Thursday, September 12, 2013

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.



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