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.