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.