How can a soul ever un-see shit?

Top of the morning gents,


How do you uniforms un-see something?

I'm trying to un-see some things. Things that hurt to not think about too.

After a hunnert letters, books and upsetting council, Irish Mick Fuck Commander Craig Sir! advised me of an old SAS/OSS mental exercise to distance myself from the images we can't even talk about. In a nutshell, convert yer nightmare memory images to b/w then reverse telescope the horrible blood on canvas portrait away from us. No kidding, take the color out of the horror, then let the image flee from you, forever getting further and further away. As time goes by, you no longer will feel so homicidal and burdened with Jacob Marley's iron chain weight of guilt. From a psuedo-conterfeit-christian view, I need to understand the bigger picture that these long gone souls are in a better place. Or fucking hell.

Craig's lectures parallel my wife's sagely advice to wrap a painful and hard memory inside a soft bookcover and then walk over and physically set this parchment wrapped nightmare on the bookshelf, then take SaraMag, Harley and that retarded Mendenhall boy out near Squirrel Canyon or past the lagoon up above Lucy Nordlum's Camp Ivik and shoot birds, barrels and bottles.

Works for bun, she can no longer remember how many times she's been molested, raped and beaten as a child by elder InuTurd Asshole Wrinkled Dicks. Makes ye hate all elder natives, don't it? Raping shit-ass Ice Niggers: all of 'em. Most times I fucking hate my wife's entire race, culture and the way her monkey relations fuck each other for the last 10,000 years too.

On one of my many bouts with poor impulse control, anger management and employed overseas and risking predictable incarcaration, I spent idle hours healing, days hungry during months of scheduled and vigorous questioning. My remedy was to simply remember, recall and re-live fishing off b&r docks, poaching fucking everything upriver near spud farm. Ya see, even under extreme duress I would fill my soul with silly old visions, smells and sounds with my fellow agents VPSO Mashburn, Fields and Ramoth. Despite my caucasian arrogance, those boys never did give a shit that I wasn't Alaskan, brown, kind nor illiterate. Fun job, cut down a few hangers, lugged out old-aged croaker niffukuns and shot a lot of foods. I grew up, found my balls, but this tin Finn-man never found his heart.

Good times. Not. With images of lifting shitty Eskimo rope a dope neck stretch suicides and gallons of gastic juices soaking my duly sworn brown shirt, I just can't seem to drink it off my mind. One of our own: Officer NUSH dispatched an AK arrestee sapien, numerous canine detainees and even killed a patrol car door: all with 9 or 10mm. He and I have discussed these job-related moments of no hope. He'll be alright. Me too.

Maybe not. Maybe not ever. Just take a look at me. Now take a look at his dad. When me and kim are in the same room, same page and same sentence: we're drinking, we're smoking. We ain't livin'. Just visit yer dead and loved ones at the senior center (God's waiting room): Nicotine, alcohol and AK midochondria flavored lippy brown biscuit are now no longer so damn dangerous.

On another job I seen a boy freeze to the sidewalk. Hard as a rock and glued to the ground just as solid as the homo-erectial corpse Richie Reich and Scott Whalen chopped to shit, licked and humped full of pink sperm, then froze inside the 1974 Dodge Homosedan outside Midnight Sun Cab. Scott and Richie are in hell and happy as dikes in Aushwitz.

I was on a job in Soviet Moscow, walking maps, pavement artistry and surveillance pursuing a target that my SUPO/US handlers deemed to a be very bad guy that I should get to know and love. I stepped into a bodega shop fer nigarettes and a kid bolted past me out the door. The shop owner started yelling in Russian "Stop thief!" Two coppers were ambling nearby, heard all the commotion and ran to intercept this kid. They didn't arrest him, they beat him really hard with PR-24 type truncheons, killed him, returned the stolen merchandise to store owner, took their generous cash tip, then left.

After my evening meeting with my handlers, I walked home and found the boy frosty and frozen solid to the sidewalk like a little porcelain cherub figurine broke-winged boy angel. Despite massive head injuries and frozen solid, the poor kid looked at me like he was related to me. Even dead, and again this morning in the middle of this page of text, his eyes still see me and I haven't gotten over it.

Poor kid, little boys are always the last to know they're dead.

My chechen pals Yousef and Oleg Seleznev from the UAF shooting team had put the finger on a real bad muslim player. To my evil supers the finger meant green light go and he was scheduled for execution. My job was to find him, photo him and report back. If I could get a fecal, hair, urine or skin samples, dirty fucking underwear, hairbrushes, or toothbrushes: anything his organs came in contact with, then I would've greatly please my SUPO and US bosses.

I found him. And his vicious partner. I moved in with my UAF shooters to kill them, then capture and interrogate them. In the shittiest ethnic neighborhood in Moscow and in the worst piss soaked apartment building I've ever seen, even worse than 29/41 unit OTZ, we kicked their door in and shot the whole grovel to pieces. But zero body count fer my AK sick 907 scorecard.

Within minutes I got an encrypted email from my SUPO team leaders that my targets sniffed us out and were booking it back to safe-keeping. I phoned my bosses with their probable vectors. Seconds later the LEO Russo version of BOLO APB was issued and these two monsters had been detained. One problem: they were now in police custody and I couldn't get my hands on them to torture the shit outa them.

My SUPO/US bosses simply ordered me to improvise.

I like that word 'improvise', makes everything perfectly clear. So we killed them both. Including the court service officer that was escorting them to the courthouse. Reports of car bomb destroyed the court transport van, all the occupants and the entire side of the courthouse. Investigators merely had skulls to gather to match the inmate roster. And the driver in uniform.

For me, it was the beginning of the waiting time till I book.

I was sitting in the Moscow State School monkeying around in the compurter lab when I got nice congratulatory message mission accomplished. They also advised that 2 extra skulls were onsight and radio silence from my UAF partners.

This kind of mistake stings don't it? This mistake hurt as bad, maybe worse than that little kid on ice.

We built the bomb with 4 five-gallon buckets filled with fertilizer soaked with heating oil and attached a simple string of blasting caps hooked to a stripped down garage door opener. When I hit the remote control button to open up the garage, the whole building opens up. Nice huh? This car bomb didn't require bb's, nails or scrap metal, ours was an impact explosion distorting the integrity of all metal and concrete structures within burnt ear-shot, including the sand-niggers inside.

I saw the blue Ladda sedan next to the old rusty Vauxhaul coupe easily within range of my vantage point. On orders, we had to put in duplicative redundancy to our plan, so the old Vauxhaul was merely filled with buckets of fertilizer/diesel mash. No fuses were installed on this car, the concussion of the primary blast is sufficient to detonate the second car. With all the commercial ordinance available: C4, new plastic shape charges or even trinitrotolulene (tnt) our orders were to utilize deceptive materials and to direct any subsequent investigations away from us. Mind you, it is SO much easier to send in regular uniforms to blow shit up, but the residual signatures would be obvious, damning and stupid. So we made our fireworks look poor, muslim and chechen. Eskimo Tech bitches.

I put in my bright orange sponge ear plugs and when the van was right next to my double whammy, I ducked below the window, held my garage door opener up to the glass then pressed the button.

Can't undo that manmade disaster.

I dusted off, peeled off my workclothes, put on my best shoes, slacks, sports coat and long black dress coat and with camera in hand, I lit a French Galoises nigarette and went with the crowds to gawk, rubber neck and take pictures. I took some fucking great pictures, then walked to the tram and headed back to the campus and our dorm rooms to await further instructions.

After the message that my MIA UAF shooters had accomplished something extraordinary, nothing. Not an email, phone nor fucking smoke signals. Quiet is scary thing, but quiet is still a good thing. I think. Exfiltration was the plan. Not silence.

During the weeks prior to my arrest I simply carried on as the MBA fraud and computer hack. I never knew one of many Private Mannings would download large text files classified, then deliver them to Julian Assange whereupon Wikileaks would post the most interesting parts of my life online for all to scoff, dismiss and ridicule. It wasn't a leak in the cables from me to my employers that would ultimately betray me and hundreds of my colleagues, it was our own soldiers selling info to the enemy. Fucking Russians pay good money for FAT classified files, especially when it concerns pre-emptive terror attacks on their soil. Russians simply paid a spy to betray our country. That's what spies do. Russians scooped up a whole shitload of guys that lie, cheat, steal and commit murder for their countries. Me included.

Now I'm a transparent bookcover behind blue eyes and ex-fil was postponed for 9m3w2d. And until a trade of equally high-value moron could take place. I was also being held for the two extra skulls. Odd how we pay for our sins. These two Chechen UAF shooters were my guys, not citizens. I swear, both cars were unoccupied when the prison transport van approached the courthouse entrance.

I tried to explain myself but they kept punching and dunking me in the playtime pool o' poop. Poop don't bother me, trained by the best. I'm from Kotzebue.

On my return to OTZ/KPD the chief of police hauled me in and asked me what the hell happened during the last of my dozens of flights rendition. Then stopped, then asked all the other officers to leave the office. Man, I got all choked up. I fish-faced, hemmed and hawed, did the throat bob and with runny eyes, I said nothing. He looked away, at the ground, then blinking out the window, asked if my team made it back.

Holding back tears hurts way worse than holding back piss with rope, clothes pins, hammer and duct tape. Sort of pain that rings fresher'n busting a knuckle by missing the head of a nail.

If I'm behind the wheel or walking somewhere I'll fall into a type of emotional and focus robbing pit. Man I wander like a gloomy black cloud grieving zombie if I'm not steered by an aged spouse with worse periods of lost time than any of us.

I'm bigger'n most. Tougher'n most. But just ask me about coworkers deceased and I simply turn to shit. I ain't even fit to drive a car or own a gun. These spells of paralyzing grief are awful. PTSD is simply one long male menstruation, hangover and depression lasting longer'n a troopers' funeral.

You boys likely all have the same ailments and never speak of them outside the squadroom. I'm different. I'm the fair child that pointed the King Has No Clothes.

And the man in uniform has a broken heart.

Karl.

Touch me. I'm sick.

Top of the morning gents,


I sure hope me missives offensive are received in good health, wealth and beauty. Even if yer wives are mean as shit and menopausal akin to super pussy glue. Menopause. Fuck what a nice word for a decade long visit to the Bleeding Hut up at Pike's Spit. 15 years ago, I phoned my fucking dad and asked him what menopause means. He replied "son, now you know why I drink in the morning." Real funny fucker.

No shit, you niggers are in fer a nasty stretch. Real nasty. Nasty enough to kill small children and force yer sex life back into fresher no-baby tighty whitey pussy.

I know the ages of most of yer cheating wives, bitches and sour cream filled donut holes, and may God have mercy on your soul: if you don't shoot them soon. In Barrow, whoever passes out first: gets it. So this morning would work best, or MeanOldPause will rapidly shrink yer no-nut spouse's pussy from a silk purse back into a sow's ear. Midwest wit fer you older Irish Mick Fucks.

Hold on, as I dig through my KPD diaries and notebooks...gag a maggot, I'm looking at nude photos of nasty departed June Nelson with Alfred Allen on her in the meat wagon before she got too cold. Ick. Alfred Allen should be put on a leash, in a dog box and bunk it with Cecil Hawley. Imagine the butt-baby with those two rectal horn dogs.

Menopause. Wow, we are SO old. Pert near dirt dicks, worm bait and petrified pussy. I can never again date women my own age. Hags look just like my grandma. After menopause, yer dumber wives might wish to become a tampon but never white, tight nor outa sight. They'll stay brown, loose and in yer fucking face.

We're still young. Oh, right. You thought you were less than half-way through life and that middle-aged implies you'll live to the age of 104. Ain't happening negro. I'll likely live as long as my clan o' violent alcoholics, pedophiles and child abusers: somewhere between the lifespan of an incest abortion in my septic tank or my uncle Marvin under twin truck tires all the way to great-grand-motherfucker.

Oh, too late. I already am a GreatGrandMotherFucker. NewsFlash: I got little itty bitty inukun runt bait that call me "Awmmaw." I've been promoted from Appa to the Eskimo term: silver haired rapist. Back in my former rank I used to tell the grandkids to "be quiet while I go upstairs and fuck yer grandma." My ugly nordic face makes her pussy dry, but my dick will defrost and season her long-rotten eggs.

I ain't kidding, kill yer partners. Permiscuous infidelity before menopause earns a big ZERO in the Musta Makki (Finnish Black Market) forgiveness balance sheet. How sweet: fool around then dry up and seal yer pussy with Super Glue. Kewl. Reason them old bitches at the Kotzebue Senior Center are so mad? Takes a shoe horn to git yer dick in 'em yet the butt is already pre-moistened due to hot flashes and diaper rash. Attitude and non-detergent motor oil is on yer dumbass itinerary. For the next God forsaken decade!

Yup, and if y'all got bastard kids that look like any of our former KPD/AST coworker fat pukes or if our wives still git Kiana blisters, Noatak burns or bits of sheetrock in their cooters: shoot the bitch. Hell, I will. Just ask. Won't even fuck 'em. That costs extra.

Way back pert near quarter century ago in the old KPD jail, Lt. Eunice advised me to leave the police department if I wanted to stay married. Cuz ye ain't a cop if ye ain't got the 3 D's behind you: Divorce, Desertion or Death. I told him that I wasn't married whereupon he told me to get used to hangovers and stinky women. Single men with my resume and at the ripe old age of 28 tend to stay single and not likely to ever marry and die of alcoholism. Or venarial disease.

Eunice is a fucking genius. Cuz I did.

I fucking don't mean I'm dead yet, but damn, the devastation alcohol and the clap has had on me...fuck me in the goat ass, I don't even qualify as scrap meat. If I ain't walking my own rotten nigger ass into Samuel Simmonds, Manilaq or Harborview Medical Center's STD Gyno-Death-Pussy/Stinky-Dick Health Clinic, I'm walking in one of my little brothers. Mental illness and penis rot run in families. So does stupid shit behavior.

Wearing a condom feels like I'm fucking a tarp. Something no heat-seeking moisture missile would want to repeat. So I don't. In my career as impersonating a human being I've never practiced firearms safety, food safety, nor sex. I've a sneaking feeling none of us have EVER practiced safe anything.

Touch me, I'm sick. Growing up as your fictional character Flogged Toddler Finn, I grew to enjoy the process of filling the freezer. Sigluk to you ice monkeys. But I also tended to treat myself in health ways analogous to the animals I slaughter. And the folks that can't see me anymore. I smoke, drink, do drugs and then take vitamins. Do you smell a dumbfuck?

Walking talking contradictory human facade. REAL intelligent dumbfuck. "If I'd known I would've lived this long, I would've taken better care of myself." (anonymous) I'm fit and strong, and can outrun you and all yer kids, but likely wouldn't survive another trip to Noatak or Galena. It's been 20 years to the day and their maggot infested version of Pussy Bubonic plagues us all.

Since puberty I've been in some sort of treatment or other. I got popped for a coupla MCA's and coupla MIP's fer weed. A coupla assault arrests, theft and littering. And detonating a pipebomb at a school function. I fucking got court-ordered to hang out with old cops at AA meetings, then long sessions at Snohomish County's Drug Abuse Council. The crowning of my psychopathology was befriending Dr. Marilyn Grey. She forced me to read entire en-psych-clopedias and then return with a brief written report and oral syposis of what I found sick twisted whacking material. She recommended I should reinvent myself everyday and renew my membership to the human race. Fucking genius also convinced me I was bright, beautiful, capable and lovable.

Makes ye barf don't it?

I still try to remember her council. Then I go right ahead and illegally buy and sell guns of all sorts and alcohol and drugs to minority folks I like. And if I really like them, I'll park a car bomb right at the entrance to their fucking church. Or courthouse. Then go to jail. Again.

Ya see, I'm feeling menopause on my ass. My wife looks way different: I can't see my reflection.

No shit. A life of Sundays is VERY good for crippled albinos like me, but damn, now I simply walk. I smoked up dozens of shoes in 2011 in Nome, 2012 in Anchorage and now chiefing up shoes here in Soldotna. I just walk everywhere. No car, no car payments, insurance, repairs nor gas. All monies that now support marijuana growers, local bars, pizza joints, fine restaraunts and hotels along the Kenai River.

So I walk. Fucking miles everyday. If yer ever down here on the Kenai Peninsula you'll fetch me and bun in our Vibram soled AARP felony fliers doing the big 8-mile loop powerwalk to the Soldotna PO, Jo-Anne's Fabrics on the Kenai Spur Hwy, the liquor store at Carr's-Safeway, Sal's Diner and Maverick Tavern on the Sterling Hwy. Simply put, I miss the stress you asshole cops call "action." And friendship.

Me and bun spent most of 2012 cruising all over Los Anchorage. For simplicity, we usually grab a euro-style hostel and simply dump our 8 pieces of luggage, shower and dress up, then head downtown for any meal at any time. And Rainier Beer. I forgot how I loved it as a kid on the mutilation farm. Good crisp 3.2% grocery store beer. Every idyllic childhood should be soaked in good Rainier, mine was. Now my seniorhood is also. Damn I'm predictable as an Eskimo in a liquor store.

Every morning, me and bun shit, shower and shave, then rally over to King's X to look for natives, wash down a beer and tonic water lots of lemons, then book right down 5th Avenue to hit Polar Bar, the Kodiak, and then downtown to the Panhandle, the Avenue and then Gaslight one block over on 4th. The REAL Unipaq bars like the Hub or 515 have been condemned and torn down. The Inupiaq patrons from those old bars are also gone. They were given a douche, then buried. Graveyards got standards too nigger.

The Kodiak Bar surprised me and bun. We avoided Mad Myrna's: loud, proud, up front and homo-sickee as an overflowing honeybucket fer breakfast. But the Kodiak is WAY more GAY. We're hip, cool and down with the brothers, but I still fucking hate ass packers, butt bandits and bearded men that ask to lick out my ear hole. Or something. Yup, I'm a real Archie Bunker when it comes to tolerance.

I'm trying to be broad-minded. I'm not. Obsolete humans like us fossils Tikigaq-Suomen instinctively avoid such terrible cultures that exclude pretty naked girls and mix poo-ass, light lofers and man-wood. Moderno HomoSapiens have advanced so far beyond me and bun, they even embrace e-coli, brown trout and skid marks, mudflaps and speed-bumps all mixed into one organic stinky tossed fecal salad. Gross.

So after a few weird and touching visits to the Kodiak, me and bun avoided it like the plague. Besides, every time me and bun get drunk on Queer Beer and pass out in a gay bar, we have the runs for days. Go ahead and laugh. I may be a very pretty man, but I'm one funny fucker.

Enough about fecal freaks.

I want to tell you about my year in Scareview, the new African Native settlement on top of what was a beautiful community formerly known as Fairview. I ain't kidding, that little Kivalina camp used to be called ANUS, or Alaska Native Services. The remnants of that haunted hospital are difficult to detect. The main buildings are long gone but the dormers and smaller cinder block buildings are still there. Sadly though, they've been infested with vermin quite similar to acorns.

I'm code talking like an asshole. I mean RuralCRAP. This organization is a community activist group of proud white faggots that is converting lots of Anchorage into rezzed out reservation shit-holes. The old Holiday Inn is now low IQ housing, so is the Henry House, Inlet Inn and Inlet Towers. Even the Red Roof Inn is now called the Red Skin Inn or more aptly, the Red Nose Inn. When they're mission complete, I won't be allowed into Eastern Anchorage. But bun will though, if you get my racist drift. Norsemen like me refuse to march the Trail Of Beers like a fucking midget asshole drunken Inupiaq, I walk like a Norwegian: the tall blond alcoholic.

I still love my Extreme North Arctic village existence in Barrow North of 70 Lat, but travelling all over Alaska absolutely kicks ass. As stated in earlier posts, I mentioned the roundabout goofy experiences me and bun have enjoyed since official retardation. I've likely ranted on too long about the plight of African Natives Unipaq, but I ain't kidding: quit yer job, rent out yer house and join us on this forever treasure hunt, beer garden and barbeque and Helsinki Cannibis Shoppe. Since real Alaskaholics winter in Alaska and I'd face a 10% cut in AK PERS monthly pay and a 100% cut in annual PFD if we Go Outside for more than 90 days then fuck it, stick with us, drink some beers, smoke my illegal cuban cigars and we can be "AK to the max."

I still remember Albert Monroe saying such hooey. Sure lost lots of drinking partners, you niggers oughta step up. Call it just a glich in your sobriety. Kidding. Albeit, it would be weird to smoke a homegrown bomber joint with y'all, but I'd love your company. Alas, I no longer wish you boys would drink so much, smoke nigarettes and do hemp drugs, unless y'all share with ME.

My plans are to boogy out of Soldotna at the end of May and find a hostel in Anchorage for the months of June, July and August. Summers in Anchorge are a lot of fun. Besides, the winter rates end in May on the Kenai.

ANMC for bun's million mile tune up and I book over to ANHC. Even with SOA PERS Medical Insurance, native hospitals don't take wiggers like me. So at ANHC I'll get the usual: blood draw to check that all the numbers I know are blasted wrong. 8 year hangovers can't be good.

I miss the food and drink dates with bun downtown. But this time I want a room at the Sockeye Inn on Fireweed so we can walk all over midtown and explore every single outlet and venue alcoholic and caloric. There are a buttload of gook shops fer sushi, Romano's fer Italian and pert near a hunnert other food adventures. Not so many bars like the old downtown but plenty of snobby watering holes fer this Finn.

Another reason I like Anchorage is their mass transit. Me and bun bus to her appointments at ANMC to see if her bad knee should be cut off at her neck. Or some hack medical shit-ass advice. We simply toss a few senior sheckels onboard and gondo dude. If we need to run down Clam Gulch or Soldotna for weed I just grab a rental car fer a day and rally. I like driving. I miss it too. But every day I drive is a day that I won't walk anywhere. Me and bun put on 25 pounds each month I drove a rental car.

Shoeleather express dudes. Plus the doc says I can put off eating Viagra for a few more years if I keep the 200 pound scrawny donkey on the 6-3 crooked frame. As I've lost weight since my heaviest at KPD the doctors have pulled glyburide, avandia, actos and lycinipril. Last few years I even dropped ritalin and metformin and now eat aspirin for my daily hangovers, vitamins fer the heck of it and green beer/green toke dudes to moderate my IQ. Can't be too sober nor too smart 'round you dickheads. I haven't eaten hard drugs in quite a few years. Miss 'em too.

I really should get my butt up to ANHC for other shit too. Since turning fifty back in 2011 I'm supposed to get a colonoscopy. Scares me to death. If I had a pussy, I'd be shoving shit in there all the time, but I'm not macho enough for a coat rack up my ass. Plenty of room up there though. I crap bigger than most. And it's where all this brilliant text comes from. Can't you smell it?

I also had a heart attack ten or so years ago. I can't recall any single instant, just a big blank of missing time: 9m3w2d. EKG and tricks doctoral determined I'll be fine with minimal damage to my heart: as long as I stay away from faulty wiring, electric fences and cattle prods. The Doc also recommended I avoid soviet prisons too.

So at the end of May, I'll be in ANC and likely at one of the hostels amid our luggage, pro-grade old people shoes and KY Silk. I always leave a laptop running in the hotel room, but I never carry a phone. I mean never. Talk is cheap, cell phones are invasive and are a "tell" that yer impotent, inept and immature. The reason I'm so darned good looking is I'm completely device free. If you need to talk to me and bun: fuck yourself, then send me an email. Phones are so....for faggots. Me and bun are evil, cursed and heterosexually both suck my dick. While you homos play with yer phones, I'm busy ejaculating WAY up inside cooter bunnik. Or your wife.

Yup. I'm a dandy. My wife will give me a kiss and then whispers "foreign object." Since menopause hun-bun has had a few minor emergency room visits due to my selfishness and impatience. I like sex. My body likes sex too. Most of all, the penis extraordinaire I inherited from my finno-esti grandfather also likes sex. On occassion I like to put a little rape into my marriage. Bad angles, cruel depth, poor lubrication and pushing the bottom out of an old gal with far too much weiner will likely leave even baby-making dark pussy sore, swollen and bright red and purple.

Sometimes resulting in urinary infections and Dr. Gyno visits. The good doctor closed the door and asked bun, "What happened to you and WHO did this to you! Were raped with a foreign object?" God I like my dick. Both weapon and great conversation piece until I go Berserker and skull fuck my very own wife. Her glass eye stays on the bed stand for days, cuz bun always keeps an eye out for me.

Fuck, I still jerk a load off everyday in the shower. Old swimmers' trick to raise testosterone and sperm count levels. Constant depletion of yer donkey bags stimulates MORE boners and again, more depletion and has a seriously positive effect on yer muscle mass. And yer dick size. Today: yank and attempt to tear yer dick out by the roots then spend some time with a shop vac hooked up to your now larger purple kookoo. A cop's wife somewhere will appreciate the larger you.

Poor menopausal bitches. Worse than mad cow. Despite vaginal dryness and mean as shit disposition, yer bloodless prunes will spite you regardless. Instead of being a human being and let you hire a nanny just to suck on teenage sugar pussy, these old hags prefer you pack it in her ass. In the mind of old dry native bitties, her shitter is still better than allowing us to shiver inside a gorgeous young girl.

My eyes are watering and my penis is blinking rapidly. I gotta get back on topic.

I'm here to bitch about my OWN menopause. Ya see, I been in good company with me bunnik, but I'm a victim of my own fatal Finnish finality and doomed angelic maturity. Despite Dr. Marilyn Grey's advice, I'm having a hard time reinventing myself and renewing my membership to the human race. Fuck I'm trying. I'm now a kind human and no longer horribly deadly and desire to be welcome in any of you all's camp fer a drink and smoke. I seen all good people turn their heads each day, but I got nowhere to walk away. My feet are hurting, my wife is shopping for burial plots in Point Hope and I'm standing in the middle of this page just dying fer some witty masculine harrasment or powder burns. Yup. I'm a soppy spastic and I surely hope we passed the audition. You feel that tragic depression too?

I don't have single friend. Oh sure I got bunnik. But we've been off-grid for so long we're getting really lonesome.

As Finns age, our peer groups drastically decline. No shit, as I age my friends leave me. Almost as tragic as Native males youthfully deceased or gone missing, I flail about and try to fly all over God's tortured creation to visit me best mates.

Flying back to Kotzebue, Point Hope, Galena or Barrow is always a forever tear-jerker. Everybody is busy getting old and not missing us. Shit, those that recognize us dwindle towards extinction so fast it makes an old Viking cry and elderly Eskimo women sob and wonder if we're invisible. We wave and yell hello and folks walk away and continue their daily chores without looking up.

Bun speculates that we passed away years ago and that this is all our post-mortem imagination. My dick still works really good, so she may be right. So I guess that handsome karlNbun couple are just ghosts.

Huh. I sure hope you boys make it down to the KP or midtown/downtown Anc and visit me and bun. At least legitimize my wretched existential isolation.

I'll lie and tell bun I seen some of my old cop-mates at Walmart's or some shit. She believes me. You shouldn't.

As I'm older, I sure miss working with you coppers.

Karl.

Things to do in Nome when yer dead. West LA Fadeaway dudes.

Top of the morning gents,


Long time no nigger. I've been busy. Fuck you.

Ya see, I'm in the custody of a fine female aborigine that spoils me. And allowed me to retire wealthy at the age of 44 thank you very much. Analogous to our dedication to our kids, I've dedicated the rest of my chemically truncated and physically abbreviated lifespan to the care and feeding of elderly eskimo women. I'm the authority on such matters. Ok, maybe I'm merely your author on drugs and an authority on self-deprication and abusing you murderous lads: digital graffitti you bitches. Atchikongmun ye ain't AK enough, until you fuck the Yukon River and piss in a native woman.

Way back in 2004, Hun-Bun was working AP/AR/PR in the Acct. Dept. at the tribal college in Barrow and I was employed as a CI by my old alma-mater AK Statewide DEA and moonlighted as a bootlegger and meth handler fer NAC, Cape Smythe, AC and Logan Air. At the semi-annual HR DefBen/DefContrib meeting at the college, a PERS pension rep gave a presentation on the SOA Tier system with Tier 1 consisting of entrants before July 1 1986, Tier 2 entering before July 1 1996 and Tier 3 entering afterwards. Hun-Bun was chatting with the HR pension gal and she suggested she run Hun-Bun's DOB and SS# just for shits and giggles. Lo and behold, she exclaimed loudly that my wife could retire with a full pension and benefits. At age 55. Next fucking year!

Aht-tie, my wife can retire, but we have to replenish the funds from earlier cash withdrawals. So began the full throttle brown bottle work. I fucking busted balls humping booze out to the villages and even recruited my old boss and professor from UAF/SOM to pirate liquor across the Arctic Coast. I put all my skills as a true AK-49 bandit back to work and reeked 80 proof misery and dispensed 100% havoc upon mixed blood Ukpeagvik ice monkeys.

Fuck I worked mad hours, if you courtview me, you'll see the misdemeanant culmination of highly illegal and dangerous flights through the Brooks Range in a freezing fucking cold bush plane packed with meth, booze and buds, driven by a dumber fuck than the guy wasting your intellectual capabilities and insulting your finer sensibilities with language abreviations offensively arctic and niggardly acronyms en-Deering.

After my release from prison in the Fall of 2001, I have had an amazing run of luck, I got back to Alaska via Eastern Europe on September 10th, the day before the Earth stood still and the Twin Towers came down, Porter hired me to sell the Bush Pilot Bar and Restaurant in the FBX Airport, I also got a temp job restoring an old dairy farm for my father. In Feb 02 I got hired on as the finance director for the city of Galena, but the best part is after years of separation I finally found my 907 nigger ass at home again and within the sheets vaginal, supports emotive, restraints uteral and pillows mammalian of me blessed Hun-Bun.

During my tenure as a fraudulent MBA professor, TA, RA and server admin over yonder Nordic soils and Russian but truthfully working for the secret police agency acronym SUPO I sure missed Hun-Bun and longed for the 4-letter curse word: marriage. Intelligent Suomens with harsh Finno-Ugruk dialects in the intelligence business absolutely loved my MBA thesis dissertation on Nordic-Russo energy policy and expertise in illegal narcotics, bomb making and firearms, but the clincher was a resume that included tax evasion, bank fraud and persistent corruption of law enforcement officials. In the late 90's I was offered another very special job. I'm a cereal retard, just call me Special K.

Yup, if you Google me you'll see that in my line of work, I get paid to work in jails as both jailer and inmate. Some days I'm doling out the torture, other days I'm literally drowning in my work as an electrician and human punching bag. In the sacrifices you've made for your country, some of you lads built IED Belfast Irish car bombs, some of us drove them. Or better stated, doing God's work overseas as a good Christian In Action can be extremely fucking loud!

SUPO. What a fucking dumb acronym for a shivering Finn standing bare naked in Soviet snow. No kidding, here I am standing butt ass naked with a hunnert other naked contractors from all over Christ's Clandestine Creation, in formation freezing and watching the butt cheeks of now deceased spies shivering. Then not. Russian winters are quite similar to Kotzebue and Barrow. You don't always have to burn, beat or drown a special agent, frostbite suffers all life-forms hominid and also saves on torches, clubs and poopy sewer submersion bathwater. Trained by the best sick arctic fucks on Earth's coldest black sites AK: this spy that came in from the cold also lost toenails, vertebral and pancreatic integrity, not to mention fertility.

On September 9th, 2001 I was cut up, burnt and beat up, leaking out my ass, starving and sick, yet sitting handcuffed, dirty and stinking and crying on a train hastily transferred across Estonia and Lithuania to the custody of the top supervisor of Finland's Special Undercover Police Organisation. Nine months, two weeks and three days of torture wasn't the hard part, it was my immaculate flight back to my POOP (point of origin on my passport) Fairbanks, Alaska covered in bruises, cuts and loose stool bacterial. Yeah, ain't none of you soldiers grinnin' now are ye? Fuckers broke more than tooth and rib, I'll spend the rest of my life in mysterious rage, unexplained fury and recently inherited a Viking's thirst for spirits so great, it casts it's own shadow. Call me a lucky motherfucker, but I didn't win shit. I'll suffer the indignities and infirmities of old age, now, not later.

Fuck me in the goat ass, in NARC years 52 is the new 80. In dog years I'm 364 years old, but in Eskimo years I've got so many rings on my tree trunk dick-stand, I had to upgrade to dark women ripe for the plucking and prime for the fucking. Which is why I truly believe I was destined to harvest cubic dollars for me bunnik's pension. I am now famous for large deposits both financial and vaginal. On Halloween of 2005 Hun-Bun formally retarded and I fell into a now legacic 8-year drinking vacation.

Synopsis of felonies thus far. In 2006 I did get fired from a job in Kotzebue. I worked as a welfare case worker for the SOA. I stand rightfully accused of data theft. Since poor-ass welfare recipients never get monthly statements from the USDA Food Stamp ATM Debit Cards, the shitty niggers and ice tardmonkeys never notice fraudulent charges for ATM access fees, service fees and CSED deductions. I even set up inept retarded phony billings across all cardholders statewide for shyster sales taxes and stupid gay as fuck IRS skims. Robin Hood was a bone smoking faggot, as a Viking and a Ewing clan member in good criminal standing, I steal from the poor and give to nobody, except my sex slave scraling bunnik.

I fess up to that crime: guilty. I still have the old credit card processing machines alongside my FBI passport and ID laminators and presses, AST phone taps and clips, SUPO parabolic mics, KPD narc tools, VPSO winter gear, DEA digital recorders and NSB PSO medicated hemoroidal wipes. Yup, just ask Eskimo NUSH, cheezy acronyms, bad luck and deaths come in 3's, but goddammit, I never enjoyed such unbridled theft, corruption and graft as the likes of me emptying entire village, rural and bush economies. As we speak, I'm trying to hijack the "pick, click, give" PFD charity program and am attempting to route monies to an anonymous LandesBanken Green Dot checking account in Helsinki.

When Inupiaq, go native you fucking browntard oochuk boys. Even NorseTards have a code that y'all can live by. Drink your carbs, smoke your fiber and fuck yer meat. Oh, and please part yer asscheeks ikriq and allow me to steal entire cultures horrid and ancestries nasty or all the PA and lighting gear from the Rec Ctr, KIC Eskimo Bldg and the AC Marina from inside your ancient childhood memories as Worst Alaskans living on a kikik-spit that's almost a tagruk-island.

Like that don't ye? I have illegally parked inside a hunnert Amer-Indo-wrecked-ums and lectured to my prettiest cervical students in Braille that I'm of obsolete DNA Crow-Magnum: tall and slender, hurts where its tender. My fart hammer is multi-lingual and my womb-broom smells like Siberian Mongoloid pubes Butt-Eye fuck in 6 languages. Amen?

Keep yer eye on the ball. Selling the bar to NANA paid me $72K, bootlegging, work in Galena and for my father did a lot for my post traumatic murderous disposition, but also allowed me and Hun-Bun to top off her pensions, pay off old notes, bills and mortgages and finance this spectacular mission of legendary confiscation. Near the end of 05 bun started drawing her PERS pension and a few years back we rented out the Barrow duplex to the Native Owned ASRC for $50K a year. Just last year, 2012 at the age of 62 Hun-Bun started drawing Social Security thus laddering a 4 legged pension portfolio: PERS, SS, ASRC rents and the fourth leg, my ongoing treasure hunt and drunken bucket list whilst I walk like a Norwegian on 2 grand a week. Fuck you.

Throughout 07, 08 and 09 me and bun drew pension and rents and worked contract gigs back up at the college in Barrow and my herculean labors at KBRW cleaning and sorting out TONS of fucking paperwork, billings, invoices and soliciting grants from all the money wells from big oil and deeper pocketed rich Fairbanks pussy that mistake me for someone else.

In May of 2010 we packed up everything and tore ass down to the Kenai Peninsula to caretake a beautiful log home in Soldotna. We spent the summer there doing a complete janitorial and landscaping process that gits a farmboy wood. No shit, I was the lawnmowing great grand motherfucker from hell and the carpet steamcleaner cunt supreme. Hunnert dump runs, metric ton bonfires whilst smoking some seriously top shelf marijuana and living up to my reputation and lineage consisting of a long line of tall alcoholics. By mid summer that place was better groomed tham my Willow house. When the owner came back and saw the new residence she nearly cried, called her realtor and then insisted we do it again to her other log home 30 miles down the Sterling Highway in Clam Gulch. Kewl.

So we did. But this was a far more interesting mission. Three generations of antiques and valuables, extreme hording and so many drug addicts it'd make even a native barf. I mean constant partying and menopausal crack bitches whining fer dick.

Dropping like flies, one old nigarette smoking broad was re-arrested for being ugly, another DUI and VCOR on a fresh crystal possession beef. Another stroked out, went to the Central Peninsula Hospital, never came home, she's living in the Old Pioneer Pussy Facility in Ninilchik. The owner drifted to Florida, then Seattle, then I don't know. Me and Bun were left alone in a home that wasn't ours. So we cleaned it. I mean we cleaned everything. We burned dozens of old sheds, shacks and dog houses and then mowed so much brush and lawn that I destroyed two lawn mowers, one weed whacker and a hunnert gallons of gasoline. Outside, me and bun scrubbed and washed everything on premises, then cleaned, sorted and disappeared fucking everything clutter and fecal in the house.

As with all house overhauls, clean means empty of trash, debris and junk. So I raked every metal bit of garbage that I couldn't burn and bagged it all up and made a fuck load of dump runs. Truckloads of old clothes and furniture, old bikes and junk computers went to the Salvation Army and Bishops Attic. Yes, I kept the STACK of charitable donation receipts for myself. I also kept some other items for myself too.

Nobody ever came back. No nothing. I phoned around, zip. So me and bun simply finished up our Christmas sewing and baking for this Clam Gulch neighborhood of cross-eyed hillbillys Alaskan that starve when nobody feeds them. Hun-bun cooked, sewed and baked for every single pot grower, cabin psycho and zoo headed drunk and meth chef. No shit. Seven days a week all through Fall and Winter of 2010 bun went into overdrive and burnt up fabric, smoked up yards of material and wore out sewing machines amidst the horded masses and cooked thousands of dollars worth of steaks, roasts, hams and breads. Every day, some poor sod buster with dirty kids in tow, would drop by for showers, haul water, use the laundry, drink my booze and eat bun's baked and cooked goods like King Henry of any number plus take home orders by bucket or pallet, then leave an ounce or two of something illegal on my table: I wouldn't have it any other way. Fuck you very much.

The car don't run on meth or bong hits, the liquor store don't take weed and the grocer always demands cash. Not my cash. I wasn't paying to feed this whole nation of Calm Gluch bums. The landlord did though. Ever heard of Oxford Assayers or Roy's Coins in Anchorage?

Ya see, in this now clean, landscaped and inhabited by good ghosts: house of ill repute I collected boxes of treasure. Lots of old jewelry, watches and silver and gold coins. So once or twice a week I had to drive in town to load up on Costco Wholesale level commodities and vastly larger levels of Helsingfors liquor, I'd first pop into Oxfords or Roy's to sell a portion of neglected loot, make a deposit, pay some bills then overload the truck with a half-ton of foodstuffs on bun's list. From September all the way through the holidays bun sewed and baked. She'd wash and repair these gomers' parkas and winter gear, stitch and hem fleece hats and neck and face warmers for Alaskan faces so abused, beaten and ugly: it's best they stay covered.

Fuck you, Martha Stewart is a pussy. Elderly Eskimo women can burn fuels like coffee and bong hits, tea and tokes and also burn up miles of thread, fabric up the fucking ass and still remember not to burn a single pastry, glaze nor gravy. Don't shoot the Finn, I'm the bartender and by kyping a fucking free sat connect, I kept a steady stream of space music echoeing night and day. I'm the butler and I also service the crystal glassware for drinks and smokes. And toots.

Pert near March 2011, the bills, circulars and junk mail starting exceeding the woodstove. Weird shit for time share condos, utilities, borough taxes, auto, home and life insurance payments due and collection agencies: lawyers and shit. But to make matters worse, some whining shrill cunt from welfare fraud named Michelle Nolan phoned asking for MMR info regarding a bunch of stinky old menopausal crack whores that were on food stamps, disability and medicare and get this: they were delinquent in their paperwork and were subject to loss of benefits. I fucking died laughing, without poverty all around, I wouldn't be so stinking rich. Think about it. Here I'm feeding the fucking nation of Clam Gulch proper with gold, silver and watches distilled from mountains of horded loot to the tune of over $30K and I'm surrounded by crack infested dead and dying old white pussy.

And nobody, including the old cocaine frosted elephant winded labian flapper cunts knew of the treasures stored in boxes of junk from floor to ceiling. Except now, you guys.

The mailbox out front can be scary. The one I feared was packing more and more with collection notices and hospitals threatening suit if these crack nigger white cunts didn't muster up some dineros. Even the Dish TV/phone/internet service was disconnected forcing me to fill the house with music from my trusty AM radio. So from 9pm until 4am I'd play 650 KENI Coast to Coast late night radio with Art Bell. When I'm forced to switch from high res internet space music over to low fidelity am radio: check yer watches fuckheads, time to book. So we did. I wrapped up all my cleaning and sorting and pilfering, then looked back at what was once a dung heap liability yet now a magnificent log home and real perty asset entirely devoid of refuse and treasures and stinking old white cunts, put the car in drive and headed north to pester one of my best mates constabulary working where bad folks go when they die at the end of the Iditarod Trail.

Nome Or Bust DickHeads.

As stated heretofore, if in a bind, just call a friend. So I called agent Octuck, told him me and bun are airport and bus station bums, bored, retarded and got bucks. Dude was a champ. A monied guy just like me. When rich bastards combine forces, really wonderful and good shit will fucking occur. Hence why I shy away from you pukes that whine about money, cheap gits and tightwads really piss me off. Besides, by gushing cash out my ass, we effectively flooded the Nome economy with grocery, beer and gold and silver dineros. But alas, your lordship giveth. And he taketh away. Nome turned out to be far more profitable than the old crack whores' horded treasures from Clam Gulch.

In this game of wealth, stick to the road and beware of the mores. Meaning stick to what you know, hump it hard, cum a load and drive it home. Even if it's in the anus of the universe: Nome, Alaska. Unjust enrichment or ill-gotten gains: give it a name. parasitic aristocracy fuck you very much. Strident criminal MBA pedigree motherfuckers are responsible for cocaine, slavery and outsourcing jobs away from yer half-tard mud-race miscreant runt children. I hear rumor that some white devil blue-eyed gussuks are personally responsible for untold and phased array of waves of assaults on shit-ass poor fuck-stains and their tiny little wallets and smaller brains. And when in Nome, I just got warmed up and found my stride. I was about to mine the miners young, old and dying wretched.

At dawn, everyday, me and bun would quietly walk downstairs leaving Octuck and some pretty naked girl sleeping onward towards his odd bastard vampire assassin shift-work at NPD and also hopefully enjoy serious misuse of that pretty naked girl's cervical and colonic tissue. Then suck nuvuk oochuk so hard her fucking head caves in. Octuck gets a lot of complaints from women about his sex: it hurts. Figure it out nigger-fingers.

Racist, sexist foul mouthed and spoiled rich Scandinavian test tube baby: janitor in a drum. Yup, I clean up, clean out and only eat my own sperm. God bless tasty girls that are oh so sexy as playful 6 pack inverted carry biscuit handles, thumb and four finger binocular penis holsters parallel. My mouth is watering I'm such a sexist pig that truly loves pussy. And the life support systems that's connected to the backside of the pussy, I kind of like too. Almost as much as money. Which is what I'm trying to focus on, instead of sweet Georgia peach fuzz pie and hot cherry bendovers. Fuck it, sex on the brain here too. Next paragraph, after I slug my sausage, scrawg a nut and spooge a load.

All better, where was I? Oh, mining miners and climbing through rotten old houses in Nome and scoring ching.

Every morning me and bun walked from Octuck's downtown to Polar Cafe for breakfast, Northwest Campus to check emails, then hit EVERY bar, restaraunt and liquor store for more grubbage and mead. I walked my fucking dick off in Nome, I shook hands with everybody, slapped backs and spilt beers on every square inch of God's large intestinal sphincter. We mapped and surveyed fucking everywhere plotting the ripe abandoned houses and whom deceased used to piss and shit there. This is what's so fucked up. So many speculators, drunks and gold bugs come and go in Nome, all they do is padlock the front doors, leave town, then die.

Dead people love to give me all their shit. One old cousinous cancer gal was in Chemo at ANMC in Anchoragua and asked me and bun to feed her cats, take care of her truck and clean her house. Ever sniff old lady cat piss? Yup, just like the Clam Gulch Crack Dump: generations of junk, heirlooms horded and everything pee soaked. Pretty fucking awful, but the few days me and bun spent hauling trash, washing dishes, sweep/vac and mop jag, I collected 4 Crown Royal bags full of old silver quarters, half-dollars and lady libertys that scored me $41 an ounce on the London Fix down at GRC, the rare metal buyers on Front Street. Pert near coupla grand: works for me.

Up next to the Methodist Church thrift shop, old lady Perkin's house had been abandoned for years. No heat, no power and broken windows. Yet now inhabited by lots of native boys sneaking in and out and hiding in their fort in the backyard connexes. Observing their sneaky behavior bun wisely deduced that those native boys were up to something in their forts. So I went out behind our cabin, brushed aside the willows and branches and went to speak to these boys. They were inside old lady Perkin's house running around yelling and laughing playing army man and almost ran me over. I told them that we shouldn't be in here and that we could get in trouble playing in some old white woman's home. They said they had permission, whereupon I told them that she died in here and was a mean haunting old nasty ghost of a white bitch. That worked. Those little native boys blanched and paled, then rather politely went outside and across to the church playground. I looked around, saw lots of old lady junk, frozen exploded food cans and an indoor chill despite outside sunshine warmth and clear skies. Dank as a wet diaper too. So I locked and slammed all the doors and went back through the willows and branches and into our cabin.

Bun asked me what they were doing and told her about them little scamps running around raising a ruckus and that they find treasure. I also let her know that I locked the place up again.

For weeks all was quiet in my OME niggerhood, me and bun hit every bar and burger joint, gook shop and native dive. Fuck, a lot of homeless NANA negroes are dying on the beaches and streets of Nome, Alaska. Breaks my fucking heart to see the Native Corporations shit on their own shareholders so fucking badly. Same for those thousands of Eskimos that are giving Anchorage some serious fucking native fatigue. Goddamned shit ass OTZ Inupiaq unnuk-cutters are paving the streets with Eskimo ass paint and slippery little native dukee turds. Worse part, the largest Inupiaq village in Alaska is Brother Francis Shelter and Bean's Cafe, that wretched Choke and Puke Soup Kitchen and take away alcoholics' moldy sandwich Barf Bag Ahkah.

Nome is so kewl, they won't even call out the IHS Save the Natives White Trash Lesbo-Dike Bitches to care for and house these walking dead drunk zombies. BIA! Humbug! Just let them fucking shovel head ice niggers freeze, let Manilaq sort em' out. Like I said, Nome is paralyzed with no-teefer brown drunks and just like all our regional native corporations and nonprofit healthcare conglomerates: fuck it, the whole world is really sick and tired of stinking aboriginal corpses intoxicated and soiled. Wake up fucks. NANA is the worst offender: serious nigger neglect here bro. AFN means I ain't fucking native, but all over Anchorage and Nome I see dead natives Kikiktagruk all the time and I ain't got shit fer sixth sense yet have a complete lack of imagination.

Fuck I get worked up. I just wasted a lot of text on a waste of skin. 'Struth mates. I'm a thief, I'm honest and I could've been born bright but I used to laugh and point at suffering human beings, now my eyes well up, all my scars and joints ache and I can barely conceal my weeping. Old veterans never die, we just smell that way. PTSD doesn't mix well with witnessing a hunnert of my very own OTZ/selwikmut neighbors: native human beings suffering unbearably in apalling living conditions, abject malnutrition, unjust poverty and alcoholic agony. Even long fossilized monsters Finn fail to hide their tears and choke up convulsively.

Back on topic. I ain't here to bitch about my watering eyes, diabetic neurapathy, arthritis, heart and IQ disease. Me and bun were at the Nome USPS and chatting with some familially short little sober Nunapichuk Unipaqs. They told us to pop by and visit their mum Sturgis Iyapana, an old blind Inukun Tikigaq woman from Point Dope. She lived a block over from our cabin, so we walked over and bun went in to say hi and have tea and eat real icky food. I mulled about and scoped out the unnuk shacks on both sides of the Iyapana house. One was packed full of wet and rusted sno-go parts, wheeler hulks and boat motor cadavers. Just plain shit. So I meandered over next door and pecked about. The door was so dry that I just booted my way in. I scanned and snooped all over and just found a dry, cold house with soft wood stairs. My first step was balsa air and went on through, so I crept up the stairs just stepping on the nail heads and joists. The only thing of value upstairs was a kitchen drawer that was still filled to the brim with silverware. Goddamn tenants only just left a hunnert fucking years ago, so I bagged the whole drawer up and carefully descended the stairs, pulled the door back in place and met bun who smelled like lots of good native foods other cultures call rotten. And Finns compare to eye-watering black girl pussy. Even if there was a Heaven for Natives, I already know what it smells like.

Walking home I showed bun my drawer of tableware. She balked, then looked closer with her trillion power glasses and said they're all sterling silver. Yard wide grin and yard long Mr. Wobbly in my pants! We ran like giddy kids all the way to Nome GRC on Front Street and took home a check for 66 troy ounces of silver. Sometimes despite concussion plaque, heartbreaking depression and broken feet, I feel so proud of myself.

I was telling you about them kids that were messing about in the old Perkins house behind us. They honored the old lady's ghost and stayed outa the house, but all summer them kids were in and out of those old rotten connexes, playing cowboys and indians, army man, and squirrelling away toys of all sorts, stolen cute little bikes and God knows what else. One time our buxom Irish Belle MTF toke break partner and 420 safety meeting coordinator Rose Madden was bitching about a rash of petty thefts, burglaries and shoplifting all around Nome. In her animated style, she spit, hiked her bra and shifted her basketball milluks into a better position, then speculated that it was probably a bunch of fucking punk rip-offs. Since she gestures grandly and communicates so well with her big heavy boobs I listen. She also got big burgandy thumb-sucker nipples on silver dollar sized launching pads that stand way out when she coughs on a spicy pine toke, so I pay attention real fucking close. And then I realized what she was saying and my head started spinning. I immediately wanted to bolt out and dig through them little ratfuck kids' fort.

And I did. After Rose finished chiefing breakfast with us, she stretched her rain coat over both those big dairy melons, grabbed her umbrella and splashed out into the Sunday morning Nome downpour down Bering St. to open up the bar. I immediately spied up and down the backyard for any trace of human activity on a really pissy rainy and dark gray morning. Nonesuch. So I booked around back through the willows and branches and sneaked into them rotten connexes. Holy fuck. Them kids had stashed half the world's toys, electronics, bikes, skateboards and every kind of silly kid gadget known to mankind adolescent. I did a cursory inventory and found lots of high dollar stupid kid shit, but in the NHS gym bag I found ziploc bags filled with jewelry, coins and dozens of them little vials of gold flake and picker nuggets. Yeah, no shit, my bruised and seaping heart was hurting it pounded so hard.

I did a thorough double check on every single stolen item them kids kyped, a detailed search, but faster'n shit, then booked it back around and into me and bun's cabin. Instead of mining the miners and whore extortion like Wyatt Earp, I robbed the robbers. Is this ethical? I may have just violated some criminal code of conduct. Should a larcenous senior citizen vanish so much wealth from a bunch of thieving browntard niff punks? Thank you, I thought those same exact thoughts: sort the loot, package everything quickly and Gold Streak all non-ferrous evidence down to Oxford Assay.

After melt and assay, I had enough money to pay my mortgage a coupla years ahead. I still haven't moralized what I did. I stole from the poor. Again. Gosh, I can't even muster another cuss.

This has become far too easy. My bank is fat and my bones don't hurt anymore, meaning something is wrong here, so I smoked a bowl, washed down puniktuk with a gallon of beer, then went to check mail at the Nome USPO. David and Rachel Craig sent me and bun a hand scribed letter via angel mail and said that it is now time to look North again and catch the Midnite Express outa Nome. As I came downstairs and had a smoke, somebody spoke and I went into a dream, I pissed meself, then re-woke surrounded by now deceased coppers, dead blessed Eskimo brothers, troopers and spies.

I've been here before. Whenever I feel the warmth and wholeness of being at one in my wife and with the universe and such a familiar sense of well-being and financial abundance you soldiers know I'm finally ready to stomach Nay's formaldehyde boat drinks and listen to his endless Gordon Lightfoot. Hence the sunset clause in my civilian contract.

Can you sense NPD closing in? I didn't. I never got the KNOM Amplitudinally Modulated PSA from Laralai Kineen that me and bun were already DOA and gone to be with the worms. West LA Fade Away dudes. John Barley Corn and Jacob Marley's hellhounds have long been on my tail.

At these crossroads alcoholic and amoral, felonious and actuarial culdesacs, its probably a good time me and bun eat a coupla my SUPO vanishing pills. So we did.

On orders, secret agent Octuck gave me and bun a ride to the Nome Airport but took the long way out past Wyatt Earp's Roadhouse Saloon. That's where Patrick stopped his red and white Chevy truck, pulled out my old 1911 .45 and pointed it at us. Wiping his eyes he asked us to look after his brothers. Then he shot us.

Looking out my window across from Nuvruk, my monthly PERS/SS/ASRC payments are whole gold bars, God looks like a Viking yet sounds just like Oscar Murray Kotzebue Weather Service. Oh, and KOTZ is only a local call away.

Pagalasivi gents, I sure miss you guys.

Karl.

Newsmates and convicts.

Top of the morning gents,


I've been chatting with some mighty lothesome criminals this week. REALLY bad dudes. Cuz they're fucking journalists and bush radio blabbermouths.

Don't ye maggots ever wonder why I repeatedly get such good press in the bush yet embarrassing and humiliating press in the shitty cities? The Arctic Sounder and APRN have been really swell media outlets, but Fairbanks and Anchorage press covers me like I'm a typical Native. Weird huh?

Just like all you soldiers, I got former coworkers literary and plethora. See? I can sound real intarligent too ye know. When I was editor of the Arctic Sounder the same year I was the herpetic kiana village PSO, I got to watch Jim Paulin make Gordon Ito look like a child gomer and pink sperm anal bandit. SERIOUS skills Paulin got. Someone steered him to old records and complaints from dubiously forged KPD contact cards that can be cobbled together for a masterpiece theater masculine pap smear and beautiful character assassination. Don't ever let Jim get you against the ropes: he'll pull yer wings off, then yer goonie-googoos. Without ever lifting a finger nor breaking a sweat, he'll nuke yer reputation magnified rectal and aloud and in print.

Fucking Gordon was so flabbergasted and defeated, he asked AC clerk Harvey Jennings to let him look at a new revolver, took an aiming stance at Jim Paulin, cocked the hammer, told Jim to say his prayers, then pulled the trigger. Click and Gordon Ito was inmate ass-raped #69. Best part, ItoFuckHole splattered his very own Eskimo ass paint all over Kotzebue Sound's frozen sewer ice flow. Sweet. Death by stupid: overloaded moron in a puny shitty airplane. Stinky Kivilina Muktuk and stinky nigger dumbfuck make a real perty shit stain. I know muktuk and KVL muktuk is baby diaper stinking pussy blubber compared to MY dudes' pink and black pedigree foods in BRW.

You Kikiknigrunt fuckers sure need schooling about Barrow. Ask Eskimo NUSH, the arctic slope is as flat as the shovel headed natives up there. Nothing like the poverty you niggers suffer. NSB pays for everything. Even heating oil for the villages without natural gas. NSB Mayor also gets his/her own Lear Jet, plus we have our OWN borough police: meaning no fucking troopers. Best part, they let me and bun harvest whale and polar bears.

Poor Reggie Joule has to thumb a ride for his loose stool and fat ass and has a budget one-tenth of ours. We're also ten times further North of the Arctic Circle than you red neck Southerner ice niggers. 40 miles vs. 400 miles further north. Fuck all yer nana nigra bitch pie holes. Kotzebue has always been shit ass poor and forever irrelevant. Except within these correspondence constabulary, NWAK is my own personal whipping boy.

If you recall, Al Sanders was the AM disc-jockey on KOTZ 720 from 5am till Len's assinine polka homo-show. Al usually started his morning broadcast with his signature sign-on followed with clean humor from Bill Cosby, "news of the weird" and oft played "basketball jones" from the Cheech and Chong album (either big bamboo or up in smoke).

Al was such a good friend I trusted the chubby nigger to bunk it with bun during the years I was away working. Or in jail. Best roommate she ever had. Besides, he pours only Johnny Walker Black. My kind of guy. He also liked the smell of marijuana. A lot. If you debate sports history and statistics: yer toast. Fucker breathes, eats and shits fat sports. He made me feel unworthy and intellectually niggardly and I'm smarter'n most nugger-fuckers.

Stacey and Karl Pucket worked for the Sounder behind pondu in the same office as bun, before Lindauer and bish sold the local rag chain to them bethel pukes Calista. Stacey secretly did 20 questions on me every night during graveyard shift for the day's and previous night's KPD/KFD/AST Dispatch Activity, whereupon they dutifully raced to the courthouse lobby awaiting you lazy fucking cops to wrap up your goddamned paperwork. May Pannik was a fucking champ, she ALWAYS made 8 copies of your illiterate complaints with one complete set going right into Stacey or Karl's sweaty and twitching publishing dick skinner hands. From my lips to the morning arraignments, then on Sounder's 'who dunnit.' OTZero's version of OME buttNugget's "seawall." Public records are both a bitch and a powerful tool. For cops too. With Stacey and Karl on the Arctic Sounder Staff, a drug case in 11/92 got expansive, award-winning and insightful coverage. I was offered a new post with Mat-Su Narcotics Division (StatewideDEA back then) shortly thereafter.

Bill Murray and David Caleschman, and oh yeah, Dean Tongen were loud and proud activist motherfuckers beyond par and above your intellectual pay-grade. Smart assed motherfuckers and darn good drinkers whilst singing "hammertime howarth is gonna fry" too. KOTZ 720AM has a history of liberal bias and nigger preference towards stupid native loser news: meaning they fucking hate cops, troopers and narcs. Not these three prize-fighting broadcasters, murray, caleschJew and Tongen continually pissed off Rob Rawls and Len Drunkerson with GREAT coverage and prime stories of drug raids, bootlegger busts and mass-asshole brown arrest sweeps. At my request, begging and pleadings, and as long as I provided solid intel, them 3 shining examples of brain to mouth coordination built a lot of their intro and bumper music filled with hit songs like 'Secret Agent Man,' war themes, cowboy anthems, combat devotionals and inspirationals...along with tangentally witty abreviations and acronyms with a shining bias proudly towards the blue wall. Dragnet is still the standard for pro-cop toonage dude.

Wake up fucks: If I ain't hanging around your stinky squadrooms or dispatch, I'm fucking around the radio station smoking weed with Higbitch or chatting guns with Pierre LonePuss. Worse yet, I could be doing blow with other nasty white dudes from Washington down at the Ram Air Hangar. Shimshat recently filed for bankruptcy and Mike Spezak is serving a 7 year hitch for Tax Fraud from his years running Spezak Death Aviation and Servant Air Taxi.

James Mason is one of the best in the business. Real fucking intellectual pitbull on both print journalism and over the air broadcasts. Fucking obliged to him for life. He did a really thorough and precise story all about Operation Muktuk. His wordcraft and Solveig Naylor's big heart allowed for TONS of pinkNblack whale candy to fly free of charge on Cape Smythe Air Service from BRW out to most Hotham's Inlet Elder Councils.

Free freight isn't always free, I supplied miles of strapping tape, cardboard and let's not forget my broken back and hands hauling those huge blocks of whale pussy to airport. Small price really. I'm culturally magnanimous and arrogantly FASnorse, yer not. Cape Smythe tallied over a ton every year for 3 years. All free to rotten old ice niggers.

I get to talk this way: I packed every ton of muktuk myself...so fuck ye.

Tim McDonald covered Logan's dumbshit stunt: the man hired me to bootleg his booze and buds. I inserted AST Drug Agent Karl Main into the business and voila! No more Logan and no more planes, guns and grow equipment. Logan was eager to leap over me and fucking kype my bootlegger connections, so Trooper Karl Main stepped up like a fucking champ, grew long hair and a beard and kicked some complex weather and junker plane ass. Logan actually enjoyed fucking me outa my bootleg biz and dove headfirst into state trooper money, evidence and nets. And then cuffs.

RA Dillon did a poignant headline declaring Scott McConnell a drunkard, homo and baby killer. He killed the mommy too by splitting May Marlene Thomas in fucking half at a hunnert mph stopping only for a quick break inside a porch wilson sr. Nasty mess. Mommy and baby pussy juice all OVER fucking front street. The sound of that wreck was horrendous. It was sort of mixture of ultra-high velocity, blood mist and exploding native baby guts: and a really loud Kaboom! All night there was a funky pussy mist in the air over Coppock's houses. I like a collision I can smell. I'm that way ye know.

Dillon also made me look proud with graduating from Chukchi College (upchuck U), my UAF MBA scholarship and also selling the bar to nana, but is worthy of praise for Eskimo NUSH's work at UAF on a particularly tricky undercover op involving GHB, G and Bute, the date rape drug epidemic all over the campus. John Paliwoda never saw it coming. He was never seen again neither.

I got a couple of headlines in the Helsinki Sanomat and the Helsinki Lehti detailing undercover busts of X, ecstacy and MDMA. All merely versions of methamphetamine, yet the devastating heart and nerve damage is the same as Alaska's huge population suffering from Meth-Psychosis and forever failing to feel joy, nor the tearful embraces you and I take for granted.

Wives ain't good fer much, but their hugs are nice. Hugging only when we dump our darker nuggers at the senior center and head to the beach to stare at all the pretty white girls. Possibly enjoying a grand ball seizure inside one or two.

I merely wish to be wanted. Wishful thinking was only our first mistake deplaining OTZ.

And again today. As these old memories flow out my fucking ass, I oft wonder if me and bun are truly missed.

Karl.

Hurt shit.

Top of the morning gents,

I just like to hurt shit. Sorry, but I do. Bun says: Can't hurt the dead.

Me and bun were entertaining guests the other day. Jameson's whisky, Northern Lights and Star Gazer weed and the company of more fuckhead potgrowers. Typical shit. Old convicts and bakedsober alcoholics evangelical. Colostomy bags, COPD coughers and herniated disks and stomachs too.

Just like my AA meetings way back in Mountlake Terrace Washington. Court orders. Set up chairs in some loser Church of the Illiterate, make massive canisters of coffee and put out a hunnert ashtrays, barrels of sugar and pallets of cement colon coffee creamer. I also had to sweep up and put all the folding chairs away after AA. Got a ride home from Beuler too. He lived a coupla blocks from me.

Difference between a drunk and an alcoholic: drunk don't gotta go to all them fucking meetings. SSDD. Here in Soldotna I set up chairs and drinks and coffee and load bowls, all former uniforms, but no cops. Only old alcholics' PTSD and zero halo nor aura. You soldiers are indeed a unique lifeform and yet glowing bag of mashed up assholes.

I now know why minors shouldn't attend ADULT recovery meetings. Pretty fucking traumatic, unless yer a butcher boy, goat milker and chicken choker of the most prestigious WA serial killer prototypically injured, abused and beaten soldier at the age of 4. I never cry. Until I worked with you lads. I'm a rescue lifeline for drunks. In a moment of pure panic sobriety or between prescription refills, just pop by. Bar's ALWAYS open, bun got baked roasts and breads and I usually got something hemplethal to burn.

Give me yer 1 year AA sobriety pin. I'll give ye a jug. You bet.

Addictions aside, I win all my fights. Even when I was the kid known on Maplewood Hill as Flogged Toddler Finn. When I grew up and got big, I went back and killed everybody. Sure hurt and killed lots of people. Never my tormentors. I'm feeling like it's time to kill again. Like bitches' periods, I got to grieve lost spermatazoa and ovum, and the folks that are just dying to die. Nothing like another homicide to cheer us up. When yer at DEATH's Door, I pull ye through.

Way back when I was in prison and having a hell of tough day at the office, bun awoke in the living room amidst sleepwalking and calling for me. She knew the stress of my job and I vaguely heard her prayers for me on the other side of the planet. Her advice now is for us to be available to each other.You all have loved ones that awake each night with us in a sweat gasping for air, skin afire and feet breaking and feeling yer sufferings. Fuck, every night, that's our wives.

We never hurt the ones that deserve it, just the ones that love us. Next midnite anxiety, panic and hotflash attack just exercise the thought that that's the exact moment me, patrick, paul, timo, mutt and jeff awake too. No shit, tonight, when you awake suffocating and sweating, just remember you're doing the same thing as all of us: at the same moment. After the loud echoes inside, take a respite. That's me in the corner. And so is Craig.Ya see, he told me to meet him here. No, it's not yer wife we're concerned with, it's your soul that's got us hovering about. I ain't Irish but David says we gotta have a few coins for ye. And some stupid little canoe filled with yer immortal remains.

My word you boys have some awful dreams. Fuck dude, I try to visit all you'n when yer nightmares hurt the worst. And I write like hell. All I have is highly illustrative words sorrowful and artistic whitespace bleak and I never lost my religion. For a little while, I ran out of words to paint on yer canvas. But as you can see: I'm back!

I'm still watching and spying over y'all and in the last decades. By now all you guys better understand me perty fucking clearly. This morning post AM CopTalk is classified top secret and only a ruse to open up that USB port inside yer broken hearts and bleeding soldiers' souls.

VideoDrome is merely a philosophy, but this playground is bordered with rows of crosses. By reading heartfelt subconcious tortured pleadings for help, y'all voluntarily tear off scars and scabs and happily receive quarter century old and painfully honest yet injurious back channel dispatch chatter from KPD D8, even from this graveyard for God's servants uniformed, armed and covert.

Besides you soldiers and deceased troopers, I think bun been gone a long time. Or we have. Every night, as an evening constitution I walk through all the graveyards AK looking fer something. I lost my wife years ago, but I just can't find my way home.

Fuck. I can no longer see my reflection. From within bun's glowing aura I heard her say the only person I hurt is me. I won't stand at yer grave and cry. Alas, you found me out. Look where I'm sitting. No more bandages nor tourniquets and right fucking next to you. I'm only one of the five people you will meet in Heaven. Best we grieve in advance.

I am, therefore I sing of the dead, glad and proud. One of us is due fer a funeral and it'll break all our hearts, but I'm there dude. As in right here letting my powder-burned and frostbitten fingers hum in the wind faster'n a machine gun.

Or a falling teardrop.

I'm always sitting on freshmowed grass, my face is wet and I'm so lonesome within this crowded, noisy and smoky graveyard packed with you funny fuckers. For centuries now, I been trying to find my wife. Somewhere she's still busy with her angelic maternal Florence Nightengale Duties. She's so hard to find: nobody on this side is injured or hurt. At least anymore.

Here on this page of text and amid anglicized etched tombstones, I ain't here to hurt ye. I'm here to help...and look fer bun. I see all you shooters, but I'm still an echoe and another hillside away from my wife. She ain't nowhere in sight, so I'll bid y'all farewell and keep walking towards her porchlight just a bit further north.

Just wish bun could see how handsome you soldiers have become. Another soaked page of text and another graveyard: and no bun.

All I found is us.

Karl.

Blonder than you. Braver than I.

Top of the morning gents,


Reading the news today, I see we need another hero.

Not me niggers. My middle name ain't Hercules. Ain't fucking Jesus, Manilaq or Howard Rock neither.

Even down here on the KP me and bun see bums, moose and natives. Yup, real natives unipaq and just as tragic. Why does aborigine rhyme with tragic? Stigmata bitches. Stigma we've assigned lower humans as addicts and alcoholics. Worst Alaskans are even lower than jews.

But wait. I do drugs, drink WAY more Alko than my Suomen/UNpeacekeeper bitch readers, yet with slacks, sportcoat, wallet and tan, this albino reproduces your afflictions native perfectly, yet I'm the handsome alcoholic stoner that folks WANT to give money.

Eskimo rhymes, my favorite: Eskimo drivers, no survivors.

Or better: Eskimo drinkers, niggers mighty stinkers. Just hang with us drunks: add a coupla VPSO's...mighty stinky.

Premature justice merely implies prejudice. I'm the same way, ye know. White folks see me and bun and think: poor guy. Natives see me and bun and think: hate that bitch-niff. I like how darky niffukuns are racist towards themselves. Norse simply laugh at each other, then eat yer kind. I just ate a pair of ammaw-milluks.

Bun is a real iconoclastic individual. Pretty, sober, rich and married to a pedigree monied Finn. A guy that is literally bankrupt without the support and 1 woman teamwork me bunnik has provided my various financial exploits. Get it? She ain't nothing like the stereotypical pukebags Inu and fuckstains NANA. Nothing like 'em at all. I'm the scroat-bag drunk-bake and she's the healthy and oh so sexy supervising matriarch.

I always scold bun to be mindful that Alaskans view her as little more than a high-steppin' nigger bitch, don't deserve that handsome husband. Before me and bun walked this planet Alaskan, a whole lot of ugly native women put the jinx on her. The last hunnert years has delivered AK lots of shitstained goat-bags, horny putrid niffs, stink-leaking drunk bitches and one sober native woman. My fucking wife. Classy fucking gal and real good-looking Dame.

Hun-bun, could you please put the slaves on cruise-control? I've got a fucking hair appointment. Nobody believes she's sober. Not even me. Sometimes I see it, then it vanishes. I've never seen my wife drunk. Impaired from RBN. Raised By Natives of course. Daily.

As our careers have evolved and ended decades early, we've all tried valiantly for the overall Good of our communities. I tried to do a hunnert years of undercover police work in a couple months. I just can't shoulder the burden of it any longer. I ain't fucking Hercules.

I'm looking up all yer personal data online: yup ain't none of ye named Hercules. World ain't on yer shoulders. Why do ours hurt so fucking much?

Rural AK is nothing better'n mud, bugs and drugs and a drain on the rest of the state. The death toll from alcohol is mindboggling. Us white folks have tried everything. The only solution is to take the nigger out of the hood and beat the hood outa the NATE.

By allowing these stinky skin wasters to hang around their village is simply a waste of fecus. By continuing this bogus and retarded lifestyle these niffukuns simply do the inevitable: drain the state's resources and stink up the rural parts of Alaska that God has deemed unfit for Him (jesus, howard or manilaq) yet suitable fer Wrecked-Um-Induns.

Ya see, I'm still mad how y'all nigger niffs treated Jesus's brother from a darker mother: manilaq. Just as predictable y'all'd lynch Jesus, y'all banished manilaq to Nuvruk where he perished alone starving to death. If you sentence manilaq to death: why not browntard rapists, native child molesters and full-grown ice tard baby buttfuckers to the same demise? I smell Eski-bortions and Half-a-Gas Can Vacuum pussy therapy...even as adult niffuckers.

The number one threat to nativity is bored native youth. And whiskey dicked brown eyed mud racers.

Enough of this subsistence malarkey. As with immigrants that pile upon our shores and tax our social services budgets, we oughta ship Worst Alaskans back to China where all these frickin' retarded natives came from.

Today: if I was given the job of reparing the damage alcohol has had on my in-bred outlaws...I would simply ask bun. So I did. Fuck she gets mad at me when I try to solve the world's native problem with merely the accumulated IQ of a dozen odd cops, some UN peacekeepers yonder Suomen and Nord, and some dear helpers and handlers in Ukraine, Russia, Estonia, and Lithuania. Yup, I even post a brother in NipponXero. Japan.

I will never betray, nor reveal the responses I get after posting articles tearful. Not kewl. Keep your comments, opinions and responses coming regardless. Heartfelt thanks, always.

Bun is tough. Pray you don't see her in yer fucking PO's office. Toasted nigger nuts is you when she's done with waiving Lt. Waller's magic wand on yer fucking face and neck. She already has whipped the shit outa yer darker, dumber and drunken wives. Bun is a fucking NAZI when it comes to NiggerVentions and NativeBimboTrapDoors into my septic tank filled with incest abortions. Do not pass Go, Do not collect $200. Nup, bun simply puts problemo immiktuk bitches on a plane, never to be seen again. Treatment only occurs when the subject NEVER returns to the ghetto, the vill and YOUR shit-ass town.

Lakeside Recovery is classy. ShitSchadel scares me. So something in between Nirvana's Kurt Cobain, NSB Mayor Edward Itta and all you uniformly drunken bastards. But 100% ex-fil is a big nigger mandatory 10-4 fuck you later. Miss me, don't come back home alive. Me and bun will put yer shit out on the fucking ice with Howard Rock, metaphorically speaking of course. That's where he imagined his Great Hereafter. After decades on Seattle's Skid Road, he returned to Pt. Hopeless to die. He amounted to much, much more. So much more. Blonder'n you. Braver'n I.

After treatment, NEVER let the nigger go back home. Never. Or until his halo and aura appear to look like mine.

REAL smart. Rural AK is such miserable place for the clean healthy sober and pretty. Can't have nothing nice in the villages. The culture has devolved into minimal monkey poo with everything already turned to shit. Then we allow sober natives exemplary and beautiful to come back home and see this shit we live in?

Welcome Home Nigger! Fuck. No wonder we all relapse back at home. Seattle will never again be the address for your author on drugs, Howard Rock neither: and accordingly, rural AK should have a sign on it: EXIT ONLY.

Ye can't keep making this cultural shit up. The last of the Healthy Mohicans croaked up muke on the same day as you all banished the last true Inupiaq Hero.

The jews killed Jesus. You killed Manilaq, not me. I believe Manilaq has served his time, stayed clean and suffered sober long enough. Time to step aside and let the man come home again. As in the hearts, homes and minds of every authentic Inupiaq abstaining and totally tea tokers.

Fuck I'm way too serious. My hands just take off and fly with such heavy emotion. I type like this and I don't know if I should barf.

Or cry.

Karl.