that almost 20 years ago, me and
Ray English were out making deliveries and
collections. We'd finished our last deliveries up
north at the Tulalip Indian Res and down south to the
projects up on Capitol Hill in Seattle better known as
the 'CD', the central district.

We wrapped up our business and headed back to Lem's
Mortuary and Crack House in Mountlake Terrace when I
noticed my 2 cars were gone and the screen on my
bedroom window was all fucked up, bent and dangling by
one corner. The following second both Ray and I were
double checking our firearms.

I told Ray to cover the front yard, but stay out of
the house while I quietly climbed my fence and crept
'round to the back door.

I peeped into my back window and saw the dogs all
growling by the front door, but saw no bad guys. So I
went in with gun drawn only to be pounced on by a pack
of friendly canines truly jazzed to see Karlukmun
jumping all over me, and my gun arm.

Nobody was in the house, but there were tell tale
signs of really bad shit gone wry. The laundry was
packed with all my bath towels and all my paint tarps
and rolls of plastic were also gone.

I'd never seen my house so fucking clean. Even the
carpets were vacuumed and the vac bag was replaced
with a new one.

I blinked the front yard outdoor lights on and off a
few times, then opened the front door to let Ray in.
We both were extraordinarily stressed and I could
smell it.

I grabbed a couple brews from the fridge, a mirror, a
tooter and some blades and prepped a couple of fat
white caterpillars (grawlers) for Ray and I. We
snarfed and gagged down a couple tablespoons of high
grade cat piss diesel, chugged a couple of brews, then
we started warming the phone lines querying darker
white folks where the hell Dennis and Marto were
hiding along with my two favorite cars: a 66 Dodge
Dart and a 72 AMC Ambassador. Unlike Ray's fascination
with brand new Corvettes I preferred common mature
cars blending in with traffic.

We exhausted our speed dialing fingers searching for
the other half of my very own crew of organized
criminals, but none such.

After mucho brewskies and shovel filled snorts of
un-adulterated Bolivian we were startled to hear
familiar sounds of my cars pulling up, driving across
the lawn and around the house parking in the back
yard. A strategy only exercised when shit is fucked

I booked to the backdoor to greet these merry
pranksters and killers, and too quiet the damn dogs.
Their hysteria was both excited and vicious making me
feel much the same.

Dennis climbed out of the Dodge Dart and Marto was
closing the trunk of the AMC, and that's when I saw
the expression on both their faces. Distraught, scared
and nervous: these boys looked like they'd just been
through hell.

Once inside, warmed and knocking back dark beers and
surprisingly large snorts of uncut adrenaline, Dennis
told Ray and I what occurred that evening whilst we
were away.

Marty and Dennis were watching the fort, handling
calls and watching 3 Stooges and Laurel and Hardy
videos when they heard ruckus from my bedroom. Dennis
at first thought it was just me fucking with 'em but
when Marto saw the car out front with 2 black dudes
sitting and waiting, he grabbed an aluminum baseball
bat and tossed it to Dennis.

Dennis kept the lights out and flattened himself
against the wall as my window slid open and a negro
face peeked in. Then he swung the bat with all his
might and pulled Mr. negro inside onto the floor and
whacked him once more on the back of the head leaving
a round crevasse on his broken cranium. Dennis then
stomped on the back of his neck to put him to rest
leaking shit all over my blankets and dirty laundry
lying on the floor.

Marto crept back to look out front and saw the same 2
black crackers just sitting there. Which was cool, cuz
it meant they weren't apprised of their dead ghetto
partner in crime.

In the darkness, Marto and Dennis grabbed their guns,
crept out the back door, along the side of the house
past Cully's green van and simply approached the car
with guns drawn and aimed directly at the faces of
each porch monkey. Quietly and calmly, Dennis told
them to get out of the car and lay on the ground.

They complied while Marto tossed the car finding a
whole mess of firearms, plastic cuffs and 2 Tasers.
Here's the weird part. These fuckers obviously had
plans for my ass. Thank God for natural born killers
like you lads. Then and now: everything stays the

Marto grabbed a Taser, turned it on, placed it on the
back of their necks and zapped both uninvited guests
into submission. Dennis and Marto then dragged them
into the house by the scruff of the their nappy necks.

Dennis put the dogs out back cuz they were trying to
attack and chew the fuck outa the 2 unconscious
Nigerian Candidates. He then grabbed a pillow and my
22 pistol from my bedroom, stepping over dead negro #1
and came back to the living room. Marto gave a quick
look out the window and gave Dennis the thumbs up
signal, whereupon Dennis put the pillow on these two
crooks for sound suppression and shot each hoodlum
twice in the head.

Marto quickly wrapped them two with our old painting
tarps and mopped up the bits of blood and shit with my
all towels out of the bathroom. Dennis ran out front
and drove my cars around back while Marto dragged our
3 uninvited guests to the back door.

The dogs were dragged inside while the 3 corpses were
dragged outside and Dennis dumped our rolled tarp and
plastic packages into the trunks. Marto started up the
nigger rig and drove it to the Mountlake Terrace
swimming pool and parked it next to some other cars
that looked like they hadn't been driven in months. He
did another quick search of the car, finding nothing;
he wiped off the steering wheel, front dash and
shifter and jogged back to my house.

When he arrived, Dennis already had my 2 cars out
front idling and warming up. Marty hopped into the AMC
and the two of them drove very carefully to the I-5
onramp and headed the 30 odd miles up to the
Marysville and the Smokey Point turn offs.

After they pulled into my parent's 7-Lakes wooded lot,
they parked the cars so that the headlights would
illuminate my grandpa’s old outhouse.

Marto and Dennis pushed and dragged the outhouse
aside, popped the trunks and dragged all 3 leaking
corpses over to the exposed and deep shit hole where
the outhouse once sat.

With gallons of old paint, thinner, rusty gasoline and
tons of used motor oil, Marto and Dennis burned up a
pile of firewood and branches and all traces of
criminal activity.

What's weird is that after they torched these lifeless
sub-humans of nil value they also burnt up 50 years of
Viking shit and piss leaving a far deeper hole than
before. So they went behind the sauna and dug some
fresh soil to cover up the layer of ashes, brittle
bones and incinerated shit.

Then they pushed and dragged the outhouse back atop
the shit hole, and booked back to Mountlake Terrace.

Take note: this wasn't the only time poor shot to piss
motherfuckers were disposed of on grandpa’s wooded
acreage up at 7-Lakes. If you recall I relayed to you
killers about those goons that followed me from
Shoreline Community College to Franky's (spanky's)
place, beat us to bloodied shit with pistols and rifle
butts in a failed attempt to raid our grow rooms.
Well, they're also burnt to shit and buried there at

My childhood swim team and Hitler Youth performed
numerous group burns and bury, I'll make a few calls
back to Washington for clarification on the number of
times we utilized fire, dirt and tree roots as means
to dispose, disintegrate and digest useless fuckers
not worthy of the skin they wear.

Rob Fry was simply drowned in Catfish pond just below
5 corners, but we drank and smoked his ass into
oblivion before he met his maker at the hands of my
blond swim teammates.

Alas, I no longer surround myself with Anglo
motherfuckers of European descent, just you graying
gunslingers and uniformed felons.

I'm so sappy some days. My recollections of shitty
crimes against sub-humanity give me a boner and bring
a tear to my eye. Makes a man proud to have evolved
from a sick twisted freak into simply an older sick
twisted freak. It takes one to know one: you tell me.
Birds of feather fuck together.

I sing of Norsemen glad and proud, blonder than you
yet braver than I.

Here in Alaska, this sort of violent teamwork has
reared its ugly head. Just take a look at what
occurred in Homer.

I was never there. That's my story and I'm sticking to
it. If I HAD been there, you surely wouldn’t be
reading about it for another 20 years and the poor sod
they mutilated and tortured would be chopped up and
dropped down into the septic tank behind the red house
on Lucky Shot Trail Road in Willow.

Have gun will travel. Who’s on your list today?



Man allegedly tortured to sign confession

Investigators uncertain if attackers had the right

By Layton Ehmke Homer Tribune November 29, 2006

Nineteen-year-old Mihay Kalugin, Homer, was reportedly
badly beaten last Tuesday night in what may have been
revenge for a car-burning the evening prior. According
to officers, Kalugin was kidnapped, brutally assaulted
near the Homer Ferry Terminal, then eventually dropped
near his home in the woods by Falls Creek Drive off
East End Road.

A family member initially brought Kalugin to South
Peninsula Hospital early Wednesday morning for

According to Alaska State Troopers, three men
allegedly assaulted Kalugin so severely he could not
be properly interviewed — he could only say the first
name of one of his attackers. Troopers then linked
that name to a car burning the day prior — a newer
model Lexus sedan that the Homer Volunteer Fire
Department responded to and extinguished. The fire
might have motivated the beating, but Kalugin is
neither suspected as an arsonist nor car thief.

Savva Basargin, 25, of Homer, Alexander Sergeev, 22,
of Anchorage and Vladimir Bystrov, 21, of Anchorage
are accused of the incident, and were charged Thursday
for first-degree assault, kidnapping and tampering
with evidence. The charges are all felonies.

That night, Kalugin said he knew Basargin was looking
for him, when he saw a white van pull into the
terminal as he waited for a Ferry ride to Kodiak for
commercial fishing, the report stated.

Kalugin said as he saw the van, he ran down the beach.
He stopped when his attackers allegedly fired a gun
into the air and ordered him to do so. This, according
to the charges, was then followed by Kalugin's account
of a lengthy torture.

Through an interpreter, he said he was first dragged
back to the van where they began to beat him.
The men then allegedly took him to a garage where they
tied him to a chair, pummeled him with “hard objects”
and threatened to kill him.

His father, Vasily Kalugin, said his son was then
transported to a house where his kidnappers
interrogated him for at least two more hours in a
garage. As part of that effort to get Kalugin to
confess to playing a role in an attempt to steal the
car’s speakers, his kidnappers drove a nail through
his left middle finger and threatened to cut off his

“When I first saw Mihay in the hospital, I turned
around and just walked out of the room,” Vasily said.
“I couldn’t look at that ... who would do things like
that? We can’t understand why, and it has to be the
first time that’s ever happened in Homer."
Kalugin is scheduled for facial surgeries this week.
"Mihay is in bad shape ... you know, another good,
hard knock to the head — that might have really done
it. It’s still a shock to us," Vasily said. "We’ll
just take it one step at a time. "

Hospital staff further noted blackened eyes, swollen
lips, several skull fractures, and tears to the inside
of his mouth and throat. Vasily said those came from
the barrel of a gun.

The suspects allegedly pistol whipped Mihay so
severely, they broke and smashed his front teeth into
his face. His left cheek bone was shattered, and his
face is sunken in.

After allegedly being forced to sign the bloodied
confession letter, Kalugin said the kidnappers drove
him back to West Falls Creek Road by his home, and
left him to walk to a friend’s house where a family
member later picked him up.

Kalugin was still not able to speak when contacted by
the Homer Tribune on the Saturday evening following
the attack — so his father spoke for him saying his
son was not involved with anything to do with the

Troopers tracked the white van to Basargins’s house
north of Homer in the Belnap subdivision on Diamond
Ridge, where they found Basargin, Sergeev and Bystrov,
and the bloody clothes they’d tried to wash.

Troopers also found the multiple-page confession
letter signed by Kalugin. Basargin, according to
Alaska Bureau of Investigation Investigator Eugene
Fowler, admitted to tracking down and kidnapping
Kalugin because he’d heard he had torched his car. He
said he’d beat him up, and “probably” hit him over the
head with driftwood, and made him write a confession
letter. However, he has denied to taking him to
another location or having a gun in the assault.

Bystrov and Basargin, Russian nationals with student
visas in Anchorage, denied taking Kalugin to any other

Troopers went to the beach and reportedly found the
driftwood, blood-spattered snow and a BB gun.
The accused were unavailable for comment.

Fowler said the charges against the suspects are
extremely serious, and the next step to the
investigation will go to grand jury, and additional
charges may follow — but all the facts regarding the
case are not yet in, Fowler said.

Stories also differ on the detail of what happened
after Basargin was kidnapped and made to write the
confession letter. Basargin said they took him back to
Razdolna, but Sergeev and Bystrov say they let him go
at the terminal after they got the confession.

“The case remains a high priority and we’re still
conducting interviews ... people need to be held
accountable for their actions,” Fowler said. “We still
need to put the pieces of this case together.”
The suspects were held a short time in Homer Jail
without bail, then taken to Wildwood Pretrial Facility
in Kenai where they are now held.

The Alaska Bureau of Investigation post in Soldotna
has taken over the case, and Fowler said anyone with
knowledge of the incident should phone him directly at
(907) 262-4453.

Alaska State Troopers Spokesman Greg Wilkinson
wouldn’t comment on the severity nor frequency of
similar crimes throughout the state.


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