Deaths come in 3's and 4's, but cops die in 1's.

Top of the morning gents,

I hate being lectured. Just this morning I got a scolding from one of my business partners who was angry at me. "Fuck Karl. If you shut down yer operations here in Mountlake Terrace, the hard guys will shoot yer nigger ass and burn this place to the ground." How do I argue with gangster logic? You don't. Lem's served as a hub as the retail cocaine distribution site for regional wholesalers that moved serious weight in the greater Seattle area. My place was the top sales outlet and I was their top salesman. I was the Amway sales leader for blow and Lem's was the 7-Eleven for cocaine. I was open 24 hours a day, I offered free samples and served coffee and liquor with every sale. I even offered check-cashing services and a coin-operated cigarette machine.

In the back room, I found a good friend who was dead for at least an hour from injecting really strong cocaine in his arm. In the front yard, my boss's son from R&R Automotive blasted his brains out, inside his car. Gary Los was high risk because he preferred shooting his cocaine into his arm, Keely Jones was high risk because he preferred shooting his gun into his head. In both passing's, not a sound did I hear. I aren't deaf, but likely real dumb.

I'm might also be blind. I didn't notice the change in my friends nor my customers. My party pals drifted away, replaced by serious money dudes that no longer snorted their coke, they were smoking it. Instead of mirrors and short straws littering Lem's crack house (and mortuary), I was stepping on glass pipes and propane canisters with thread-on torch attachments. Instead of partiers passing out and sleeping it off in the back room on the dogs' sofa, they were breathing out cocaine smoke then going into seizures. "Buckwheat says crack not Otay" (Eddie Murphy).

Don't get me wrong, I wasn't running a welding shop. Nor was I Harborview Medical Emergency Burn Unit.

A really pretty girl named Alette, was known to frequent my establishment was hospitalized with a series of burns on her breast, stomach and leg: L-shaped burns that mirrored the thread-on brass pieces commonly attached to various sized propane torch canisters. After making her purchase, driving home and smoking freshly washed up rocks of my product, she went "on the nod" and passed out, releasing her grip on her torch. Her left hand retained possession of her glass pipe, but her torch rolled down the front of her and burned L-shaped holes through her clothes and left deep-ass burns down the front of her and ignited the carpet beneath her feet.

She is no longer really pretty. Similar to our own lives, her burn trauma can never be undone.

To make things even more dicey, just yesterday afternoon, a strange kid I never met, knocked on my door asking, "Hey Karl, ya got any product?" I have no idea who this kid was, so I blew him off and told him to drop by later. I let the dogs loose and took a quick walk around the corner fast enough to see this kid jump into one of 3 unmarked Dodge Diplomats with more antennas than a porcupine. All 3 cars quickly evacuated the street behind my house. We're talking standard government issue dork-mobiles that stupid cops drive. Stupid cops that broadcasted on scrambled radios, impossible to eavesdrop, but were causing weird buzzing, distortion and garbled transmissions over my CB radio.

Fuck dudes, this is decades before cell phones and pagers, so I had to use old school ancient hi-tech. To avoid phone taps, I preferred my dudes call in on their Citizen's Band radio and inquire if I was home and could they pick up some paint, or sheet rock or whatever the agreed code words for that day. It was understood to use my handle "home base" not "free base." Cold calls at my front door, during white man (daylight non-vampire) hours, from punks I never knew, was WAY out of the ordinary.

After walking around the block to see where this kid came from, I ran back home and did a thorough clean-up of my house. I bagged all the paraphernalia and welding equipment, pocketed the last of my blow, and sneaked through the fencing along I-5. I walked down to the freeway and from behind a thick stand of trees, lobbed all the glassware into the freeway between speeding cars and buried the burned spoons, propane canisters and razors in the dirt where I knelt. The passing traffic powdered the glassware shards and I layed a clump of sod over my buried treasure of shit.

I walked a half-mile further down the wooded margin along the freeway, climbed the fence and went into Franky's house. My dudes were still sleeping, so I put on coffee. To rid my ass of any incriminating evidence, I poured the last of my stash, a couple grams of cocaine into the coffee grounds before brewing. When Franky, Marto and Paul dragged their asses out of bed and joined me fer coffee and bong hits, I told them to drink their coffee carefully while I told them about the narc squad sending a torpedo to my front door.

I described the kid to them and Paul nodded and stated his name was Desmond. Paul further explained that he was pulled over for speeding and DUI, busted for possession, booked in, then walked out free as a bird, knocking on doors of our party shacks looking to buy blow with more money than he should have. The detail about cops driving him around must have slipped Paul's mind. So I stressed out and asked him why he didn't enlighten the rest of us. His response was a shrug and "I dunno." Stupid stoners.

Yup, you coppers are thinking the same thing as me. I'm toasted shit nuggets and it's time to pull up stakes and move my operation to another crack house. A smarter man would simply leave state.

Franky drove me to Miller's Rent-All and under my dad's charge account I snagged a carpet steam cleaner. Then we drove to Lynnwood to Preservative Paints where me and Marto had a charge account and picked up masking tape, plastic paint tarps and a couple fivers of latex interior paint. Up front, Preservative Paint Co. had a Clearance Section of mistints that were marked way down below cost. A couple 5-gallon buckets of odd color semi-gloss interior latex was perfect. And way cheap too. Come on fuckers, I'm painting a smoke-stained crack house, not yer sisters' favorite abortion clinic.

Back at Lem's, we carried every stick of furniture out. All the beds were dump-bound with Franky taking the tables and chairs. We then hauled the rest of the nasty furniture out into Franky's truck and dumped the shit in the woods nearby. Marto discovered a surprise treat. Underneath the stinky dog sofa, we discovered another large packet of coke, so we snorted the entire pouch, then layed plastic tarps all over the house.

In a manic hyperactive flurry we painted the entire house, wiped the counters, mopped the vinyl floors in the kitchen and bathroom, oiled all the wooden doors and cabinets with Liquid Gold, then pulled up all the plastic sheets from the floor and pulled up all the masking tape. We took a toke break, ran to the store and bought some dark beer, then proceeded to suck the shit outa the carpets with the steam cleaner. Come on fuckers, our parents all had rental houses, so doing these drug-induced speedy turn-arounds in record time was in-grained in us all. Second nature, behind well entrenched drug habits.

We started at one end of the house using scalding hot water and carpet shampoo. When we got to the back room, we started over again and used just real hot water adding a good douch pour of bleach. The bleach was Marto's idea because he pulled rusty water from areas where anonymous fatalities occurred. The same fatalities that became wood and tire smoke and a layer of ash under an outhouse. A layer unlike ash from Mt. Redoubt, but oddly like a crematorium clean-out after smoking akka milluks.

We returned the carpet steam-cleaner to Miller's Rent-All, hauled all the paint supplies to Franky's and then booked to my parent's house and borrowed the lawn mower and lawn rakes.

Me and Paul, Franky and Marto mowed and trimmed the entire yard, raked and bagged up the debris and loaded it all in Franky's Toyo truck.

The exterior of the house had already been painted last summer, so all I had to do was phone the landlord and tell him that I was moving out and that this August was gonna be my 30-day notice. My landlord was a heck of nice guy and said that my timing was perfect. He asked if I was already packed and that he was just contacted by a prospective renter and could he do a walk-through this Monday. I smiled and said sure.

Monday morning, the carpet was bone-dry and so was all the paint. The whole house smelled like cleaning products and fresh paint and the yard was beautifully landscaped. All the dogs were ditched up at 7-Lakes and all the nasty furniture we dumped in the woods nearby. The abandoned cars we towed all around town with Franky's Toyo and left them on side streets. Fuck my druggy pals that owned them, they can pay the towing and impound charges to the City of Mountlake Terrace. Plus, it'd give Don Beuler and his defective detectives something to do besides bother a legitimate criminal like me. Lem's Mortuary and Crack House was completely renovated and looked brand-new and perfect.

On schedule, my landlord pulled up at noon and did his walk-through inspection. Fuck he was smiling big. He said to me, "Damn Karl, this place looks really good. I didn't expect new paint inside and out." "The carpet and cabinets look great and so does the lawn." Dude just reached into this pocket and handed me the $500 dollar security deposit and shook my hand. He added that he'd be more than happy to give a recommendation or a reference and if I needed another house to rent, just call him.

For the first time that week, I was feeling pretty damn good. I tried to behave normally, but my patience was waning and my legs were running in place. I was itching to run as far and as fast as I could. I owed some serious debts to my cocaine wholesalers and I wanted to be long gone before anybody got wind of my disappearance.

I'd kept all the cash payments from my week's sales so I was flushed pretty fucking good. I stayed that night at Franky's, drank beer and smoked some pot and watched VCR movies. We also didn't open the front door when visitors came by. Frank screened his phone calls and claimed ignorance where the parties were, all the blow was and where the heck Karl booked. Franky sold a bogus story that I was likely in jail. It was starting and word was slowly getting out.

The next morning I showered and put on the few clothes I'd laundered at Franky's, walked to the Circle K convenience store, bought a large coffee and waited for the bus. While waiting inside the bus stall, I saw familiar cars racing all around Mountlake Terrace. From inside the glass stall bus stop, I saw at least 4 cars patrolling all the streets looking for you know who. Two were cop cars and two were Bruce and Ray. Two armed cops likely looking to make a buy/bust off me and two armed dealers likely looking to make collections immediately after hearing my house was vacated and yer author on drugs vanished. I'm so low-budget and lame, I was hiding from cops and mean coke dealers inside a glass stall waiting for a fucking bus.

On schedule, the bus pulled up and I boarded. All I had was a backpack with my clothes, toothbrush, shampoo and a handy 38 special revolver. What a character change, I had transformed from top salesman into a hobo. I guess you could now describe me as,"Sherlock Homeless." The smart guy that was on the run, racing at the speed of public transport and headed north to live in a trailer, a shed with a sauna and outhouse on a large heavily wooded lot. Don't forget the outhouse that had 3 burnt, powdered, crushed and buried skeletons, just waiting for my gushing runny stools. Ghosts covered in withdrawal diarrhea are known to reach up and pull yer nads off. I'll probably shit with the dogs way out in the woods and take my chances with a million mosquitoes, poison oak and stinging nettles.

The ride up north to 7-Lakes took a couple hours because of a transfer in Everett. I grabbed some groceries at the Lucky Store nearby, walked next door and grabbed a bottle of Jim Beam to keep me and the dogs company. We were gonna be on our own and alone way north by 2 counties and I think all us dogs were going to be lonely.

At my grandpa's place, I quickly sneaked in and dragged the fence back closed pushing brush back in place to conceal my trespass. The dogs went ballistic and super happy I showed. I unhitched them off their chains and let 'em run around and jump all over me. I filled their food and water bowls, and went inside the trailer to turn on grandpa's radio and dialed in Canadian news and talk.

I doubt any of y'all know how lonely a loser can get. I had 3 dogs for company, a couple newspapers and a radio broadcasting dorky Canadian accented news and I'm living in a trailer. I fucking felt a hunnert years old and all I had was a bottle of liquor to share with 3 dogs that didn't drink anything stronger than beer and magic mushrooms. Brian Higman made a batch of magic 'shroom scrambled eggs, but the dogs jumped up on the counter and stole them all and you've never seen neurotic dogs tripping on psylicibin. Funnier'n watching drunk kids running with scissors at the daycare or getting cats stoned blowing pine tokes in their faces. Me and Brian just drank magic mushroom tea, went to the park and threw the frisbee around watching the dogs tear the shit outa us as we laughed at them like asylum residents.

I downed a good measure of Beam, ate a bit of dinner and dozed off with all 3 dogs piled all around me. In the middle of the night, I heard car tires skidding, a super loud crash and then the dogs scratched me up jumping awake and whimpering to get out of the trailer. Me and the dogs sneaked through the trees and bushes to peek up and down the highway. All four of us put our heads through the fence and craned left and right to spy the accident. It wasn't pretty. A cool old Pontiac convertible went off the road and slid into a tree, upside down.

After a devastating car crash, the following peace and quiet is surreal. Man it was almost cricket chirp quiet within minutes. The occupants of the car weren't moving and truth be told, I doubted a body could function without its head and shoulders. I had zero means of calling the cops and the neighborhood was spread out with a good walking distance to any nearby houses. Fuck.

I leashed all 3 dogs, talked them into subordination with low voiced commands and started my trek back up the highway to the neighbor's house. We arrived out front and there was not a single light burning. Smart as I was, ain't no way I was gonna march up and knock on the door. That'd get my guts blown out with a shotgun. Next best thing was to make some noise from the street and try to wake them. So I whispered to the dogs, "You boys want go fer a run?" The dogs started jumping around and barking psyched as shit. I yelled at the house above the barking dogs hoping to raise the dead.

I did. The porch light came on and an old man looked out. With a shotgun in hand. I yelled that a car crashed about a mile up the highway and could he call the cops and an ambulance. He looked at me and the dogs, then asked if I wanted to come in. I didn't and told him I was just walking the dogs and saw the crash. We said our goodbyes, I walked a little further down the road, then reversed back towards my grandpa's property. I sneaked back through the fence, pushed the branches and brush in the way, then we layed low in the brush to watch the cops arrive.

My estimate was approximately 10 minutes before I heard the sirens. Upon arrival, the cops lit flares along the roadway, climbed around the wreck trying to see inside. The ambulances were on scene minutes later, then a county wrecker came and tipped the car over. There were four kids in the car and all of them flopped around like puppets with cut strings. Not one survivor. Kids sure like to flip cars and scrub their heads and upper torsos off with pavement.

The dogs stayed super quiet and watched the cop action just like me. The bright strobes were kind of cool so far north and so deep in the woods. I tugged the dog leashes to head back to the trailer but the dogs stayed put and just sat and watched the crews salvage the roadside mess. Ye see, the dogs were just like all you coppers. They were fascinated with dead bodies, death causation and loading the meat wagon for the last final drive up to boot hill. I also think the dogs were getting used to croakers after so much stupid shit guarding Lem's mortuary and crack house.

The old man I notified drove up and explained his part of the story, looked around and shook his head. My belief was that he didn't know who woke him and requested emergency services. The police walked up and down the highway, taking pictures of flipped car debris and skid marks. They then took a long measuring tape to the skid marks and the plowed grass and shrubs in the car's flight path. I kind of wanted to step out of the woods and add my two cents, but I believed it would've resulted in my arrest. Not smart.

I tugged the dogs' leashes, whispered it was time to go and all 4 of us headed back to the trailer. I put on local Canadian news/talk radio to see if the crash made the news: none such. Fatal car crashes out in the boonies seldom cross international borders. So I took a good pull offa Jimmy Beam, dreamed of green bud and coke piles and fitfully dozed until sunrise.

After we took shits and pisses in the woods, all 4 of us went back to the highway, slipped through the fence and walked around the crash site. Those cops were fucking incompetent. There was blood and skin and icky bits still remaining in the soil and against the tree where they abruptly stopped and lots of glass bit scattered about. The dogs' noses were stuck to the ground and I couldn't pull them away, so I did some treasure hunting. I found a few dollars and coins, but nothing else worth noting. The dogs huffed and hacked for the rest of the morning.

Them dildo patrolmen could use a lesson from you KPD motherfuckers, you boys are famous for shoveling up red chunks. When we got the 911 call in dispatch that a car flipped short of the runway on base road, I was impressed how well you boys sterilized the impact seepage left behind by Bessie Harris (Saima Johnson's cousin). Charlotte Harris was hustled away with Trox and Munson, loaded on a Medi-Vac jet and rocketed all the way south to Harborview Medical, a place we've all heard about. Way too much. The trail of tears for massive trauma and ungodly burns don't end at ANMC, the trail ends at the hospital on the hill overlooking Puget Sound. Sadly, Bessie Harris was trucked up to boot hill.

I used to wonder why cops would stop and get out of the patrol car, look around and secretly weep. Trox told me that close to where Bessie Harris was killed, many years previously, another similar crash took place. I was puzzled until he wiped his eyes, blew his nose and told me about a roll-over car crash that horribly killed 3 boys on base road, just short of the runway. He rambled off the 3 names and I had to think for a second, then recalled the names of "Lambert, Clark and Gregg." It hit me the same way, creating difficulty swallowing.

I choked up and in my newspaper memories, I re-read the Sounder bulletin listing the details of the crash and the names of the deceased. The hole in the hearts of Kotzebue's citizens is immense, but these 3 boys only widened this gulf of souls, gaping and torn and will never heal. Ned Lambert, Norman Clark and a boy nick-named Junie Gregg were flying inbound on base road, lost control and flipped and rolled the vehicle they were driving. Ned Lambert was Harold, Daisy and Pete's brother, Norman Clark was Bella Clark Woods' brother and Junie Gregg was Charley Gregg's brother and Lillian's Gregg's son. Mr. Gregg was driving, Ned Lambert was passenger and Norman Clark was in the back seat.

When an ambulances leave the scene of an accident slower than a hearse, you know they all died, boot hill bound. And to some extent, so did all of us. I believe fatal accident scenes distort our emotional well-being as we walk nearby. We may not know what's so upsetting, but if you ask an elderly native woman, village cops or medics and their eyes well up, no other explanations are necessary.

A few years ago, I flew up to Nome to house-sit Patrick Octuck's apartment. He was given an ultimatum from NPD: recovery or resignation, so Officer Octuck flew down to Seattle and checked into the Schick-Schadel Recovery Center. When he completed his 10-day residency, we roomed together for a few weeks till I found a small cabin from Cussie Kauer, 410 Second Avenue, just off Bering Street. Me and bun lived there for almost a year. The time me and bun stayed with Patrick was also a period to make lots of good coffee, thorough cleaning of his apartment, cooked lots of roasts, pastries and Indun Fry Bread.

Bun prepped Octuck's meals in the morning while Patrick slept after his graveyard shifts, covered them with foil, then we booked downtown to the UA Northwest Campus to send emails and compose long reports, just like this one. After emails and perusing the library for books and DVD's to check out, me and bun strolled Nome's main drag. Some days we'd have a late lunch at the Polar Cafe, then to Soap and Suds, Board of Trade Saloon, the Anchor or Breaker's Bar fer brews fer me and seltzer waters with lemon or lime fer bun.

Nome's a small town and everybody asked how Patrick was doing and how Nome compared to Kotzebue and Barrow. I told some doozies, lied my ass off and was in general more generous than any fucked up Alaska town deserved. Folks collected around me and bun, asked a thousand questions and inquired which boarding schools we attended. I refrained from biting their heads off with retard insults, spastic chiding and off the cuff acrid corrections that I wasn't from Alaska: despite my foul odor. I let bun reunite with Indun Boarding School classmates and stayed out of their hair, albeit native hair. After our daily walks, talks and visits to every bar and restaurant in Nome, Alaska, we'd headed back towards home and hit Nome Trading to grab a few sticks of groceries and my choices of gourmet coffees for Octuck's machine.

Sobriety leaves old cops extraordinarily tender and vulnerable. Patrick was telling long-winded stories of rough call-outs he attended up in Kotzebue and remarkably, linked his career to his alcoholism (overlooking his ancestry). One story that comes to mind was a 911 emergency service request that some kids sunk their raft in the slough along the hillside. Kevin Norton (Helen Norton's son), Chapter Wilson (Morris and Marianne Wilson's son) and George Yost (Luanna Goodwin's nephew) were rafting across and playing around like Huck Finn. Their raft got punctured from the willow branches and they couldn't paddle to shore. The water was so damn cold they couldn't swim back either. Octuck was first on scene followed by Trox and they both threw life lines with life rings, then grappling hooks. Trox quickly got into his wet-suit gear and waded in to fetch the boys and Patrick pulled them ashore and administered CPR. None of these beautiful boys awoke from their peaceful sleep.

The emergency crews arrived and with hand held stretchers ran the boys to the ambulances for emergency warming and pump their lungs with oxygen. The scant equipment at the old MMC hospital didn't move the needle nor change the final score. Boys 0: Boot Hill 3. I was overwhelmed with the loss a small town like Kotzebue suffers with the deaths of kids, boys and men. Bun was a little upset and Patrick was pretty tearful too. These kids meant something to bun and Patrick, and more accurately, meant the world to their parents, friends and neighbors.

Bun had sold a dandy new 22 rifle to Kevin Norton so he could hunt rabbits and squirrels and her retelling brought tears down her cheeks and staggering bottomless grief to me: an asshole that don't get affected by deaths of druggies and assholes, but the heartbreak losing loved ones in remote arctic villages tore my guts out. I merely got a fraction of a glimpse via osmotic storytelling and it hit me pretty hard how much grief you coppers stow. You fuckers picked totally suck-ass jobs. You may be hundreds of miles away, across mountains and tundra, but right now, I'm trying not to cry like you cops.

On a much happier note, let's get back to my fleeing a crack house and the large amounts of money I owed these fuckers.

A few days and saunas after scavenging the car crash scene across the street from my grandpa's property, I ate a scant breakfast, then leashed the dogs and walked down to the local bait shop. I loaded a handful of coins into the payphone and called Franky to see what was up back home. He laughed and told me that a bit of ruckus developed at my old house. The new tenants were moving in and Bruce dropped by to collect a couple grand I owed him for blow. Whilst harassing the new tenants, Ray pulled up and started interrogating them (and each other) for the same reason. The new residents phoned the cops complaining that some armed strangers were threatening them if they didn't reveal where Karl, all the money and all the drugs were. The police were quite familiar with my nuisance address and with lights and sirens, stormed the joint, exiting their cars with rifles and pistols drawn and yelled commands that everybody lay face down and don't fucking move. Everybody, including Ray, Bruce, 2 thugs in tow, and the new tenants.

After sorting out the good guys and bad guys, the cops seized all the guns off Ray and Bruce and their two bully backups, found blow and money on them, then impounded their cars for further search and seizure. The cars yielded quite a crime novel story. In the trunks were more guns and more drugs and even more money. Those boys ain't dumb, they kept all their collections in their cars and NOT in their apartments. One aspect of their stupidity was that I'd sold them all the guns they were carrying. Guns that I bought offa Pim.

The first legal snag that Ray and Bruce and their two thugs faced in jail was the cocaine possession, cash possession and the firearms possession. In Washington State, having all three presents evidence of felony crimes. No bail was offered and the 4 dummies sat in the clink awaiting trial. Until all the serial numbers from the guns were back-grounded, then ballistics were completed. The guns were either reported stolen and/or matching slugs pulled from crime scenes in 2 counties. By accident and sheer stupidity, I doomed my own cocaine wholesalers to long stretches in Monroe State Penitentiary. Even a retarded inbred moron like me couldn't plan this absurd fiasco.

I've been interviewed by police numerous times since then, denied any involvement in their gun problems and denied any involvement in their cocaine problems. I only agreed that these gentlemen were notorious dealers that frequented my party house, sold piles of blow and were bullies to me and my poor defenseless friends and neighbors. Go ahead, you can laugh and puke. I couldn't believe I was allowed to walk out of the Washington State Patrol building: repeatedly. Fuck!

I simply agreed to investigators' and prosecution's claims that yes, I did have way too many parties, too many loud bands and really ought to repay the towing and impound fees to the City of Mountlake Terrace for leaving nearly a half-dozen automobiles abandoned all over the fucking place. I was also a suspect in the malicious dumping of stinky furniture in the city park and I was threatened with spill-over charges related to the blow, weapons and suspicious fatalities. Not me, despite witness claims originating from that particular nuisance address, it was just a party house. Home sweet home, Lem's.

I was advised if I don't find full time work, in another state, I was to report to Kathy Elam at the Kotzebue Jail. I no longer had any more of my 9 lives remaining and had to respectfully not fuck around with the wishes of asshole Chief of Police Bueler. Oh, and quit fucking calling his investigative team "assholes", "fucking cops" and "defective detectives", yer not funny and yer this close to joining yer friends DTR. Down the road, meaning prison.

I had to shift gears and phoned Higbitch and asked what job offerings were available for a reformed owner of a den of iniquity, party junky going through withdrawals and all around shithead scoundrel of the lowest order. When you join me hitting bottom, it's all upward and northward and everything looks brighter. I ain't blind, stupid nor retarded. Okay, maybe a little but with glasses made of twin rectums, Kotzebue started looking perty fucking good.

My vision now matched my fuckhead pals and customers, and future coworkers, seeing through blue eyes that are actually twin bruised anus orbs.

I aren't dumb, I just can't think fer shit.

That's me, shithead and asshole eyes.

Karl.

In rural Alaska, all the birth defects due to my LSD sales will likely go unnoticed.

Top of the morning gents,

I was chatting with Sara a few months ago and I asked her if she was in touch with her friends from Kotzebue. She said she wasn't. I asked why and she said it had gotten stupid because her friends believed that I "beat up all their parents." Well shit, how do I respond to that? I may be responsible for some shit, but I don't recall pounding on THAT many ice-midgets. You guys bear far more responsibility for bringing arrestees to the jail already tuned-up and pissed off looking to fight. My duties were merely pulling fighting, kicking and spitting new inmates out of the patrol car and dragging them into the jail for processing. Sara's claim that I beat up her classmates' parents is unjust, exaggerated and unfounded. I never layed a hand on any natives. Guns and drugs neither.

I can see you coppers getting red in the face, looking around to see if others are looking over yer shoulders, waiting for my sorry ass explanations.

Reviewing my actions over the last 4 decades in Alaska, I can publicly explain the details of 3 major crimes that I can be attributable to. And as you can guess, they're related to my retarded business models and dumber ventures you're already aware of. Hell, my activities are public record in my testimony during grand jury proceedings, in both rural Alaska and dumb-ass inbred hillbilly white trash big city Alaska, like Mat-Su and Fairbanks. Regions better known as the Valley of Trash and Shitbanks.

I'll start by explaining what crimes I'm personally responsible for, and the immense heartbreak rained down upon numerous villages across rural monkey Alaska. It's serious comedy when my grief thunders down upon smaller, darker and ignorant races that we sleep with daily. Since the parties involved are either dead or retarded, I can speak freely, without fear of retribution.

Working with you guys, we've pulled apart a million fucking domestic fist-fights, seized thousands of bottles and bags of weed, and sent whole armies of stupid defendants to Anvil Mountain and beyond. Most of the personnel I processed were pretty good dudes, well mannered and all around fairly decent folks that knew full well they'd fucked up and were only gonna do short stretches in jail. Very few headed off for more than weeks or months in the clink. The only long-haul inmates were in for homicides and sexual assaults, and those we can count with our fingers. Okay, add your toes. And dicks. That way we can count up to 21. We're not retarded, we're from Alaska.

Now, let's reverse this examination and scrutinize the behavior of some of the cops we've worked with and in comparison look at the stupid shit I pulled. In uniform, I doubt I violated very many regulations detailed in the Jail Officers' Training Manual I had to read and test on way back in the 80's. I made gourmet coffee for the cops, handed out cigars and cigarettes, and a shitload of opiate laced 222 Tylenol and aspirins. I also doubt I violated many of the VPSO regulations I was instructed and lectured by troopers statewide, including Godfrey. He started his career as a VPSO and VPO ascending all the way to the CEO of all of Alaska's cops. His murder by a jilted young busty smoking-hot mistress was a startling end to his reign as Commissioner. And his marriage. His gorgeous curvy tasty pussy and secret poon-snatch put Godfrey's own 44 mag to her head and blasted juice across the home, after leaving Godfrey's fat old wife shot to shit, gimp-chair bound and crippled all to hell.

I can't out-do that. My crimes are merely of substance and kinetic energy, meaning drug abuse and firearms. I bought and sold a shit-load of guns from all over Alaska, sanded and varnished, cleaned and oiled them and merely pocketed a few 20's above my costs. The hunnert guns Pim mailed me from Seattle were bought on the open hot-gun market and unloaded way up North. Pim was known to make offers on, and purchase lots of guns used in violent crimes, stolen guns and guns destined to visit the bottom of Puget Sound or melted with auto carcasses at Seattle Steel Mills. Usually after someone was blown apart, disputes were settled, and bad debts cleared. Those guns he mailed to me I only sold to the gooks and out of town dopes.

As far as substance abuse, I never sold cocaine in Alaska, nor weed, those I consumed myself. I did trade and barter a shit-load of liquor, but only back and forth amongst a tight group of alcoholics and felons. Some cops too. I did import thousands of doses of LSD, sold some, but most of the shit was sold through Harley Bronson, a homeless kid I adopted way back in Chief Don Beuler's patrol sector: Mountlake Terrace, Washington. As long as I shipped an unlimited cargo of acid, Harley could sell the shit outa that product and bring back cubic dollars I paid utilities with or brought to Win Scott at AC Hardware. I'd run up 4 figure charge accounts, then when a windfall of dollars filled my drawer, I'd change everything into AK dimes ($100 dollar bills) at NBA, walk down to Win's and settle up. Some days, this money ended up at Alaska Airlines, KEA and OTZ too. If I owed anybody for helping me drive nails, haul construction materials or lay roofing, I usually handed them acid instead of cash. Everybody be happy, happy, happy.

A few weeks ago, me and bun flew up to ANMC so we can see how healthy "the ancient one" is. The doctors did the endoscopy, which is the camera looking down the throat and into the esophagus and top of the stomach. This scoping is to detect ulcers and esophageal erosion as a result of heartburn. Yup, you niggers figured it out, being married to me is financially rewarding, yet really stressful fer fucking native women.

As posted before, I wrote the book on the care and feeding of elderly native women. I'm a ball-buster when it comes to arriving for dental appointments and losing the goddamned cigarettes. My worst offense to the world of the indigenous is that I'm a real fucking asshole about laundry, dish washing and vacuum cleaning my fucking black man's igloo, also known in Barrow as Karl's Nigloo. If my pretty wife does all the cooking, I'll do all the cleaning. If the chores were reversed, we'd be eating shit and living in a stink native house. Smell me?

I'm also a real fucking jerk about haircuts. I also insist on losing the hair coloring products and perms. The proverb that applies to dippy cross-eyed native women with silly retarded backwards hairstyles is "I've got products in my hair and cysts on my uterus." Bun dumped the retarded Eskimo cultural vanity of wearing black hair and thinking we don't suspect Inuit elders of farting dust and losing their teeth laughing at her stupid husband. A really stupid husband that lives by really stupid rules such as no gambling. Rippies and Bingo are strictly for blacks and hillbillies, cigarettes are only for short darkie Nigarettes, and most native women I'll only rent, very few I'll ever own.

I'm such a naive peckerwood. I worked my dick off cutting down hangers, carrying gun-eaters and mopping native puke in the jails all over Alaska. I then took my paychecks, booze and drug proceeds and spent it all on Sara's orthodontia, cosmetic oral surgeries and air fare to and from Seattle. I also spent my meager pay on a butt-load of collectible rifles and pistols for my dad's gun locker. My dad didn't want any cash-money for Sara's room and board, he was intrigued with the guns I bought and sold. The legal and clean guns, of course. So I sent him fucking dozens.

It started with a chrome 44 mag that Garoutte put a scope on, a bunch of Glocks, a brand new Ruger 270 rifle I bought off Officer Mack, an M-16 A-2 from Joe, a 338 win mag too, plus untold pistols and pert near an armory I selected from 30+ years of looting. I can't remember all the guns my dad horded. I was chatting with the Chief a few months ago and told him that my dad had passed away a few years after my mom. The boss asked what was gonna happen to all the dozens of guns I sent my dad, and I was flummoxed.

My dad didn't hire a lawyer to write, witness, file and record a will at the local courthouse, so everything he ever accumulated from both sets of grandparents went into probate. Meaning he was intestate and an executor would follow the orders from a judge as to disposal of this humongous estate and pay the 7 heirs. Meaning, me and my sibs. I could only guess at the values of all this Seattle real estate. Decades ago, I helped my dad repair a butt-load of rental and live-in houses and landscaped some wooded properties, including suspect ashes buried under the outhouse. I also rebuilt a cabin on a beachfront property near David Craig's place on Hood Canal, up the road from Shelton. To cool down a hyper-inflationary real estate market, the FED has raised interest rates numerous times, showing 15-year mortgages more than doubling from 2% to 5.5%. As of 2020, the values are astronomical and it seems my dad had perfect market timing, even in death.

Fuck dudes, adding grandparent pass-through inheritances and my grups junk pile we're talking serious laundered slave money from the Confederate States and human traffic dollars and laudanum bucks to Alaska. Shit niggers, child rape in 907 brothels, heroin hauling and shipping Cooley gooks paid a pretty penny. I've already received a check from my grandpa's savings divided by us 7 surviving siblings. Last week I got another from initial off-loading of junk and properties (including a shit-load of guns), with 3 more pieces of real estate to sell. I'm gonna miss all those dozens of guns, but fuck, at least I no longer have to travel to Seattle, ship them all up to Alaska, and sell them. Looking back at my parents and grandparents estates, all I can say is, crime pays.

A funny flash-back down moron memory lane occurred when I was up at ANMC for bun's heartburn and ulcer scoping, I ran into Roberta Brower. You remember, Danny Burnor's girlfriend way back in the day. Roberta travels from the lower 48 for all of her medical malarkey because outside of Alaska there's scant free services offered to natives. Another local gal, Margie Euben, also travels from Arizona up to Funny River Road (just outside of Soldotna) for all of her periodic tune-ups and medicine refill updates at the Denaina Vagina in Kenai. Needless to say, any girls I refer to, know and remember are way past menopause, so don't get all hot and bothered with notions and fantasies of hot sex and natural lubrication. I'm old as shit, so are the women you'll come across in these stupid diatribes.

As us squaw boys know, natives can't go too far without rebounding back up north. Sara told me that she went to a native reservation clinic in Texas and it wasn't a pleasant experience. Alaska Natives find out real fucking quick, ANMC totally rocks, and as much as folks bitch, outside reservation clinical care totally sucks stinky blistered red dicks. I know, that's gross.

During my wait in the reception area while bun was receiving treatment, Roberta asked me if I knew that Randy Kem had died. I had to scrape crust, scabs and drain slag just to fetch memories from so far back. I asked her if that was the same Randy Kem that Harley sold a bunch of acid to at David Burnor's place. She said that's the one. Harley was my lead salesman in a silly smuggling scheme that your author on drugs devised.

I never had any backfires with my gun sales. Nobody was murdered with the firearms I sold in Barrow and Kotzebue. My work with statewide narcs went according to script and my work at KPD or the VPSO program didn't result in any wrongful deaths. Shit, not even a righteous death occurred on my shifts. But the precipitate mortality and echoes of death only happened when I flooded village micro-markets with LSD.

I used to stuff numerous doggy pillows in dog kennels with sheets of LSD and fly dogs from Seattle to Kotzebue. I also had my buddies disassemble CD packaging and insert a few sheets of acid under each label, then simply mail them to me. I'm not much into screaming colors and hallucinating like hippies in the 60's, but a lot of Kotzebue folks sure the fuck were. Despite long-term and genetic health warning labels on my acid, out here in rural Alaska, the birth defects would likely go unnoticed. I sold more LSD than booze or guns, and funneled the dineros into Sara's dental and travel expenses and my carpentry projects (houses 676, 711, 369) you dildos always saw me working on.

I snagged an envelope of acid soaked blotter paper, met Harley at the Burnor's and passed him a decent stash to sell. For some reason Randy Kem was there, real drunk and wanted to fight me. I just sat down at my place at the table, smoked some bowls and downed some glasses of 151. I ignored fuck-head Kem and let Harley sell him a string of 10 hits for an unknown roll of bills. That fucker stuffed them all in his mouth and chewed the whole strip of 10 hits of acid, grabbed David Melton's glass of flammable drinky-poo and chugged everything down. Wow. Our irritant that never became a pearl, Randy Kem, bragged that he dosed better LSD a million fucking times back home. Sure. I continued smoking pine bud, drinking 51 solvent and watched dipshit Kem bother everybody with his drunken rants of badness and stupidity.

He went from a sloppy drunk to a sober person in about a half hour. He then became real quiet, watched everybody with eyes so dilated that all the color of his eyes was eclipsed black, acting nervous, worried and apprehensive. I almost felt sorry for the fucker, so I offered him a bong rip or a drink , but he declined. Poor chump was terrified and seriously tripping balls.

Randy Kem got a spook in him and decided he was gonna book, so he grabbed his hat, gloves and jacket and left. Shortly afterwards me and Sara, Dopey and Harley dragged our lips home to house 676 on Caribou Street. I was so smoked and Bacardi soaked, I didn't feel the frost on my face, but Dopey the doberman pulled me home with his leash, Sara and Harley in tow.

I awoke at around 3am with the phone ringing. David Burnor was drunk yelling at me that Randy Kem was running up and down the runway, super high and butt-ass naked, at -30 below. According to Chip Hailstone and Scott McConnell, a Mark Air jet had to abort its landing and circle around until someone grabbed the naked chubby white guy that was doing wind sprints in the flight path of a loaded Herc. Airport personnel, troopers and FAA dicks grabbed this lunatic on acid, Randy Kem, put him in a real pretty asylum outfit and sent him to Charter North for a visit with Len Anderson. Len was enjoying a spin-dry cycle and sobering up, once and for all. I'm sure he enjoyed Randy Kem as a cell mate and his angry rants during Group. That'd drive me to drink.

Hearing that he recently died made me grin shitty and chuckle to myself.

I've got another tale of too much acid unleashed on a community of shrunken brown brains soaked in liquor. A few months after Randy Kem did his naked fat-boy dance and marathon run up and down the runway, I got another wake-up call from Higbitch (Brian Higman), drunk as shit, telling me that 3 dudes were run over on 3rd avenue, in front of the 41 unit.

I was slow on the uptake because Higman sounded so weird and I couldn't understand what he was whispering and griping about, until he finished a completely drunk and trippy sentence and told me that after his rendezvous with a cute out-of-town chick, she ran over some village chimps on the road. The hot little unit Brian was screwing was Shannon Pavel: major cutie, serious fine ass, C-cup, narrow waist and round fanny that explodes all the way across the room. Bam!

Shannon Pavel flew in from Bethel and was partying with Brian, eating MY dangerously strong LSD and drinking MY fucking Everclear liquor. They were both really fucking high, snacking and sharing each others glowing sex organs. A matching pair: a sex pistol and penis holster that absorbed way too much LSD that I'd dropped off at Higman's house just days before. Shannon was out on a lark and looking to party while her National Guard husband was out training on dummy patrol. Higman's place (321) was the go-to destination to visit, buy a jug and get super high and maybe grab some quick wood. I think you guys are now drawing a conclusion to this evening's drinking and partying activities.

Higman and Shannon Pavel were drinking and tripping on Everclear and LSD, and likely sucking face, ass, groinulars, marathon fucking and passing out. Until they were awoken by hair-lip Daryl Sours (girl-girl's stupid brother) pounding on the front door. Shannon wiped her glow-in-the-dark pussy on Higman's pillow, got dressed, grabbed a bottle of Everclear from Brian, flashed him a fatal smile and headed back home with Daryl Sours pissed off at waiting for hours for the bottle he sent money out for. He'd grown weary of huffing Pam and WD-40 and was forced to hike all over town in the cold to find his bottle, or his money.

Brian was stocked up because he had a stash of acid and snagged a half-case, 6 bottles of 190 proof jet fuel I owed him for a pile of back bills and shit. In Alaska, drugs are worth more than money. After Higman and Shannon Pavel downed too much Everclear paint thinner and LSD, they jumped each other's bones. Brian sacked more bush than any twerp in all of rural Alaska, seen more ass than any toilet seat and sucked more discharge out of a pussy than a lesbian gynecologist or dyke bitch undertaker. I used to insult him by saying that the most disgusting thing you'll ever smell on a naked native woman's body, is an Irish man. And Brian was always gittin' some. That is, until tard-lip Daryl Sours came pounding on the door, coughing and wheezing aerosol fumes. He was scouting for Shannon and located her truck in front of Higbitch's.

Here's where the story gets horrible. Shannon Pavel and Daryl Sours booked from Higman's, down 3rd avenue and in the middle of an Everclear and LSD head-rush, seizure and post-orgasm shiver, Shannon ran over Tykee Lloyd Hall and 2 out of town native men from upriver. The two brothers were from Ambler, Kobuk or Shungnak and I think their last names were Sun. Distant relations to KOTZ 720 am broadcaster, Suzie Sun.

Mrs. Pavel was in the similar shape and sobriety as Randy Kem: drunk as shit, seeing colors and tripping like a motherfucker. She killed the two Sun brothers with her truck, leaving their boots on the road and bouncing Tykee Lloyd Hall across the ice like a fucking hockey puck at light speed. Shannon and Daryl Sours ditched the truck and ran up to her apartment upstairs at the 41 leaving the 2 busted bodies in the roadside to freeze solid and Tykee in a heap against the fence. Fuck them dead niggers, we gotta crack this bottle and drink bitch.

The rest is criminal case history, prosecution and conviction. Shannon Pavel was deep-sixed for quite a stretch for driving while intoxicated, vehicular homicide and I believe Higbitch was the last fuck and suck she got before her jail sentence. I chided Brian that she was also convicted of driving a white dude under the influence of LSD. And breathing Everclear flames, thus explaining Higman's roached pubes, skid marks and fang lesions. You can imagine the details to that action. Two can chew.

A few months later, I got another package of CD's loaded with sheets of LSD, so I popped over to house 711 and paid a visit to Harley. I owed him a pile of money and he preferred dangerous mind altering chemicals over cash. My kind of guy. Me and Harley were doing an interior restoration on Chester and Ida Ballot's house, including a plumbing upgrade. We stuffed insulation in the attic and floors, all the empty walls, textured and painted, then layed out a giant piece of miss-cut carpet from Win at AC Hardware that fit the living area perfectly.

Harley was now the owner of a bunch of acid and asked if he could have a party at our work site inside house 711. I was apprehensive, because he and Dennis Tucker were caught trying to steal stove oil from the courthouse. Harley and Dennis were arrested at gunpoint and almost got killed by our more professional cops at KPD. Shoot first, ditch niggers later. Got dump?

I didn't have any liquor to give him, but with a shit load of LSD on hand I was pretty sure he'd find a way to make mischief. My only advice is next time he's in trouble, I recommended the cops simply dump bullets in both him and that stupid pit bull Dino. Then me and bun will strip him naked and arrange the dead bodies to look as if Harley was having Cecil Hawley anal sex with his own dog. Once frozen solid, I'd load him on a freight sled and erect a statue in front of the courthouse commemorating canine bestiality anal porn so popular amongst Eskimos of the NANA Region. I told him that's where Dolly Hawley came from, and Harley believed me.

Harley Bronson is a disaster and party all in one pile of bad luck. He rallied his dudes and started selling acid to everybody. Francine Harris, May Marlene Thomas, Gloira Ramoth, that weird little puke Lowell Ward, Willie Hailstone, Robert Evak, Shane Keller the nigger that boned Blanchard's wife in dispatch, White Mike Baker and his retarded girlfriend Starbuck, Terry McCall and some darkie ho that preferred tiny cookoos, and bunch of herpie chicks all chewed dangerously strong bitter chemical acid paper and when Chip Hailstone and Scott McConnell got off work, they layed out serious dollars also ate a bunch of acid. Acid they all assumed incorrectly, was weak. Now add a pregnant girl. Yup, real dumb. Native babies are such buzz-kills.

Travel back in time and remember the faces of this crew of turd squeezers. Now add way too much LSD and green bud. To complete this episode of mass mental retardation, ya gotta get some liquor. So Chip and Scott thought up a real genius idea: let's run down to Mark Air and steal cases of other people's booze orders.

So that's what they did. Harley kept selling acid on a wholesale level, everybody super high, smoking weed and drinking stolen cases of liquor with a bottle in each hand. The party grew exponentially as Chip Hailstone and Scott McConnell flew up and down 3rd avenue between house 711 and the airport with numerous loads of liquor. The bragging rights go to Scott for setting land speed records of over 100mph up and down main drags, side roads and of course, Front street.

Since Jaynor Clark was stuck at home, breast feeding her dog lot and not invited to the party, all the girls took turns riding on the back of the snow machine on each of Scott and Chip's speed runs down to Mark Air for evermore liquor.

Unbeknownst to all these chuckle-head motherfuckers is that when yer screaming high on LSD, liquor has zero effect on you. At least that's the feeling, but yer children will surely display evidence in their DNA damaged, mongoloid crossed-eyes, cleft palate and giant monster skulls. Examine the list of party-goers and then look at their children. The handicapped mutts outlived the cute dead ones.

History will never know how many trips Chip and Scott took down to their workplace to steal booze, but Harley said it was more than 8 cases of hard liquor and dozens of cases of beer. That's 96 bottles of hard liquor, on top of the green bud and acid. Accounting for some liquor barfed in the snow out back, bad shit happens when ye party on the rez. Scared now aren't ye?

On a trip down to the airport, May Marlene Thomas wanted to ride along with Scott to fetch booze. Of course you all know this was their last trip. Scott was WAY fuckered up, yet likely felt in control of his snow machine. On their return trip back up front street, they were flying at warp speed, missed the turn at Lillian Lewis-Coppock's cabin, got crossed up and slammed into Leroy Wilson's front porch.

Scott bailed seconds before impact, but May Marlene was inserted into plywood and lumber as the engine in front her red-lined wide open. While head-rushing on LSD, weed and hard liquor, both her and her baby were disintegrated leaving red bits of litter all over the frozen street. We all know what it feels like to be way up inside a pussy super drunk. Hell, even super high on acid. I wonder what that baby felt like: liquored up and soaked in LSD, tripping balls, stuck way up inside a pussy, then blasted out like an explosive anal Semtex wet fart. Hmmm trippy. We all been there.

Harley told me that after everyone fled, terrified and scary high, he ran away from the scene of the crime and arrived on my front door at house 676 and told me the whole story. I relayed the tale to KPD detailing all the culprits and the mission to kype a fuck-load of booze repeatedly from Mark Air. I also made subtle mention that lots of LSD was consumed but omitted my culpability. Eventually, James Elam fessed up to the massive shortage of booze in the hangar and Bish terminated Chip and Scott on the spot.

Scott did a long stretch in jail for killing May Marlene Thomas and her baby, Chip never worked again in Kotzebue and due to my LSD, eliminated any chance of healthy babies from his stinky deformed seed goop.

Harley can be found frozen naked in front of the courthouse, with his dead pit bull Dino fanged and snarling, yet solid frosty and ass gaped wide open with a skinny kid's icicle erection, balls deep, way up this stupid dog's ass. Ice sculpture, by Hawley of Kivilina.

Since all of my coworkers at the police department are either retired or dead, I think I might move back to Kotzebue again. Maybe renovate some houses, sell needful things, like guns and shit. Maybe import a few thousand hits of LSD too. You know, for personal consumption.

We'll keep this a secret, just between us. Nobody will ever find out.

Karl.

Please protect me from myself.

Top of the morning gents,

Tighten yer sanitary feminine napkins, and yer sanitary masculine napkins too, this is a side of yer author on drugs that I've never displayed to a bunch of fucking cops before. I was complimented by a rather chubby, tattooed and partly bathed clerk at Walmart's yesterday and it stuck in my craw. She'd stated that my daily morning visits to the bakery, picking up and purchasing a lot of donuts or pastries, "for them old ladies", after the 5-8am rush, was really nice. Have you ever associated me with the word "nice?"

I explained to her that what she's seeing is my vicarious enjoyment of deadly pastries I deliver up and down the Kenai Spur Highway to all my vendors and service providers. I sure remember wolfing down deep-fried, frosted and sugary cakes, pastries and cream filled gut bombs, I just haven't eaten any in a million fucking years. The gals at all my morning rounds love the shit out of me and if ye ever humped a really old fat special-needs woman (besides yer wives), you know yer gittin' lucky.

Every morning after I scribble down my waking blood pressure and fasting blood glucose, me and bun do our 2-3 cups of strong gourmet coffee, set the table for breakfast, and pile up our meds (cholesterol, blood pressure), multivitamins, aspirin and fish oil capsules. Some days I burp a fish oil sewer belch after a breakfast meal composed of a bucket of old fashioned oat meal, cream, yogurt and peanut butter, and a shit load of pills. I've blown the drapes off the windows prompting bun to ask me what my middle name was, and recommend I wipe. My episodes of throat chanting and gut-bag yelling loud air barfs really sounded like there was water in the mouth-piece, wetter'n a spitting anus. My retort is my fishy smelling roaring air pukes are how I scored so much trim on the rez and that my loud wretched sonic belches were my secret to being such swinging nate bait.

On days when I'm particularly humorous and barking fish oil belches, bun shows her irritation and jams my Lantus (24 hour) and Novolog (mealtime) Insulin epi-pens into my arms and shoulders REAL fucking hard. My insurance covers the $100 cost per epi-pen, freeing us well-to-do diabetics from those scary syringes. Yes, I know the traditional injection sites for old fashioned hypodermic syringes filled with insulin was the stomach, but seeing tiny purple bruises on some of my Scandinavian swim team mates' stomachs made me cringe. Scandinavians that immigrated to America, lead the world in Type I insulin dependent diabetes. Tall white blue eyed motherfuckers didn't evolve quickly enough to metabolize America's amber waves of grain. The pancreas of a Norseman simply poops out when confronted with 16 tons of sugar and carbs. Daily.

We're the skinny diabetics, whereas Type II insulin resistant, latent adult diabetes is a result of being overweight. Type II diabetics have a perfectly functioning pancreas, but heavy glucose and insulin loads have left their muscle and fat cell walls unable to absorb calories, hence the insulin resistance. So to lower blood glucose, Type II diabetics take medicines that stimulate the liver, pancreas and kidneys to eliminate the sugar load. Of course, the first battle weapon is a low carb diet, a shit-load of exercise, then medicine.

We all have friends and loved ones that have a battle with high blood sugar and it's our duty to understand this disorder. Fuck COVD viruses, diabetes is the real epidemic modern man battles, we consume a surplus of calories instead of starvation that all us homo-sapiens have suffered for the last million fucking years. We'd be angels for our loved ones if we could lend a hand, hide the sweet carb-loaded goodies and team up with 'em at the gym, yoga studio, karate dojo, or together, walk yer dicks off strolling up to first bridge or little Kivalina (south tent city). I've watched some good dudes lose limbs and pass away leaving us alone and heartbroken. Don't do that to your family.

I thought I'd outrun my ancestral affliction, but a decade ago I got sicker'n a fucking dog, puking up everything, including air and water. I was in the DKA penalty box: Diabetic Keto-Acidosis, rocket high blood sugar and a deadly emergency medical condition. After a 3-day, $30K stay in Central Peninsula Hospital's ICU, a pretty elderly doctor, that looked a lot like Helen Mirren, announced that they'd misdiagnosed my shit, and that I was part of a micro-small population with Adult Onset Juvenile Diabetes.

She was reading charts she'd pulled from the last million fucking decades of medical treatment in Rural AK, then looked at me and asked me about my native blood quantum: meaning how much native blood I had in me. My response was, "none since breakfast", all the native clinics and hospitals yer seeing on my chart are the only game in town. Thus, the misdiagnosis of Type II, common with Alaska Natives.

I could've had a fucking clue you know. My grandpa had diabetes, my dad and my younger brother did too. Call me a dumb ass, cuz as I approached 50 years old, my thirst for liquor increased and my hangovers got worse, and I couldn't put on any weight. I come from a long line of tall alcoholics, diabetics and ADHD motherfuckers that step in front of high velocity fists and bullets: it's a family tradition.

Yeasts, fungus and molds convert millions of tons of sugar from malts and barley into delicious alcohol. This creates a dilemma for our liver and pancreas functions: fucking overload. By unlocking the alcohol molecule, we're forcing our bodies to reverse alcohol back into sugar, flooding our bloodstream with fucking glucose. My diabetes and heavy alcohol intake drastically increases the stupid factor of death for a pea-brained retarded motherfucker. That being me, the dildo in the mirror.

I didn't need any explanation why gramps dropped all his tobacco and alcohol at the age of 50, except that his decision allowed him to live well beyond the age of 100. Fuck me, huh.

Every morning me and bun drive in to Kenai and do our shopping at Walmart's and grab a few sticks of groceries and dry goods for our apartment at the old folks' home. We also have a mission of mercy on our shopping list, we wander through the bakery and look for mark-downs on pastries on sale after the 8am hour. Baked goods after the morning rush are discounted by about half, so I can afford to be generous. I'm such a cheap bitch.

My donut deliveries are mostly targeted to the big old special needs gals at the thrift stores. I frequent the Kenai and Soldotna Salvation Army (salivation armpit) stores on a weekly basis and peruse the old jewelry section. Once in a while I find old watches and jewelry. A Rolex jumped into my pocket, as did a Movado and Tag Heuer, and with a new battery installed, I've pulled some serious dineros at various jewelers in Anchorage. We've also snagged poundage of old bent jewelry, then let Oxford Metals sort and pick through them all and make an offer for the different gold (14K and 18K etc) and silver.

Nobody gets rich on these larks, but after months of collecting, I've been surprised at the money we've been paid for old timepieces and scrap gold and silver jewelry. The watches don't fluctuate much in price, but since gold and silver is bumping up near record highs, I'm keen to unload our loot. Beside, if I gotta burn 4 gallons of Super Unleaded and drive the 160 miles over Turnagain Pass up to Anchorage for bun's ANMC appointments or Alaska Retinal Specialists, we might as well have some fun. And pay me back for all the donuts I bribed the thrift store gals with.

In keeping with our paying back what Alaska has given me, I deliver jumbo bags of chocolates to the Chiropractor, Subaru mechanic, and Denaina Native Clinic (Denaina Vagina) on our monthly or quarterly visits. The chiropractor pours the bags of chocolate candies in a big glass bowl for the patients, but the staff really light up bright when I drop off boxes of wine. What the fuck. I can't eat the shit anymore, nor drink the wine, but working gals love it. The Subaru mechanic also prefers bags of chocolates like Easter and Halloween offerings, but if ye want to score big, bring cases of Coors Light Beer.

All the gals at the Denaina Native Clinic like bags of chocolate so if I see big discounts, I'll drop off a jumbo bag at the dental clinic, the front desk and the pharmacy. Oh, I also hit the eye clinic and say hello to Dr. Megan Lincoln from Kotzebue and chat local vil gossip. Despite suffering drain bramage, I wouldn't think of bringing beer or wine or whiskey to the clinic if I want continued treatment as a retarded spouse of an IHS beneficiary.

You should see their faces light up. Me and bun stroll in with arm loads of chocolates, candies and sweets, and I'm the sexiest man in Alaska. I ain't kidding, its now expected that when I enter an establishment, "it's peanut butter jelly time." Even the mechanics at the Subaru shop get all happy shit, horny and sexually receptive. Okay, that's gross.

It ain't my job to feed and clothe these folks that I do business with. My job is merely bringing my money to their business, receive a service and settle up. Simple. Except, when I was working at my various vocations, I saw gaps and holes in peoples' days and routines. At the KPD and VPSO cop shop, I procured, illegally, dozens of jars of codeine from my good friend in Bellingham, Washington. He'd drive up to Vancouver, British Columbia and buy cases of 222's. They're aspirin or Tylenol mixed with a hefty dose of codeine and sold over the counter for common ailments, injuries and pains. All legal in Canada, but felonious in America and our colonial possession, Alaska.

I used to buy them for my younger brother who had migraine headaches and keep him stocked. I'd also keep them on hand for bun when her migraines hit, but they disappeared after she quit smoking. Fuck that was back in 1990. Wow. I also kept a stock on hand for when I had super awful hangovers from staying up for days selling blow and drinking too much. When I moved to Kotzebue, I saw a need in my coworkers for wife and child related aches and hangover pains just like mine. I'd brew gourmet coffee for the cops, hand out cigarettes and make sure everybody got sufficient numbers of 222's to remedy their accumulated and multi-layered hangovers.

Speaking of funny things that happened at Spit Nigruk. One day, years ago in Kotzebue, Eli Williams, his brother and that Malcolm dude (Astrid's husband) jumped me behind Hanson's on the way home. I was returning towards my house at #321 2nd ave. after dropping off a couple jugs of Bacardi 151 at Gilbert Schaeffer's (the gay one). As I walked around the back of the Yamaha shop, Eli and his brother jumped me and tried real hard to punch the shit outa me while Malcom just smoked and watched. I took some good hits, but was able to push, kick and stomp on the Williams red road turd squeezers. When I was done kicking and stomping, and those 2 Williams stinky niggers stayed down, I turned to Malcolm wheezing and asked him if he was next. He just shook his head, toked on his cigarette and said, "we cool." Another witness was a joker kid we called Spasner (Frank Hasner) and he arrived in time to see me kicking my downed opponents. Spasner stepped right in saying, "Fuck Karl. What did those guys ever do to you?" I just stormed up the trail to me and Higbitch's house, next to the old Trooper building.

Years later I was booking in Eli Williams into the Kotzebue Jail and he sure as shit remembered me. He was "jus junk" (just drunk) and looking to kick some ass, even in cuffs. He tried some Drunkpiaq high kicks and spitting, then put his head down and ran at me. I stepped aside and shoved him head first into the cement wall. My contribution was merely to steer him and help achieve ramming speed. His forehead, eyebrow and cheek tore like paper, but he didn't bleed much. At first. I reviewed the video surveillance tapes and the angle blocked my culpability and funny assistance in tearing this asshole a new face. I then left him locked up in the drunk tank until he stopped his fighting, so we could continue the prelim book-in.

Octuck came in for coffee, cigarettes and a handful of opium derivative 222's, then walked the jail inspecting the night's catch of drunk ass-piaq motherfuckers. When he saw Eli Williams, he exploded and assumed correctly that I beat him up. Well, sort of. Patrick reviewed the video and then contacted the next in command. After Wallace and Ward reviewed the tapes, interviewed me and Eli Williams, they concurred that it looked like I stepped out of his way, but shouldn't have let him run his numb skull into the cement wall of the booking room.

Eli wasn't helping his case much, he just yelled at the cops, kicked at the door and raised fucking hell when they tried to ask him what happened and if he needed medical assistance. Patrick had covered his butt, and the brass decided that Eli was major pissed off, way fuckered up and in no shape to be in the ER making a loud ruckus. We phoned Steve Troxell and he tried to treat Mr. Williams, who insisted on yelling, shoving and taking swings and kicks at the Trox. Nobody punches, spits and kicks the Trox, so he pulled the jail door closed and came into dispatch to join me and Octuck fer smokes, really good coffee and space music. I didn't offer him any opiate laced aspirins or Tylenols, he'd a-busted me fer sure. Then Eli started to piss and heave all over his jail cell, so we put him up on the big screen and jerked off.

Not. We just laughed, till the smell fucked us up. To survive the Kikikspit, I had to practice patience when I'm surrounded by puking and drunk Noatak unnuk butts in stinking clothing. To pay for the treatment of chronic alchohlism, we oughta sell tickets, like heave porn with midget nigger fight club seats. I could dress up tourists in dirty jail poop caked clothing and let them old white people sing, stagger and dance puking drunk and pretend to be natives. I might have a copy of Tilmer Black's jail surveillance video playing the human punching bag and wearing his own angry butt explosions and crap smears. We could dress up old white tourists in ungodly caked jail garb, then punch the shit outa them like brown-tard mud-fuckers. Speaking of a life support system for anal porn, where the fuck is Fernando Robles? I miss that asshole bootlegger and tiny cooter brown girl porker.

If I had a magic wand, I could fix everything. Good fucking luck. I've joked about a remedy for the devastation that alcohol has befell rural Alaska and our blessed native villages. When I first started my studies at Chukchi College, I was assigned a paper on the effectiveness of damp, dry or totally wet villages. The primary source for my paper was the Anchorage Daily News 6-part series called, "A People in Peril." The authors of this publication followed villages that went from wet to damp or wet to dry, then surveyed the VPSO's, Troopers, ER trauma surgeons and the Seach and Rescue callouts. All the data supported the decrease in domestic violence, child sexual assault and homicides.

One figure that didn't change was the astronomical levels of suicide. The dry, damp and wet status didn't play a noticeable role in suicide amongst native men. The criteria that affected native suicide was the lack of employment and wealth creation. The more traditional, cultural and subsistence driven villages were plagued with young native men killing themselves due to nearly non-existent economic opportunity to "make bank", "get paid" and "score some fucking cha-ching." A successful hunter was a rich man: 200 years ago. Any kid watching movies, TV or has access to the web will be sorely disappointed that bodacious babes and fine tasty pussy won't be thrilled with seal oil, whale muk, stink flipper, vagina-scented racks of fish or a yard caked with a team of dogs' poop.

The premise of my writing assignment wasn't to address or evaluate suicide levels so I left that topic untouched, but the decreases in overall crime rates were notable and statistically significant. A small part of the native community that the authors called chronic alcoholics continued their consumption of alcohol, but substituted their purchases from liquor stores, to bootleggers. By far, most of the populations in villages that reduced or eliminated the access to convenient liquor experienced substantially decreased drunkenness, public intoxication, CINA interventions (child in need of assistance), custodial safety referrals to battered woman's shelters and recidivist offending native men in custody. But, the chronic alcoholics continued drinking, even hairspray, mouthwash and Lysol household cleaners. Oh, and lots of Mashburn's really good home-brew.

The functioning alcoholics simply left town and migrated to Fairbanks, Anchorage and Kenai. Remember after the closure of all the bars and liquor stores in Kotzebue and NANA Region? Most of my friends pulled the pin, put in resignation papers and drifted away. My drinking pals like Brian Higman, Edith Honeycutt (Twiggy), Dan Newberry, Shirley O'Neil, Linda Kramer, Skeeter Jepson, Trudy Kenworthy, the Sidoris family, the Quinn family and a lot of social drinkers headed to Anchorage or Outside. You guys remember the families that moved to the Valley (Wasilla and Palmer), such as Ron and Peggy Brown, Jerry Covey, Jake Rogers and numerous others that found employment opportunities and wages insufficient outside of rural Alaska. A common tactic to maintain higher wages and benefits was to live in town and fly out to Red Dog on rotating shifts. To accommodate this migration out of rural Alaska, Red Dog flies all it's city resident employees to the mine site and port site for free.

Aside from my many years at UAF, Europe and Russia, I stayed in rural Alaska, but Barrow had a far greater battle with alcohol restriction. Native population in Barrow is less than 50% with whites, gooks, samoans and niggers pulling a cunt hair over half, thereby swaying the votes to keep a minimum of alcohol available: 12 bottles a month purchased from liquor stores down south. Another vote arose to go totally dry and alcoholic white supremacists calling themselves Barrow Patriots started suing the shit outa the efforts, so the City of Barrow dropped down to only 6 bottles a month. The rest of the North Slope, which included all the villages and all the oil fields, continued and reinforced a total ban on all alcohol. Similar to Red Dog providing free airfare to its work sites, all the oil field workers get free airfare from Anchorage at no charge, so does the rotating work crews working for the NS Borough and UIC.

At Stuakpuk (AC store) and gook shops in Barrow, I saw lots of colored folks buying a dangerous bleaching cream that lightens their skin making the wearer appear whiter. I thought this ludicrous. But I've been corrected in my dumb ass white trash understanding of being colored. A black girl named Kinshasa in my business classes at UAF was originally born in Central Africa, Congolese by descent and a naturalized American citizen after serving in the Army and pulling the GI Bill. She told me that the most popular make-up skin care product sold in the entire Central African Region was this fucking bleach cream that caused cancer and weird Michael Jackson blotches.

She laughed at me and told me that her whole life she wanted to marry a white man after she migrated to Europe or America. I blushed. I'm not always a caustic motherfucker, so I asked why. She looked at me with concern, then told me that women of Africa will even settle for "coffee brothers", meaning lighter black men. Her analogy was no upstanding black girl was gonna marry a "yard nigger" with all these fine white men crowding her marriage proposals and sexual fantasies. She called these marriages "hybrid hook-ups." I asked her what she thought of the white men in rural Alaska marrying native women and she glared at me and said, "Honey, you be stepping in the wrong direction." "You're supposed to marry up, then fool around and fuck down." Meaning scrawging and tossing brown poontang on the side. I sure fucked up. So did you nimrods.

Fuck it. I'll get back to my alcohol trades and barters on remote work sites. On my work jags in Dutch, Naknek and Cold Bay, I'd keep $20 dollar half-gallons of whiskey in my duffel bag and make sure my colored roommates took big gulps before or after work. I'd even hid these big whiskey torpedoes on the docks or in my 10-ton duelly flat bed truck I hauled frozen pallets of product with and pass a jug around between ocean going freighters we loaded with frozen crab.

My coworkers were usually black, mex, or nate, but were happy to take a toke break or chug offa jug. They also became good dudes to have around when the Filipino toughs wanted to mouth off and fight us niggers. This is way before breath-analyzers or drug testing and most of my bunk mates and coworkers were alcoholics, so on cigarette breaks, downing a large bottle of Beam, R&R or Canadian Mist amongst beat ass tired dock and factory workers was a welcome relief.

Plus I owed 'em. I learned that when a dude does you good, you do 'em better back. These old beat up men were more than generous with their weed and blow, so it weren't nothing to kick something back. You know, contrib nigger.

None of you coppers worked 16-hour night shifts on shitty jobs at fish and crab processing factories, but in the same way, we really needed friends we could count on. One of my dudes at Pan-Alaska Fisheries in Dutch Harbor was a big Indian I fondly called Chief. He looked just like that big motherfucker on Cookoo's Nest that suffocated Jack Nicholson with a pillow after the lobotomy, torqued that water fountain out of the floor and heaved it through the grated window. That was my buddy Chief, big fucking Indian. Real racist rez rat, but one of my best friends in Alaska at the time. Chief even tolerated the blacks and bikers as long as we shared cigarettes, bomber joints and my half-gallons of whiskey.

I sure looked for him on my return for crab season next year. I missed having him around, making shitty white trash and nigger jokes as we all laughed and smoked and drank. He oft repeated the joke that niggers were proof that Mexicans fucked the buffalo. I also missed him sticking up for me. I was an illiterate kid, alone and vastly outnumbered by older and meaner toughs and knife toting Filipino motherfuckers. We all stuck together, put in long hours on graveyard shift and took home our meager pay. To think any of those beat-to-shit buddies of mine are still alive is folly, but way back during the Carter Administration, as long as I begged, borrowed or stole a half gal, I was more than welcome to join this fish slime prison gang of older bikers, niggers, and one big Indian. Plus a white farm boy.

After 6 month work jags processing crab and salmon three years in a row, I swore I wasn't gonna do that back breaking manual labor ever again. I was gonna be a drug lord and get rich. Sure. After a shit storm of trouble with an overdose, a suicide and a break-in by a trio of bad African motherfuckers from the hood, it was getting clearer that the best I could do in life happened in Alaska, covered in guts, hauling garbage. When Brian Higman phoned me and told me there was work in Kotzebue slopping and sliming fish guts, I knew things were looking up. He was psyched about ICC, but didn't tell me about some weird fucking upcoming alcohol restriction vote.

I worked a whole summer in Kotzebue, made friends with a lot of the same type of beat-up alcoholics. We took frequent breaks while local fishermen offloaded their period's catch and boy was it good to pass a jug around, chief up mucho bowls of bud and pass around cigarettes. How I avoided an arrest warrant from Carl Schramm is beyond me. Higman insisted I work with him doing inventory on every piece of furniture and equipment in all the schools in the NANA region. He also made sure I got in the PERS system early on. Funny, he cashed his pension out, flew to Bemidgi, Minnesota and after a million fucking years, me and bun are still here in Alaska. I'm still "married down" but not "fucking up."

You all know my work for the NW Arctic School District, KIC and NANA, AC Lumber and Hardware (Tupik Lumber) and my work stints with KPD, VPSO, AST, the welfare desk and accountant at KBRW. At each of my hunnert places of employment, I easily seen opportunities to grease the wheels and chip in extra goodies when the need arose. Dennis Jennings and Glenn Lodge sure enjoyed gourmet coffee and Crown Royal as did the DJ's at KOTZ and KBRW when me and bun delivered music that didn't smell like vampire tea bags. Bleeding tampons you dumb asses.

The crew of drunks at Whitney Foods explained to me that the shitty music on KOTZ is all they got, bitching won't make anything better. Next time you throw shit at the radio because the menstruating announcers played whiny bitch tunes from chick flicks or dance music from shitty dances at Lyons Club, or awful disco from Pondu, round up a box of CD's from the British Invasion or southern white blues guitar artists and drop 'em by the radio station. Living with natives in rural Alaska doesn't have to suck all the time, all they need is big ass donations of music to play on the radio. You know, rock out with yer cock out and enjoy public broadcasts like a poor man's rock concert. You'll feel better, delay yer inevitable mental retardation and improve yer speech: "to da max dude" (Albert Monroe).

In essence, find what's needed or wanted, then produce it. When entire native communities teeter on the edge of a massive episode of PMS, phone all yer dudes and call for a meeting of the "mad woman's club." That's white man code talk for drinks and smokes at Brian Higbitch's, Pete Lambert's, Albert Monroes's, Wade Laws', David Burnor's cabin dump or Ray Blanchard's bar uptown. Leave the newly fanged brown women to their own devices like bubble baths and nuclear douches while all us swinging dicks book out to the Men's Bleeding Hut fer drinks and shit. The only places in the village, after Prohibition, you could sit down, smoke some bowls and down glasses of liquor.

From memory, and prior to 1988, the places in Kotzebue that working folks could go and confer, commiserate and drink beer was the Ponderosa (Pondu) across from AC. Another place that comes to mind was Stubby's located next to OTZ telephone. A coffee shop where you could buy bootleg liquor, cigarettes and coffee, toss coins in a juke box and keep a jug under yer coat to purify and boost the kick in yer mates coffees. It wasn't a bar, but it was a good place to get warmed up and imbibe fixer-upper liquor, caffeine and nicotine. Another beer joint was the In-Between with Rotman's on one side and Walker's liquor store on the other. The NANA hotel had a full service bar and restaurant and further down Front Street, the Top of the Whale was a popular two story drinking joint. The Whale later become the Bayside Restaurant, which burned to the ground last year, with the owner in it. No, I didn't kill him.

Between 1988 and decades later when the City of Kotzebue opened up their own liquor store, the only places we could gather fer beer, smokes and jokes was in private homes. Not the best places for wound-up cops and overworked assholes to relax, but we all had our favorite get together allowing us to re-join the human race.

Going postal won't do you or I any good. Besides, people get killed. I also insist on y'all planning and doing something nice for your community, instead of letting piss-offs build up and going fucking 420 Columbine: practice philanthropy. The popular 420 holiday arose from white supremacists celebrating Hitler's birthday: 4/20/89. Speaking white trash mental illness, I've got a couple stupid examples that should've been treated with a damn good party, smoke sesh, mushrooms, or lobotomy. Fuck it, LSD is a nice break from this inescapable structure of relationships, obligations and stress. When hatred and anger start to build up, don't do a Karl Ewing. That's simply retarded.

Way back in high school, I was getting a ration of crap from the other teams like the wrestlers and football players, to the point that I was dreaming of crippling them, even killing them. Me and my childhood pal, Pim were scheming shit like another pipe bomb or even shooting them, you know, just for fun. We'd already gotten in a ton of trouble back in junior high for trying to blow up the Meadowdale swim team by putting a pipe bomb in a locker with a really long slow fuse, timing our detonation to match their arrival at the YMCA for their turn-out after ours. The stupid thing exploded too soon and got us a visit to the police department and banishment from that pool and that swim team. Really risky venture for Team Hitler Youth.

So, the pipe bomb thing might lead the cops right to our front porch, so we needed another stunt. So us two mental midgets dreamed up a stunt: rope off all the main entrance and exit doors to the high school gymnasium during a wrestling match pep rally, then pull the fire alarm. My two other buddies, Jack Jorgenson and Stuart Frost were totally fucking game, so we stashed pre-cut sections of high dollar marine rope from Stu's father's sailboat upgrades in our gym bags and waited.

After the crowds were packed in the bleachers, we gave each other the nod and tied these rope sections through the handles on all the doors to the high school gymnasium. Stu and Jack booked to the parking lot, fired up their cars and rolled to their after-school jobs. Me and Pim walked slowly across campus with our gym bags, looked around for teachers, pulled the fire alarm and walked briskly to the pool for our regularly scheduled turn out.

The Enterprise Newspaper described the incident as an act of vandalism and suspected a rival school, detailing police pursuits and lines of investigation. Me, Pim, Jack and Stuart just kept mum and nursed ulcers like you've never suffered in yer fucking life. The morning home class announcements detailed progress and updates on rumors and information on the injuries and students still in hospital for broken bones and such. Our stunt went way past funny. Those poor kids climbed over each trying to escape. Yes, we're chuckling now, but don't try this at home.

We heard friends and classmates whisper shit to us and all of it was completely wrong. The idea of other schools and other teams seem to gain traction and stick, allowing a sort of tunnel vision in the wrong direction. Me, Pim, Jack and Stu merely agreed and passed on only the rumors that supported the drifting smoke of these turd piles of speculation.

It's funny, we've chatted in private about our stunt and despite the hundreds of panic-stricken kids and the rush toward locked doors, we still chuckle at the demise of our shit-ass classmates. 40 years after I graduated, I was nominated to be guest speaker at our class reunion and this gymnasium door roping stunt came up. The generally accepted rumors and explanations were commented upon, until guilt was pointed towards me and my asshole merry pranksters. Then the stupid pipe bomb in the locker chatter lit up the comments section of the Classmates.com web page, and then the 3 dead niggers, burnt and buried under an outhouse was tabled for discussion.

Years passing usually clear the fog of stupidity and gossip, and eventually my pals chatted outside the cone of silence, exposing me and my dudes. We were so busted, but 4 decades is a little late for paybacks. I wasn't contacted again. I'm guessing that for safety and security reasons, it's best not to have your best friends invited to a large gathering of your high school peers in one location. The possibilities were just too great. Dig me?

The opportunities to continue fucking up a culture of bullies with over-the-top score-settling stunts was too irresistible and the opportunity to bring harm to a large gathering of assholes and bitches would've been impossible to forego. The injuries we inflicted still traumatized these old farts and the Edmonds High School 40 year reunion failed to materialize, my classmates realized that we really fucking hated each other and time doesn't heal all wounds.

Tell you the truth, I was tempted to get in touch with Jack, Stuart, Pim, Jim, Dale and Dennis and plan another moron terrorist stunt. One notion was to park an empty Ryder truck nearby but spread a rumor it was filled with barrels of fertilizer soaked with diesel like Oklahoma City, or even the rumor of something as simple as dumping gallons of anti-freeze in punch bowls like all the dog bowls I poison here at the senior center. The possibilities are endless. What are they gonna do? Beat me with their canes and geriatric walkers? Suck my cunt-lipped goat ass.

We all can laugh when I glued Gumby's mailing address stickers on all those gay porn magazines and gay supply catalogs, scattered upstairs in the old squad room, but just thinking of committing more stupid stunts down in Washington started my stomach to churn. I was inflicting heartburn and stress on myself before I even sent a single email or phone call. PTSD from daycare sounds so fucking gay, but 1979 was a long time ago, so was 2019, and I was still in exile somewhere in Alaska, without internet nor cell phone. I gotta go to the fucking library to send you mongoloids my Hellblog Alaska postings. Google "Hellblog Alaska" and you'll see decades of postings in era specific language from 150 years ago and word usage circa Alaska 1888.

Good times. I'm pleased to report that you may someday read my name in the NANA Memorial. That section is more entertaining than the Sounder's Who Dunnit or Nome Nugget's police reports. Unless, I read a last name that's near and dear to me. Just today, I was reading the NANA Memorial and I examined a huge list of names I met and remembered. It struck me, and wet my eyes and nose, that one day in the future, I'll read my wife's name.

This'll bring tears to yer eyes, down yer cheeks and onto yer computer keyboard, but at that moment, I felt something fall. Something inside me. It ain't funny seeing old killers crying, so I won't be reading the last page of the NANA Hunter ever again.

Besides my wife, the only folks I'm connected to is a bunch of murderous cops that shoot back. I appreciate the latitude you gave me. You let me pull major crimes and misdemeanors involving guns, drugs and dead dogs, a gym full of terrified children and the ash-nigger remains of 3 Africans. Looking back, my problems ain't even close to the problems you guys shoulder, but all this time, you fuckers were exactly where you were supposed be: armed and on my 6.

After over 60 years of mayhem and mistreatment, the only person I'm hurting at this late stage of our lives, is the narc best known as Agent #N606. As tribute to you graying gunslingers, I promise that I'll continue renewing my membership with the human race and exercising my capacity to give. You murderous motherfuckers gotta keep an eye on me and keep me in line. I'm my own worst enemy.

Please, protect me from myself.

Karl.