Sunday, July 17, 2016

Driving and crying.

Top of the morning gents,

God bless my wife she sure is funny, today she wanted to "go ANS and see natives." Yup, the ANuS is where I always find 'em. I don't have the guts to correct the Mrs. that the new native hospital is now called ANMC. Alaska Native Medical Center for all you nigger shooters. Some things are best left alone. My bunnik is rounding the big 66 this September and trying to continually correct NANA elders towards proper "tunnik" wordage is a high risk venture and possibly a "gussuk" fool's errand: could get me chopped up and eaten. I've totally accepted my titular acronym of SFWM, stupid fucking white man, earned it and wear it, loud and proud. Despite my complete lack of Nativity, mud lives matter and this norse-mutt is solely authorized to write about deadly hybrid folks like us.

Me and bun parked in the designated native elder slot. They're just like handicapped parking but without all the blue gimp logos. We ditched the gun under my seat, walked in the front door and plopped down near the check-in desk at Quanna House. We just sat and watched a long line of injured sick booger decorated village arrivals argue about Medicaid Lodging squinting at all the paperwork with real thick Medicaid glasses. Lots of screaming boogered kids in Medicaid diapers reeking like rural skinky butt-sex that put a hurt on my nose. No sweat, poop-stench don't bother us, we're from Kotzebue, down with the brown and senior center bound.

I'd collected shit-loads of hot sauce packets and just for fun I tore them open a little bit, then handed them out to all the hyper-anxious screaming little kids. Shortly later the crying included moms and dads who'd somehow gotten fire-ass hot irritants all over their shit too. Bun looked at me and thought out loud "run nigger, time to book." After a hunnert years of marriage us old Indun primate silver-backs read minds. Bun sure hates kids and dogs, but real pretty, smart, laughs at my shitty humor and is the only human that waits for me to return when beatings, gun shots, dog attacks and overseas narc jobs have gone horribly wrong. She's also the only human that sits with me in the ambulance, ICU and the emergency room.

During my extended black-site retreat in jail, I've held onto sacred notions that all you coppers were waiting for me too. Notions that upset me so bad that to this day, I hide my crying in secret. I do my best sobbing in the private so nobody can see me, 'cept you mates.

Four and thirty years ago me and bun walked out onto the Kotzebue Airport tarmac, boarded a Mark Air jet and flew all the way to Seattle. Upon arrival bun startled my brother Cully by pulling a loaded 357 magnum revolver out of her purse. He commented "What's up with the fucking gun?" Bun responded we always carry guns due to Karl's work and two of her childhood friends were torn to shreds by packs of dogs, so she always likes shooting strays. But to his continuing dismay he further inquired, "Yeah, but on a goddamned airplane?" Oh shucks, guess me and bun are air marshalls too. Way back in the 80's you just walked onto jets at the ol' OTZ terminal, so guns were no biggey. Bun sure likes guns.

Nowadays, I've got to remember to ditch our pistols before entering banks, bars, courthouses and post offices. I've also got to do the same before entering ANMC. At the entrance to native bars, they got bins for backpacks etc. I just clunk my vest in one and pick it up on the way out. Hell, to reduce my symptomatic PTSD I only drink club sodas and coffee but no bong hits, so I won't get a writ fer MIW. Now that I drive again a gun is essential for aggressive drivers that wave with missing fingers and horns louder than gunfire. Aside from a presidential motorcade very few cars on the road are armored so fenders and windshields only add shrapnel to well placed shots to the headrest. As the old Eskimo slogan goes, "white man, big truck, little kookoo." Even white women can drive big trucks and SUV's and if you can gag through their smell, unfold their elephant biscuit labials, you'll also find a teeny tiny penis. Exactly where my side-gunner aims, right in a bitch's uch. Bun always tell me that white women all got AIDS and only think with their dick, better known by old native women as "the little white man in the boat."

After visiting with our blessed chief of police me and bun had to drive all the way back to Los Anchorage. A redneck truck-butt-fucker with no mufflers was roaring down the Glenn Highway burning plumes of motor oil pissing everybody off and in the back of his truck were 3 nasty dogs barking at all the passing cars: with no chains holding them in. My wife bunnik rolled down her window and let loose a super loud thumb and fore-finger whistle. Fuck me, one of the fucking dogs turned his head our way, lept out of the truck and was instantly run over by a dozen cars in the thick blue smoky exhaust wake. That pitbull exploded and turned into nuts and butts juicy road-kill burger and Jesus fuck there was guts and red paint all over the highway. Bun stated that dog is now a good dog. Bun sure likes watching dogs launch airborne and blow up. We sure laugh.

Old Induns can grow fangs and in wolf packs cut off all yer goony googoos and chow down on yer eyelids, cheeks and gonadular grapefruits. I've seen feeding frenzies on surveillance video from behind the Kotzebue Senior Center and seen a fucking hunnert zombie elder native woman feasting on fresh human organs. The cutest and smartest boys and girls from June Nelson Elementary disappear behind that horrible place. Late at night the dark parts of any senior center are extraordinarily dangerous: except for all our half-breed retard kids, just look at any Alaska highschool yearbook, only the dull and ugly graduate to the age of breedhood. All the cute and bright micro-nates are long gone and are now airborne asspaint stool samples in yer akka's kuktaq (old lady poo stew honey bucket). I've hauled easily a thousand honey buckets from 'round and under houses 711, 676 and 369 to the old dump. Me, Marty Hall, Harley Bronson, Scott Wade and Big Dumb Dale have seen tons of half-eaten excrement that resembled numerous missing native children. Instead of posting their photos on milk cartons, put 'em on 5 gallon buckets. Smart pretty native kids fly through an elder Induns ittiq faster than shit through a goose.

Every time we walk through the native hospital bun hugs and cries and laughs and shares tall tales with really old blue hairs. I also gain material for these am cop talks. Cop talks that are now old murderous man talks. Death may be not proud, but I'm proud to work with you soldiers. Tears of joy mates. Without all you graying gunslingers I would've never survived to tell these tales. Pert near 40 years ago I met bun and started drawing pay with you old shooters. Now we're looking headlong into a grave recalling a fucking lot of pain, misery, suicide and homicide with detailed personal clarifications and crime scene photos from you rusty killers. Of course bun adds language expertise, old Eskimo context and her wonderful nightmarish sense of native humor. God bless my wife. She sure is funny.

Audiigaa, we sure laugh.


Karl. .

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