Sunday, December 31, 2006

Crack cocaine is really bad for you. Unless yer dark meat welfare trash: no brains=no pains.

Top of the morning gents,

Deja vu all over a again. But this ain't Barrow, nor
is it Mountain View. Alas, just another reservation
cursed with a pervasive culture of welfare identical
to Kotzebue.

Wait, since I frequently awake to screaming drunken
natives or screaming retarded natives (I never could
tell the difference), I must be in Kotzebue. But what
troubles me is omni-present suffocating socialism very
much the brilliant way Professor Mason lectured me a
few years ago. This can't be the Soviet Union, I
thought we bankrupted them Godless dick skinners years
ago.

Public housing, public schools, public toilets, public
assistance and public medicine: need me to spell it
out?

*NW Inupack Housing builds really cool houses to pork
yer kids in and porches for monkeys to mess themselves
on.

*Our local subpar schrool-screw'll is named after a
really mean old cunt that died from a life of drug
abuse and alcoholism (Prune Nelson) and our baseball
field is further tribute (Bull Hensley) to the virtues
of porking drunk cunt with the hope of creating more
sick brown kids with gaped ass biscuit.

*Denali Kid Care is indigent health care: Medicare for
morons under a contrived title as to conceal the
stigma (stinkma) of welfare, but it is. Fuck if folks
had to pay a goddamned dime for health care out here
on the rez, we'd be overcrowded with sick 'tards. Oops
that analogy ran a wry.

What ever happened to all the hard working folks that
reveled in making real money, instead of Russian food
stamps, Socialist bread lines and Soviet welfare
checks?

Seeing droves of shit poor folks make me smile: ripe
feeding grounds for predators you all unknowingly
befriended. Especially during the holidays, they gotta
wait until next year for their next welfare check in
order to buy presents for their filthy shit ass kids.

What little money that remains got spent on good
cocaine equally as delicious and powerful as the gack
drain we enjoyed in our youth.

Ya see, public toilets, housing, assistance and
schooling is just fine, if yer darker than a turd. And
this town is overflowing with Inukun butt gushers and
rectum steamers.

Fuck, over the holidays I saw more cat piss diesel and
bubble gum paint thinner than I've seen in pert near
20 fucking years.

Poor health, poor education and piss poor family
planning make for desperate zombies: zombies gents
like me take cruel advantage of.

This town is now finally as poor as the infamous
central district on Capitol Hill in Seattle. Which
tells me this town is perfectly ripe for a snowstorm
of lethal cocaine. Not high-grade biker speed, but
low-grade negro section crack.

How do I know this? My hands are colder'n shit from
sneaking and peeking, shooting and looting all over
town all fucking night. At 28 below zero I might add
too. My guns were so fucking cold I thought my hands
were gonna fucking fall off.

A few days back, a fellow felon phoned me and asked
for help with his paper route collections, so to
speak. My job was to merely cover him whilst we drove
and marched all over little Inukun Saigon doing
collections and splitting lips.

The customer on the top of the hit list was guess
what? A fucking crack negro named Tyrell Thomas.

We'd spotted his little piece of shit Nissan pick-up
at the gook shop-sleazy fart, so I ordered my clients
to stay in the truck while I enter the premises
innocuously to verify our target's presence.

I went in, and looked around and found Mr. high
stepping yeller Tyrell in the ways back of the store
looking at the secret display of glass pipes, glass
stems and pipe screens. Nice thing about the gooks,
they know their customers and if nobody's looking both
Uutuku and EZ Mart will sell any Indun drug
paraphernalia, providing ye stink native, not stink
bacon nor piglet.

From my candy bar phony shopping I observed Tyrell
pulling a few 20's from a decent roll of bills: sweet.
I exited the gook shop and ran across the street to
the AC store parking lot and hopped into our truck.

After Nigerian Thomas drove away we followed him from
back about pert near a hunnert yards as he drove over
to Merci Ann and Shane Hildreth's place. After lots of
knocking and pounding nobody answered the door, so
groidal crack macaque returned to his little Nissan
and headed back to the 41-unit apartment building near
the airport.

We pulled past him as he was parking, rolled around to
the rear entrance that is always unlocked at night. I
entered the entry porch ahead of Niger man and just
waited. Ya see, I wanted to march him at gunpoint back
out of the building and to the dark back corner
recesses of the parking lot, which is exactly what I
did.

You should've seen the expression on his face when he
was greeted by one tall white son of a bitch wearing a
killer 2 gun holster rig with one magnum pointed at
his fucking monkey face. His guilty conscience was
overflowing, he said he was sorry for whatever he done
to me whereupon I replied that he and I weren't
acquainted and that if he didn't pay his tab tonight,
there'd be little chance we'd ever see each other
again. I also described to him that there's a sigluk
out at South Tent City with a nice warm slot for him
right next to a dead black lab. Which is fitting: 2
dead dogs not worth shovel nor dirt, just rotten
lumber, snow and ice.

I told him to put his hands in his pockets and lead
the way out to the parking lot.

He made it only part way out the front door when he
was picked up and tossed on his face down the icy
frosted metal grated stairs. Gotta hand it to Bubba,
he's stronger'n shit and performs wonderfully when
hooked up with a decent crew led by a spy only known
by me and you.

Tyrell didn't look good, so we kicked the fuck out of
him to make it all better. His fat lips softened the
impact on our boots. Fuck, despite the freezing cold,
I sure got big shiny wood.

He yelled at us to stop, so I backed away a few feet
while keeping a gun on him. He reached in his pockets
and pulled out pert near $700.00 and pleaded that we
let him go to his apartment to get his fat cunt's
debit card for the remaining 300 dineros.

I stayed in the shadows under the building and kept
watch for coppers whilst Bubba and my client walked
Mr. nig-Thomas upstairs to Sarah Lynch's apartment to
fetch her debit card.

All three of 'em returned to the 41-unit parking lot
in no less than 5 minutes. As they climbed in the
truck, I emerged from my dark crevasse recess and
hopped in the truck with 'em.

We drove directly down Third Avenue to the bank. Bubba
and punkin' raisin face got out and went to the cash
machine. The account was overdrawn but Bubba assisted
the punk in executing a direct deposit payroll cash
advance from Sarah Lynch's wages she earns working at
the welfare office. Sweet justice huh?

As Bubba and Tyrell exited the bank porch entry, Bubba
gave me the nod confirming the debt was paid. So I got
out, pointed my gun at Tyrell's face and told him that
his credit was still golden and that he could walk all
the home by himself without gloves, hat nor winter
gear.

I sure don't like happy endings, I was gittin' all
hard thinking we were gonna take a drive down to
little Kivilina and bury this bleeding turd: nonesuch.

All's well that ends well, ‘cept we dint kilt nobody.

I'm so excited. We have pert near a dozen more names
on the bad debtor collections list. My alter ego will
just have to stay put.

The next time you see Tyrell at the food bank, ask him
if he nicked his face shaving his own ass.

Have gun, will travel.

Kevin Elsberg, your friendly local contractor.

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