In this war, words are iron, you boys are Alaska's soldiers, your stories are weapons.

Top of the morning gents,

Some times history make no sense. My dim awareness of Alaska's recent history draws back a scant 200 years with a blank slate beyond. A dim awareness arisen from scribbling papers for school, David Craig's research of my criminal lineage (Confederate State slavery, child abduction and prostitution to all ports Alaskan) and personal background smuggling drugs and alcohol way up north. I avidly follow geographical, geological and ice age factors and wildlife migration with little micro-primates in pursuit. I've earned praise presenting papers documenting native land claims and energy policy, local option liquor importation regulation, un-prosecuted crimes and massive death rates during subsequent resource rushes into America's Final Frontier and Resource Extraction Colony, Arctic Alaska.

In James Mitchner's book "Alaska", he claimed Alaska to be the most corrupt state in the union and our best years were after the Nome Gold Rush and before oil flowed down TAPS. As Alaska's economy contracts with oil production, budgets for professional police will dwindle, leaving stupid cops, racist piglet assholes and ignorant bacon bits wearing yer old uniforms. Really good cops who know their patrol sectors, villages and regions (and the unique cultures in each) are now way too expensive: time for y'all to pull the pin and retire. Note: Your careers can't be diminished and won't be overlooked, so as a tribute, I've forcibly inserted you armed fuckers into Alaska history, which by associative infection, brings atop actively brewing septic foam, your author on drugs.

For your information, President Ronald Reagan signed the "local option law" into effect during his first term. His goal was to allow townships, parishes, counties, boroughs, provinces and villages to set their own alcoholic beverage limits for sale and possession. The rationale behind his legislation was to allow districts of any regional size to vote in, or out, the limits or prohibition of alcoholic beverages, and therefore ease the burdens upon local jails, emergency rooms and rescue stations. Public safety, hospital budgets and ambulance services are funded mostly with FSB (federal, state and borough) funding, with a few coins pitched in from your respective city or village.

You all remember the controversial 1986 Kotzebue Alcohol Restriction vote, the November after the Inuit Circumpolar Conference. The rest of rural Alaska had the similar votes including the larger native hubs like Bethel and Barrow, with all the smaller towns and villages across the state doing the same. The vote was perceived as natives attempting to regain control and sobriety, against the drunk whites, but the results were evenly mixed with voter participation a good indicator of local liquor restriction sentiments, sending the really chronic alcoholics packing Anchoragua bound. Smell ye later nigger.

The law was finally implemented in 1988, closing all the bars and liquor stores and the following year we saw what President Reagan predicted. The emergency rooms were empty, search and rescue sat around pulling their pud, and Kotzebue Police Department laid off almost half its personnel. I was one of those layoffs.

After getting a rather rude suggestion from semi-literate and sightly retarded simpleton city manager Jeff Smith, I took a job over at the School District Office as a maintenance and janitorial grunt. Brings back memories don't it? We were correct in assuming Jeff Smith was a twitchy gimp and minimally sub-intellectual, his brain tumor was only the size of an apple. I guess its true that humans use only 10% of their brains, just examine our past and current city and borough mayors.

When I was asked to take another layoff from the jail in 1996, I explained to Mike Scott of my last experience with his predecessor uch-sniff Smith and Mr Scott advised me of the severance package he had in mind. It was both a send off from KPD, but also a thank-you for pulling straight A's and scholarships attending Chukchi College for the Mentally Retarded and previous work playing patty cakes with Ken Hall and Chris Ciringione. (We didn't discuss Larry Brown and Hannah Washington loading liquor in their boat, heading to Buckland, nor bagging Mike Hammersly enroute to Pt. Hope or Mike Carr flying to Noorvik). Mike Scott and Paul Nolton turned out to be genuine stand-up motherfuckers and overall seriously good dudes. Imagine that?

My wage went from $12 per hour mopping puke and shit in the jail, up to $18 per hour disassembling the school district print shop and running up and down the hallways with a vacuum cleaner. It was the first job that didn't splash gut wretch and butt puke all over me, this job was a breeze.

Before I could start wrenching apart and packing up the print shop, I had to empty the room stuffed wall to wall and to the ceiling with audio and visual equipment. Yup, you guessed right. Instead of dumping all this expensive hardware into a Connex container to rust, I boxed and shipped all these electronic goodies to my brother in Seattle. Dozens of amplifiers, cables, speakers, overhead and film projectors became amazing lighting and sound equipment in bars all over the Pacific Northwest. My brother was able to duplicate sound and light effects that put Pink Floyd to shame. Google Neuroshima or Cully Ewing Light Shows.

Some assholes argue liquor restrictions don't work and dispute the relief to the jail, S&R and ER, but they're shit-ass drunks who didn't see cops booking to the Exxon Valdez oil spill, Red Dog and my dumb-ass moving to the school district, eventually merging into the Nolton/Nay undercover mish. If you doubt the causality of alcohol consumption and burdens on government services, just watch the police, fire and rescue and trauma tech overtime budgets.

These expenditures parallel drinking holidays like St. Patrick's Day, Spring Break, Christmas and Fourth of July Weekends: they're a fucking nightmare for our personnel responsible for the consequences of public, cultural and nationally sanctioned binge drinking. Seemingly benign holidays where normally moderate drinkers hit the turbos, superchargers and afterburners and collectively wreck marriages, automobiles, dental work, careers, penile and vaginal integrity on a full scale level. Alcoholics need no applause, they already got the clap.

Northern climes fuck up alcoholics, sometimes referred to as latitude sickness, but the number one cause of death for Finns ages 18-55 is alcohol and alcohol related injuries: just like us 907 Negroes. Another hard fact of hard liquor, despite being the last and best legal date rape drug, prenatal alcohol exposure is the number one cause of mental retardation in children. Fetal Alcohol Syndrome is completely preventable, but the best partying years for women is during their breeding years.

Another reason liquor and pussy go well together is most women are hot to trot (and really juicy) after 1 bourbon, 1 scotch and 1 beer. God loves young, drunk girls and so do we. Children born to mothers after the age of 30 have much higher rates of autism and downs syndrome, adding FAS to this recipe and you have Northwest Alaska. Real dumb. In reviewing First Alaskan's Institute's March 2020 publication, Native women comprise 9% of Alaska's population, yet produce 90% of Alaska's FAS affected births. Even dumber.

I've heard talk radio opinions regarding native suicide and correlations between dry, damp and wet communities, but that claim is only part of the story. Alaska has a bi-modal curve with really high suicide rates for young native males, with a secondary peak suicide curve for elderly white men. Yup, March is peak suicide month for Alaska and young native men kill themselves because they see no economic opportunities in their villages (regardless of alcohol status). Old white men eat a gun fer brekky when they finally add up their medical bills and see that the economic advantages they enjoyed have expired with retirement and the burial of their wives.

Any boy that's down with the brown and forever village bound sees fine ass cars and trucks on TV, fine ass pussy on his phone Internet, and all this mechanization and masturbation costs "big buxsh." No Selawik or Noorvik nigger is ever gonna afford a new Ford Raptor truck with a large breasted blond bombshell chugging his ball cheese. Nup, he's destined to choke and puke home brew and gag on his nieces' flea bitten cooter pie, or absorb his own uncle's jizz through the lining of his large intestine. Go ahead, piss on Percy Sheldon's grave. Shit on it too.

Old white men ain't into bullshitting themselves, nor looking in the mirror like a fat woman, wishing in one hand, shitting in the other. Wishful thinking is for faggots praying for a pussy that don't stink. Time to put your 45-70 government under yer chin and do the Tony Schaeffer, Rodney Schaeffer or Edward Wayne Henry spastic diarrhea geyser dance. Paint the yard with brains and flood yer drawers and shoes with piss and shit.

You coppers remember the photos of Dallas Hannah or Gill Hall's use of their mouths as a handgun suppressor. If we pull that same shit at the post office, our retarded children will have to mop up our abstract old fart artwork. And shit. Don't puss out like Rodney (Butch) Lincoln, he scared all his monkey party mates out the door playing Russian Roulette, finally winning the homo-lottery and blasting a magnum through his pygmy brain. Or go out by phoning a needle-dick shit fer brains at KPD to meet yer faggot ass and blast yer cranium all over the Air Force Base road cafeteria spaghetti-style and go out like Bobby Henry. Mind you, 80% of all gun violence is the simple act of suicide, so rock out with yer cock out and exhale gray matter and smoke.

Do all you coppers remember the T-shirt emblazoned with "Instant Asshole. Just Add Alcohol?" For your failing memories, folks used to fly from Nome to Kotzebue because there was way more action. Action being a euphemism for skanky danky native pussy. That's yer moms, daughters and wives niggers. Closing down the bars and liquor stores in rural Alaska has vastly improved the overall health, flavor, quality, tone and bouquet of native pussy.

In the old Pondu days, we couldn't rape the willing nor kill the dead. Years later, all that nasty pussy got married up with a bunch of cops, equipment operators and Red Dog workers. I'm tempted to pack my bags and fly back to the vil just to get me some underage strange single digit biscuit. Youza, I'm such a sexist, misogynistic hound dog, I only need Viagra around smelly old white women. I been missing tampon snatch: white, tight and out of sight.

My readers of the cave man persuasion won't admit it, but they'll all smile, nod and turn red when you ask them why human smuggling and prostitution only employs really young girls for work. I won't publicly admit to shit, but the youngest girl that loved me was half my age. Pussy Hotel: really small rooms with my bags parked way out in the hallway.

Despite being the second best seat in the house, pull yer nose outa the trench and let's get back to liquor legality. America has long had "dry counties" limiting liquor importation and consumption, as in the case of all the Federal Indian Reservations where the sale and possession of alcohol is a felony. Some dry counties have severely strict liquor regulation yet allowing the manufacture of distilled liquor but not consumption. One example is the Jack Daniels Whiskey factory, located in a county that outlaws the sale and consumption of alcohol. The wort is brewed from farming grains not meeting livestock needs, distilled and poured as a clear liquor into charred barrels and aged, bottled after 4, 8 and 12 years, then shipped elsewhere for sale and purchase.

Similar to our neighborhoods' continual bombardment of arriving Appalachian hillbillies, Lesser 48 retards, dumb-ass niggers and gooks, posing as knowledgeable in all things 907 stupid, Alaska possesses a desperate desire for a history, much like an adolescent chasing after the earned gravitas of age. Now that you're old, not a soul can question your depth of understanding in case history and events arctic and alcoholic that to this day still brings tears to our eyes. What the fuck, you're well past your pull date and starting over on a new odometer and its clear that Alaska's history omits ancient sovereignty from a policeman, husband and father's perspective.

During my decades as a retarded criminal, I've probably bought and sold hundreds of firearms, some legal, most not. As penance for my sins and my understanding of kinetic criminality, I long ago made it my mission to remove firearms from the hands of my targets. Years ago, white Mike Baker popped in at house 711 for an early morning coffee and bong hits sesh. He told me that Ray-Ray Mendenhall had scored a couple brand new hand guns and wanted to trade them fer jugs. I said I was interested and we set up a meet later in the morning. I then phoned the Chief, who was in a meeting at city hall, so I asked for the Captain. I told Wallace about this business proposal whereupon he told me that 2 brand new revolvers were stolen from AC the previous night. We agreed that when Ray-Ray showed up, I was to phone dispatch and request Wallace for a coded dog call. He didn't want public ears and nosy dispatch to know his wishes to solve this case of stolen firearms: right fucking NOW!

Sure enough, white Mike Baker and Ray-Ray Mendenhall showed up with 2 brand new guns (in the box) and we agreed on a case of Bacardi 80 after I picked up my freight at Alaska Airlines in a few minutes. They booked up the gravel road towards the Mendenhall house, while I phoned dispatch and requested Wallace to meet D-7 for a dog call. I stepped out front next to Anthony Coppock's little shack and waited for the Captain. He came flying up front street, peeling around the corner and asked where'd they go, I pointed to the two goofy criminals walking up the gravel road short cut behind the elementary, and Wallace floored it. That patrol Jeep took air and nearly riding up their heels, lit them up with lights and siren, giving them a fucking heart attack. Wallace chided Ray-Ray for stealing guns while playing janitor, with cameras recording his crimes. Busted.

My narc work for Mat-Su troopers included firearms in my orders to locate meth labs, cocaine parlors and grow ops. Tyler, Bleicher and Bowman requested I discuss firearms during all my recorded phone calls with dealers, and in-person visits. Them hillbillies were happy to show me all kinds of guns while I was snorting blow or buying weed, thus adding the firearms component to warrant requests and impressing juries in Palmer. I love chatting about guns on tape and in testimony and the valley troopers couldn't believe the harvested arsenal on their raids and seizures.

I was ordered to follow the same operational template chatting up any and all firearms while working the folks up Hatcher Pass, upper Su-valley, Fairbanks and Barrow (John Paliwoda, Fast-Eddy Larson, Robert Sauve, the Di Nardos, Rick and Bonny Carlson, Mike Vogus, Robert Logan and Tom Elkins). All these defendants forfeited truckloads of guns with the largest single yield from Logan's raid numbering well over 30 loaded guns stowed near every door and window. The troopers also carted away 2 airplanes that were purchased with criminal proceeds.

I wasn't too worried about getting shot on my buying sprees wearing tape recorders and wire transmitters. The troopers agreed on a code word, that when I spoke it clearly, I was to lay low on the floor while the cops mowed the house to pieces with a shitload of different rifles and shotguns. I learned to have immense faith in my support crews. Knowing all them uniforms were surrounding the house I was doing my business in was quite comforting. I almost yelled my secret code word, just see the occupants blasted in halves. Who says I got "trust issues?"

There's two kinds of criminal AK retards, those fresh off the short bus, and those midget niggers that were born here (ie: Kenai toe-headed homesteaders and Mat-Su colony in-breeds). I've wasted ink on the reaction invaders encounter with prehistoric warring aboriginal Mongols chasing migrating land and sea mammals and fleeing continental Asian extermination. Crawling out of dirty holes, we see silly human races whose morals are rendered nonsense by deadly infectious colonists breeding cultures of diet, religious and chemical erosion. We know this. Newly arriving white trash lack color, culture and spermatozoa health. Just look at our half-breed friends, family and children. Seriously.

History is written by sibling marriage and nose-blind to in-house pussy like a pig in shit. Alaska history has become asymptotic recollections askew like guns aimed away from each other. We only document the arrival of an alcoholic workforce, overstocked liquor supplies and naive child prostitutes, leaving terror and question marks in the minds of first Alaskans. Alaskan history is almost all violent chaos with a brief period of civilization. A history missing details of an empty landscape displaced by invasive Asiatic species of barely bipedal hominids badly needing food and hygiene, then over run by Euro-tribes lacking skin hue and empathy. Look in the mirror, it reflects the fairest, still leaving natives invisible. And unheard.

I've exhausted white space detailing gold rushes, oil rushes and ghost towns terrified of a looming inescapable ghost state. Exaggerated claims of fur, ivory and gold riches have drawn stampedes of poor, and the promise of dead presidents on worthless paper drew unwashed masses to swim in putrid crab feces and eating jellied fish effluvium, whilst scratching pubic lice. Koomuks fed large on shredded mudflaps, drying under my finger nails.

If I examine the scars on my scrotum and nether memories not destroyed by working with you fuckers, I detect a ghost story written hieroglyphic inside the far end of my rifle scope. The only ghosts, I believe, who creep into this world, are dead cops, returned to see how their squad room pals fare.

Now pull your KPD time-sheets and subtract 30 years. Look out the window in your rest home and you'll see me and bun walking a dog and in my backpack I've got a couple quart bottles of Everclear. I'm bringing "refreshments" over to Beulah Ipalook and her sister Alice Karmun (Sandra Moto's mom). I wanted to match Kenny Ipalook's offer to trade a couple bags of green bud for blind man liquor. Jennifer and Angela were there too. So was Danny Burnor. Fuck. Great.

I pocketed the weed and let Beulah pour evil screwdrivers for everyone. A volatile mix of 190 proof engine grease solvent that kills germs that cause bad breath (and small children) and Tang. Me and bun sat down for a quick smoke sesh, and a couple mixes. Author's note: when a drink is half formaldehyde and powdered lunar astronaut synthetic orange douche and colonic rinse, even Finns adopt Eskimo slang and refer to these flammable carburetor cleaner party favors in true racist slur as a "good mixsh." Tang always gave me an orange tinted stool and I fucking found every sore and tender gum with each swig of Everclear laboratory preservative. My anal weather forecaster predicted fire in the hole over a bucket tomorrow. Yikes! I ain't kidding, there's a reason I had Pim mail me butt-loads of Everclear to trade and barter. NOT drink.

Who said we can't party on fuel injector cleaner? Within minutes and a couple gasoline drinks, even the dark faces turned red. I advised Beulah, her sister and Ipalook-crew that over-indulgence could result in blindness. Danny Burnor topped off his drink with clear Nate-lightning, walked to the window, looked out, then declared, "We've seen enough." Ye gotta admit, that's pretty witty, for a junky.

Beulah Ipalook was buzzing really good, her lips cracked and bleeding like her eyes, and every blemish on her face was on fire. She smiled at me, which made me nervous, then she stated, "Adii, I sure never drink with Jesus!"

Years have passed and I don't see the resemblance. Long hair, white skin and upside down on a cross likely isn't the way I'll exit this dung heap. When I die, I will probably be seeing you fuckers in uniform, waving guns, cigarettes and coffee mugs, insulting my retarded family shrub with advice, "If yer looking fer Jesus, he knew you were coming and went the other direction!" I've since drawn the conclusion that if Jesus knew I was trying to find him, He'd change his name. And address.

From the top-side of a large magnifying drinking glass, I've observed village neighbors and coworkers enjoy my companionship and my irritating questions. On numerous occasions over whiskey or beer, Grandma Magdeline scolded me, "Adii! Quit asking so many questions." Then she'd continue telling me about waiting up on graveyard hill for Kotzebue to emerge from beneath 30 feet of flooding tide water and regional STD testing without prescribing any curative antibiotic medicines. These tales of Inuit snatch fever further exemplifying Nixon's plan of creating the Indian Health Services was so important to the survival of your children and grandchildren. To hell with invading white niggers lacking medical insurance, they can shed viruses, teeth and dicks.

With my onslaught of drinking Q&A inquiries, I mistakenly inserted myself into their memories. Years later, they'd claim I was there when they were children. I was visiting one of my few remaining and living best friends, when his mother-in-law explained that she remembered me from her childhood. "I remember when you came to my village when I was little. You sure help us." I first looked at my wife, then my old boss and felt my face get hot. I have no memory of visiting Arctic Alaska nor old lady Martha Burns in the early 1930's. Truth be told, I was busy working for the Third Reich fulfilling their policies and enjoying alcohol and tobacco in cafes all over Europe, back when these leisure activities were good for you and healthier than bathing with blubber soap that left me smelling fresh and Kosher.

If a person asks you which side of history you are on, mere existence tells us that we were on the side of the victors and alive today. By breathing God's air on this blessed day, you survived the Black Plague, religious reformation, slavery, the Industrial Revolution, numerous world wars, village Alaska police work, and marriage to a native woman. Now that's a major list of fucking achievements. We're such losers, we can't even see that we've already won.

If I list the Alaskan coppers and email recipients I've worked with, and passed on you'll shit. David Craig, Patrick Octuck, Grant Hildreth, Bob Douglas, Ken Jewell, Ray Blanchard, Kim Nay, Dallas Massey, Jared Hope, Colonel Godfrey and the list may be longer if I include Effie Washington (Nelson), Zona Lie and Kathy Elam. But you guys are still here and that means something. I survived a long detention in Russia, Waller survived a kick in the face with an unruly hand cannon and Nolton survived supervising all us shit heads. That's gotta mean something.

I've not received word from Richie Eunice but still post him, Squish and Nush are no longer receiving messages on city and state email addresses, so from my distance, reconnecting totally sucks. I've lost where Ham-Ham lived, but I borrowed Dave Chapelle's jibe, "I'm Rick Jones bitch!"

By writing so much Alaska history, I've reiterated your efforts and reinforced the validity of your hard work. We know that books burn but we have the greater knowledge writing your shit-ass work history cannot be killed by fire. Just look at the names I've just listed. You can see that people pass on, but the written words of rural Alaska's history and battles you've waged never die.

In this war, words are iron, you boys are Alaska's soldiers, your stories are weapons.

Karl.

The soul of a cop is contained in a house battered and decayed. Keep reading.

Top of the morning gents,

I fucking hate sobriety. In the last decade I've had nightmares up the fucking ass. Doc Solenberger at the Barrow Hospital explained the only cure for PTSD was alcohol consumption, and lots of it. He conditioned his declaration with the caveat that the curative level of liquor was life-shortening and life-span truncative. Or as he would chuckle and add, "the effective level of alcohol that alleviates shell shock is exterminative." Funny guy.

I stopped all my hard drug use at age 40. This menu included high-grade cocaine and methamphetamine, but because I had a prescription, I carried onward with daily consumption of Ritalin and Adderall for a few years into my mid-40's. Seriously powerful speeds there hombres. When I was living in or visiting our Willow house, I'd phone Wertman to drop by and pick up some dineros, drive up Hatcher Pass and pick up some lab-fresh crystal meth and some barn-fresh green bud. Fresh, clean, un-cut, un-adulterated speed and weed, washed down with lots of cold beer was always a nice break from the Crotch (Kotzebue) and allowed me time (and energy) to texture and paint a room, steam clean carpets or tack trim around the doors and windows in the 2-story cabin across the yard.

On sunny days, our caretaker would help me cut down the trees that were broken or dying, plus we'd cut down Cottonwood and Aspen trees leaving only Spruce and Birch trees. The caretaker was Robert Anderson and we dubbed him RA, a Vietnam Vet that I adopted (another fucking soldier). He stayed in the cabin and heated it with a large wood stove that would burn any dried species of trees. Every summer he or I would clean and groom the 5-acre property of trees that looked better in a woodpile, instead of clogging up the heavily forested region we lived in Willow. Thinning the broken, dead and ugly trees sure allowed the healthy, pretty trees to expand and grow.

If I was lucky, I'd hire extra help like Rex Lewis from Kotzebue, later Wasilla. He'd bring chain saws and splitting axes, smoke some cocoa puff frosty peaks (green bud smashed in coke or meth), chug down cold beers and cut, split and stack serious cords of wood for RA to use for heat the next winter. Rex always showed up with a pick-up and would drive all over that 5-acre lot squeezing between trees and smashing brush, loading and hauling gargantuan heaps of firewood.

If brush needed removal, Rex would haul that up front and we'd burn it with the year's accumulation of garbage in righteous bonfires when we'd have visitors like Ron Brown, Shirley O'Niel, and even the Zagars. Which should indicate to you readers that I party with ghosts long deceased. To build up huge bonfire reserves, Rex would follow Robert Anderson and I around with a lawn rake and clear all the branches, brush and debris into his truck and haul the shit away to the burn pit, leaving the 5-acre plot of forestation looking like a fucking state park, clean enough for white people. Just like me. I've returned to the property, decades since selling it, and the trees and lawn, house and cabin looked tidy, groomed and picture perfect.

The interior of the house I could restore on my own steam, but the exterior needed power washing, lots of siding patching, window caulking and cracks and seams sealed with cans of expanding insulation foam. I rented a professional paint sprayer and applied the house's original brick-red solid color stain, but the stain wouldn't cover the foam and silicone sealants. RA offered me a box of auto paint spray cans to use as a primer, and the finished product looked like a vandal went ghetto crazy with bright fender and engine colors of spray paint. So I purchased 2 more 5-gallon buckets of Olympic Overcoat tinted in the identical brick red color. RA sprayed the entire exterior again and that worked like a champ. One coat of solid color stain acted as a primer after we power-washed the house, another coat of heavy-duty latex exterior paint of the same original color covered all the caulking and auto spray paint primer: kicked fucking ass. All I had to do was pull tape, plastic sheets, and masking tape, then paint all the trim with dark brown gloss enamel paint. It isn't hard work when you got chemical refreshments up the fucking ass. Got beer?

Looking back, I think we made enough markup on the selling price to cover the labor and materials I put into that Mat-Su wilderness folly. We bought the place for $60K and sold it for $75K, yielding a 25% profit, barely capitalizing the improvements, but the fun was priceless and the drugs completely out of pocket. And up my nose. The sale price was plenty for bun to put a fat down payment on the Barrow duplex she bought for pert near $200K and sold 15 years later for $255K. Capital gains taxes totally suck ass, but if I wanted to pay zero taxes, I'd have to make zero dineros. Smell me?

If you're older'n dirt, you'll remember our senior senator, Ted Stevens. He likely never snarfed speed nor horked chronic bud, but I followed Uncle Ted's advice, I dropped all alcohol consumption at age 50. He'd explained to me at the Alaska Airlines terminal in Kotzebue that he'd dropped all of his favorite vices of cigars, pipe tobacco and expensive liquor at the age of 54 and it enabled him to live well into his 80's. It was his addiction to small craft air travel that finally croaked uncle Ted.

I ran into the old senator at UAF a couple times, once at Rural Student Services, and when I presented my paper on Nordic Energy Policy. I then bumped into him in Galena after I returned from my time-out in Russia. He'd asked me if I missed working in Europe and AK bush for the cops on a contract basis. I told him I'd likely go back to that vocation because I believed I was saving lives. Not mine, but neighbors, relatives and entire communities. I also confided that I felt on the side of angels, fully self-actualized and really missed the scary rush breaking the law in the course of enforcing the law. He smiled, looked me in the eye and stated, "You're dead."

In my discussions with Uncle Ted, I listed my work details with Nolton/Nay on the Capone gig, the long stretch working Mat-Su Narcotics, my work with Nush on the Date-Rape narc job on the UAF campus, and with Karl Main and the DEA on the Logan bootlegging and weed smuggling mish between Fairbanks and Barrow. Old Ted Stevens was killed in the plane crash before I could tell him about wrapping up my dual-purpose job as a freight clerk in Barrow at Cape Smythe, Frontier, and Everts Cargo documenting the manager Tom Elkins and his employees freighting tons of booze and various drugs, then snatching their contraband cargo out of the pallets. The Samoans, Philipino and Mexican employees intercepted their own drugs upon landing and breaking down the freight and diverting their liquor before it was supposed to be trucked over to the City of Barrow Distribution Center.

In Barrow, the monthly limit on liquor was 6 bottles and at a couple residences the NSB cops seized over 75 bottles of liquor. A $100.00 annual liquor permit fee is required at the same time as a background check verifying zero charges or convictions of any alcohol related offenses during a specific review period (3 years I think) on your record. Barrow has a population of about 5,400 residents with only about 800 liquor permits. After the raids and arrests, the price of bootleg liquor in Barrow went from $100.00 for a shitty bottle of R&R rot-gut, up to $250.00 a fifth. My supervisor was Nick Sundai from the North Slope Public Safety Office and he wouldn't take me in front of Judge Michael Jeffries until he phoned all of my prior employers. Someone must have put in the good word, because Officer Sundai was surprised at my credentials and the decades I been fucking with you cops. Imagine that?

Back to my infantile habits. I dropped all alcohol pert near the age of 50 but I carried my weed habit on a hit and miss basis for a few years, up until marijuana became legal in Alaska and Washington. The price of legal weed was much higher than my wholesale prices I scored in upstate Washington and up-valley Mat-Su between Willow and Talkeetna. I also fucking hated being around new-born pot smokers explaining how cool it was to smoke dope and listen to space music. I remember my first boner. Being around beginner stoners is like being around drinking natives, fresh out of the vil. How embarrassing.

Since liquor is mostly outlawed in rural AK, we have an exodus of alcoholic bush-monkeys relocating to communities that are less native and more alcoholic. Bun and I lived in downtown Anchorage for the year of 2012, after a year in Nome. Now y'all know why I call Anchorage "Kivalina Jr." It is so shitty to see friends and family staggering and stinking all over God's creation. Whenever I heard "Hi bunny!", I fucking cringed. The majority of the homeless inebriates we smell are from Northwest Alaska. Take a map and sketch a boomerang shape from Bethel, past Kotzebue and looping around Barrow, and you got the ethnic and racial demography of the sick and dying native ice-nugger population of Los Anchorage's sick-ass sniff-utch zombie party rockers pouring in from butt-tard native communities.

A by-product of being clear-headed is the photographic memories that flood my dreams like a barrel of liquid poop dumped all over the entry-way of Benny Hensley's unnuk shack. The Burnors (Dave, Danny and Renee Gonion) and the Meltons (Clifford, David and Aurora) called me from old man Benny's house to drop off some bottles of Bacardi 151 and Everclear Pim mailed to me. I showed up with my backpack laden with flammable fucking booze and they're all looking the empty pocket Nigerian ice monkey Inuit greeting: no money and someone blocking my exit. When it was discussed that I was to loan $500.00 worth of USPS mailed bootleg booze to these clowns. I was concerned I had to fight my way back out, so I simply waved a pistol around. The Nigruks parted and I walked out, put my foot against a full poop barrel and pushed it over, sending a wave of toxic poo-soup against the front door. Fuck I'm funny. I flooded the entire porch and front yard with high-quality Inupiaq food. That was comic and I choked as I laughed with my nose plugged.

This isn't the first time I arrived at a delivery and was confronted with niggers lacking cash. Pert near a half-century ago I'd made numerous drives up to the Tulalip Indian Reservation to drop off blow. The house was full of red-tards all looking at me with that same small genital macho posture. I advised them that I had to wait for Larson to pull up with the product, and asked who had the money. That stall you've all seen is an easy "tell." I had the pouch of lumpy blow in my jacket pocket and just waited for Larson to hurry the fuck up or I was gonna be looking for an avenue out the front door. When my dudes pulled in the driveway, I saw the shrunken head Indun chief retreat to the back room and fetch the agreed upon dollar figure. Then we booked.

I've had the same scenario play out in my dealing with black folks in the Central District of Seattle. Dumb white guy (me) driving into the ghetto to deliver blow, sensing there wasn't any money awaiting me, my strategy was to quickly exit said nigger premises. You know the score, white dude: 1, black dudes: a hunnert. I was outnumbered and the odds were not in my favor. Marty or Dennis always waited in the car while I booked in and did the deal. I was mistaken, lots of stinky niggers and no money. I told the crew of crack-melons that I was going out to the car and grab the product. I hopped in the car and told Marto to punch it. My junker Dodge Dart lost a mirror swiping a dumpster as we fled and a rear window was shot out.

After my drivers license was suspended, I tried other transportation methods delivering coke to the niggers in the Central District of Seattle. I took a bus like all them mystical and retarded droolers from Mountlake Terrace and riding south to ghetto-chimpville worked real well. I'd established a better trading partner who met me at the bus stop alone, we'd swap, and then I'd catch the next bus North and he booked up to his house. He went inside to weigh and package up his purchase and minutes later the cops arrived at his house as I was rolling by in a Seattle Metro bus.To blend in, I considered spitting all over my beard and pissing myself. I can disappear in plain sight, if I shit myself. It's my secret weapon.

A few weeks later, I was visited by 3 ghetto-thugs with ideas of robbing a fat, bearded, hillbilly infested drug house. Yup, their wishes of taking a bunch of blow, cash and leaving us sucking air out of holes in our abdomen went unfulfilled. Rumor has it their ashes are at the bottom of an outhouse, an hour's drive north in Marysville. Google Johnny Rebel's song titled, "Some niggers never die, they just smell that way." All these silly notions of violent crimes were before the stroke and I firmly believe these tales are attributed to somebody else.

I still smell like a crack-nigger. After the Nolton/Nay Capone sweep, I was approached by old man Ron Munson who sniffed in my direction and declared he smelled something. I looked at him and he asked me "if I got cured of all them flea-bites." I was clueless. He laughed and told me that if I laid down with dogs, I would get fleas. I called him a "funny fucker", which caused him to bust a gut laughing. You forgot about F1 Munson didn't you?

Another old-timer from the bad old days surprised me when bun and I were at ANMC. Old man Ed Ward happily greeted me with handshakes and good cheer. We drove up to ANS (anus) for her annual mammogram, endoscopy and colonoscopy and Ed ran into us at the hotel behind hospital housing. He was remarkably chipper and laughed as he recalled my stupid missions working for the cops. Ward cackled at my 100% conviction rate. "Prosecuting state and federal drug laws is easy without the legal restraints cops adhere to." "Didn't any of your defendants figure out that you treat the constitution like fucking toilet paper." I replied by declaring that only humans deserve human rights. Sub-human white trash bootlegging and drug dealing motherfuckers get a visit from me. Besides, I'm just like them: I shit myself.

On the last visit to the Crotch (Kotzebue), I was approached by Warren Thompson who told me that he'd lost the revolver I sold him. It was a large 357 mag I'd bought off Black Byrd, removed the wood grips, scrubbed the entire gun with WD-40, toothbrushes and cloth, sanded and varnished the grips and re-assembled the gun. This thing looked like a million bucks and old man Thompson didn't even try to Jew me down. He just counted out $350.00, put the gun back in the plastic case I included, and left the 29-unit apartment building. Warren continued his tale of flying CAA S&R sorties over a plane crash between Kiana and Selawik, spotting the crashed aircraft and landing close by for sit-rep and radio back to rescue base. He'd left the revolver on top of his wing hatch, throttled up and away, sending the gun into deep snow somewhere behind him in his flight path.

I asked Thompson if he needed another firearm, but he confessed his flying days were over. His age, health and vision were no longer air-worthy. When I suggested he needed a gun just to carry with him on his long bike rides, he chuckled and said I'd probably needed it more than he did. I suggested he carry a gun in case his in-laws made an appearance, and he explained that his brother-in-law was serving a long stretch in the clink and wasn't expected anytime soon. Ya see, Warren's wife May was a Vestal and her brother was Lester, or as Wallace quipped, "Molester Vestal."

Mr. Thompson wasn't shy about how Lester was arrested and convicted. Ethyl Geffe had a deaf-mute special needs boy (Buckland Don Lee's nephew) that disappeared and later found underneath Lester who seemed to be having a seizure face-down on the sofa. Lester Vestal claimed the boy asked for and wanted to get his ass cheeks split and turned into a cream-filled donut. I'd like to hear a deaf-mute boy demand some Eskimo ass fucking with language skills that were more retarded than Hellen Keller. Old man Warren Thompson often tagged along with me as I walked home from working as an eligibility tech at the Welfare Office. He'd get exercise on a fancy new bicycle and I'd walk like a Norwegian chatting him up for details about working Civil Aviation Administration, prior to the FAA.

Don't worry about any leftovers from Lester Vestal's genius genetic donations. His only surviving stepson was that Russell White-Sampson kid that hanged himself, twisting rope around his wrists, jumping off a bucket or table, creating the bogus suicide crime scene to appear more homicide.

Warren stopped at the old Kotzebue Senior Center and Ponderosa crossing, and asked why I was yelling at the top of my lungs at a bunch of kids and waving a gun around. This being a daily activity for me, I looked at him and queried him when and where. Mr. Thompson explained many years previously that he'd woke up hearing a ruckus out front of his house and saw me shoving and kicking Agnes and Chip Hailstone, the Doberman barking and snapping and pulling Phyllis Scott up off the ground separating a fight.

I told him that bun and I were walking Dopey the Doberman after a visit with Bill Spencer. We'd seen a gang of ice-wiggers kicking on Phyllis Scott surrounding her like a beat down. (Warren smiled at my explanation of "ice-wigger"). I pulled out a Ruger Blackhawk and started pushing these little brats around and reached in to pull Phyllis to her feet. She was holding her stomach which was protruding and pregnant with white Mike Baker's child. She took the beat down and kicking while protecting her baby but got a couple cuts on her face and head.

The gang scattered with Chip, Willie and Agnes Hailstone calling me pre-adolescent names while I walked Dopey and Ms. Scott home. She declined a visit to the old MMC ER eventually having a healthy baby that Mike Baker scolded me for preventing it's abortion. Stupid white guys are famous for getting loads of native women pregnant, like the Air Force morons, and having to leave town avoiding child support payments. God bless Krotchebue. Land of the free, home of the brave hybrid mongoloid half-breeds. Good thing we never pulled that shit.

A few years ago bun asked me about a conversation I had with Norman Westdahl and I drew a blank. I didn't remember who that was and what was discussed. Bun went further to explain about our visit to Kotzebue in 2006 and she'd seen me at the Post Office chatting with the gentleman. I totally fucking blanked. I needed some clues, so bun told about Donna Westdahl, the girl on KOTZ that sang way high in the registers and put a decent voice to otherwise sickly shrieking native women singing gospel. Bun then went on to lecture me that Roberta Norton was her sister and that's when I dumbfoundedly recalled who the Westdahls were.

I explained to bun that Norman Westdahl approached me at the Post Office and asked me how it felt to on the side of angels and right with God. Well, I was flummoxed. How does a dirty crook respond to religious trite and not look stupid. I told Norman I didn't know about any church epiphany or moral catharsis, and maybe he had me mistaken with somebody else. Mr. Westdahl laughed at me and said a church member had explained to him about Albino-tard-me, the stupid Finn that worked with city police, state police and some cops naming you lot.

I put on my best smile and advised Norman that the State of Alaska has job openings on the bulletin board hiring habitual offenders and the criminally insane. I told him how many hundreds of guns, cash, bank accounts and fixed assets these past investigations have yielded and seized. Mr. Westdahl shook his head, took a breath and repeated to me that "The soul of a cop is contained in a house battered and decayed, but lets in light that storms have made. Stronger by weakness and wiser they become as they draw closer to their eternal home. Leaving the old, cops view both worlds at the same time." He gave me a card with this policeman's proverb on it. This guy has a lot damn gall. Funny, I dug up that stupid card just to accurately quote it, and send it to you armed fuckers.

When I repeated this brief discussion to bun, I told her that Norman Westdahl coincidentally appeared in my nightmares last night. I had a psychotic dream being chased and fighting an overwhelming crew of bad guys, with my flailing about waking bun, then she woke me. She asked me what I was dreaming about, I said all my guns wouldn't work so I had to run like hell and fight like a motherfucker, with that Norman Westdahl standing in the muddy roads of Kotzebue, watching me and smiling. "I could use a little help here!" I was pulling off arms and punching heads softer than pumpkins and Mr. Westdahl just nodded with approval, holding his wife's hand and enjoying the show like spectators. Fuck, I sure hope those two are still alive.

I don't even like Kotzebue, I'm not too fond of natives and Alaska is located at the wrong end of the North American continent. Bun knows my dilemma with native existence, arising from abject poverty and cannibalism and colliding with the worst of the outside world. The first contact Eskimos suffered was at the hands of religious faggots, illiterate miners, traders and whalers, then post oil waves of dumb asses like yer author on drugs. AIn't that a shitty picture.

Sobriety isn't easy. I miss the blow, speeds, weeds and liquors but adding heavy weight lifting, reading a hunnert fucking books a month and tripping balls on my "runner's high," I find my recollections of our shared anguish, frustration and shitty humor noteworthy. Stealing memories from only one copper is plagarization, stealing memories from you lot, is research.

Yup, after a year or so haunting the Kenai Rec Ctr I'm in a much better mood, bigger wood and shit-loads of dreams, albeit with nightmares from knowing you fuckers. Dead folks from the dump are gonna haunt, pester and mess with our shit for eternity. On our deathbed, all we could ask for any of these dead folks from the dump, is to come visit us in the hospital. And to hold our hand as we pass on.

I don't miss the war, but I sure miss the hell outa you guys. Here at the old folks' home, I hijack your thoughts, knock barnacles of your halos and in turn, let you restore to me the years the emotional locusts have eaten.


Karl.