Thursday, September 12, 2013

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.



























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