Worldwide, children are scary.

Top of the morning gents,

Little kids are pretty fucking scary. I've never told you, but I believe kids are prescient and extraordinarily observant. Of course, I'm excluding the majority Alaskan FAS retards and Manilaq monsters. I've seen infants and children that don't know us, turn around and say "Hi!" to me and bun. No shit, on our daily shopping missions, we've had little children spin about and stare at us, wave at us or just smile as we walk by. These infantile gestures of warmth are despite the fact me and bun conceal our murderous tendencies, cuz down here on the Old White Folks Klux Peninsula, we pitch children into bonfires.

For your information, when I look in the mirror, I see a sick fucker and murderous asshole. Bun, on the other hand is an obsolete carnivore and extinct species of native women whose father was born and buried amongst sealers and whalers, in the most violent and oldest inhabited town site in all of North America: Point Hope. A village in Alaska. Whereas myself, I don't hail from a cruel and primitive native village that's 15,000 fucking years old, but I do rape whole herds of livestock and little midget aborigines, and just for fun, killed all my pets. With my dick.

A while back, I was waiting in line at Safeway to purchase fruit, vegetables, fresh beef and yogurt, when a pair of little boys, sitting in the shopping cart facing me, in line in front of us, said hello and asked "Do you know our mom?" Now that's funny, cuz I might've fucked her pregnant, but not twice, I tend not to stick round long for a double-shot depth-charge, years apart, of recessive DNA sperm injections. I smiled, lied through my teeth and told these two little boys that yes indeed I knew their mom and that they've grown to be fine, handsome men. Those boys sure smiled.

The old lady escorting them was obviously their fucking grandma and scowled at me, so to piss her off, I persisted with my dialogue with these two kids. I intuited their mom was either a deceased junky, incarcerated prostitute or working woman of the sporting profession, so I stated that I've spent many years of my life living in shopping carts and that during my drinking years, I've awoken in shopping carts just like that one. Those boys smiled at me. I further stated that I miss my mom, but I too, have fun helping my Grandma Nunapichuk do the shopping. This quip caused the old man white trash bagging our groceries, to chuckle.

Further encouraged, I told these two boys that I used to look after my little brother when we were the same age as them. The older boy asked me if I still play with my little brother, which choked me up. I explained that we're old men now, don't see each other, and I haven't played with him in over 40 years. I told these little boys that I'm pretty sure he thinks about me often, but my younger brother didn't want to follow me all the way up to Alaska and didn't like me working with policemen and firemen.

When I said the word "firemen" they lit up, moving about like hyperactive hill-midget-'tardlets and asked if I ever drove a firetruck. I responded by telling them that I've ridden in an ambulance a hunnert times, and in the backseat of a police car too. One little boy asked why I was riding in an ambulance, so I told him of my getting shot through the leg in high school, a pit bull chomped my hand in the NANA Region and got a hunnert deep cuts arguing with a guy in jail. Their response was simply looking at me with really big eyes.

The old man bagging groceries, looking like a fellow convict, laughed at me and stated he'd gotten limousine service in the back of a patrol car more times than he wanted. The mean-ass, pinch-faced grandma concluded her purchase and started pushing her shopping cart with the two little boys and her groceries out of the checkout line and raced out to the parking lot.

I paid the cashier and hefted my bags of groceries heading towards our car. Out of nowhere, one of the little boys stepped around the rear of his grandma's minivan and hugged my legs. I set my bags down, knelt and gave the little guy a hug and told him he better get back in his car and be careful around parking lots cuz old people like me and his grandma are blind and can drive over little kids and smash them flat. The kid wasn't psyched to return to his mean grandma and brother and get belted in. So I held his hand and walked him around to the door and hefted him inside, whereupon the grandma spun around from the driver's seat and was startled to see me holding her missing passenger. I instructed the boys watch their feet and hands, put on their seat belts, then firmly shut the side-door of the van.

In another century and at another store, a little girl watched me and bun strolling past and loudly stated "I love her mom!" The girl's mother almost broke her neck spinning around to look at us, startled her pants shitty and said, "My word, she's never done that before!" I just smiled and explained children remember family ancestries thousands of generations back. We simply continued our shopping and from across the store we could hear that excited and loud little girl telling her mom that she sure like that nice old lady. She further asked, "Is she your grandma mom?" and that "She's my friend mom" and "We should go visit them, mom." Me and bun never thought ourselves to be old farts and way past crispiness, until we interact with kids.

At Walmart's a few years ago, I was strolling through the top-shelf coffee section looking for an interesting grind to purchase, when a kid sitting in a shopping cart nearby said, "Hey mister!" then pointed his finger at me like a gun and shot me twice. His mimicry of his gunshots was pretty accurate and damn cute, I like seeing kids with firearms. His mom scolded him and told him not to do that. I was touched so I eased my coat open, displayed a pair of side-draw holsters and told his mom that he's got the makings of a great gunfighter, soldier and policeman. I then told the little boy that he got the drop on me and I'd a been a goner in a quick-draw shootout with him. Kid just smiled and waved at me as his terrified parents hurried away. I still look at my reflection in windows to see if my concealed guns are visible. They're not. The little fucking kid got some kind of weird serial killer X-ray vision and is gonna be a great intelligence field agent. Or I'm paranoid. Nonetheless, I should've followed them home and kilt his ass.

On busy afternoons and the checkout lines are real long, I'll book over to the liquor store to make my purchases to save a little time. When I'm there, I'll often grab a cheap $8.00 bottle vodka for our maintenance dude at the senior center. Sometimes I'll grab an extra bottle for the receptionist at the chiropractor's office. The liquor store draws a select demography of customer: usually frosty old boozer men and women, just like us. I strike up conversations with the old men that still show a little remaining intelligence in their wrinkled faces and make my usual jokes about the last time I went on a drunk I awoke surrounded by 17 black kids and was tired of waking up behind the wheel doing 90. To conclude my old fart rant, I'll confide with my wrinkled rectum cohorts that I hope I can pass away peacefully and with a smile on my face like my drunken grandma, surrounded by a chorus of all her automobile passengers that died screaming and crying as she crash-parked under a fuel truck. Always brings a smile.

I'll sometimes embellish with comments that everyday I awake in a senior center, next to an old native woman, with a kickstand. Funny fucker ain't I? I was explaining that old gunslingers wear camo diapers and put flour in our back pockets so we can fart dust like grandma. One little boy laughed at me and said "Yer funny." I explained to this little boy that he should tell his grandpa that he loves him and go to the store with him every single day, cuz today might be his last. The little kid had a puzzled look on his face so I explained that old men die way too soon and old women simply leak and stink forever. I don't think I made any friends that day. Fuck it, the old man is already toast and that little kid will forever be sucking on his grandma's ugly mug and rasty fumes.

The best ploy with bright-eyed children I succeeded at, was when a little boy stared at me in fear like I was a wraith, ghost or apparition, so I smiled and said to him, "Captain Wallace! I knew you'd make it back!" If you want to ever see old women and moms shit stew, pull the reincarnation gag with their children and grandchildren. I've gone so far as to say to little babies, "Alex, I saw you die in prison!" "Looks like we both made it out." Yup, don't let me near your children. Oops, I mean yer grandchildren, yer kids are already half-niff mud-blimps.

After the year living in Nome, Alaska, we honored an invitation to stay at my buddy Mike's hostel in Anchorage: The Ingra House. Nice place and we stayed there an entire year. We could afford such expensive lodging because the ASRC Native Corporation was renting our duplex in Barrow. They offered us $2,000 a month for each apartment, so with $4K a month on top of our gray market monies and PERS pension direct deposits, we could afford to hotel and restaurant anywhere in Anchorage to our hearts' content. We also walked all over Fairview (Scareview) and the downtown visiting all the Anchorage native bars visiting all my in-laws. Namely the hunnert homeless NANA Natives that are pissing, shitting and sleeping under foot.

On one of our morning strolls, we saw a cute little native kid, maybe 5 years old, with a backpack and waiting for Gambell traffic to run him over. I immediately felt something was wrong, so I walked up to him and asked if we could walk with him and buy him a snack. He looked way up into my face, then bun's and said his name is Sugar Angelo and he's trying to find his mom. My internal klaxon alarms were blaring.

I took his hand on one side, with bun taking his other. We walked to the shitty Safeway on 13th and Gambell and bought him cans of soda pop, a big hoagy sandwich and candy bars. I grabbed a couple Gatorades for me and bun, plus a couple cans of high-proof beer tall-boys in case I was gonna be babysitting a lost child the entire day. We walked to the park behind Safeway that overlooks the incoming freeway (A street), sat on a bench in the sun and let our little Angelo dude scarf his sandwich down, then he sipped his Coke like it was fine cognac. Bun whispered that he was a village native cuz they drink their soda-pop like that.

We sat in the sun looking down on the rushing traffic heading in-town and chatted with Mr. Angelo where he came from and where his mom might be. He avoided the topic of his village, but told us his mom is real sick and has been in the hospital for a long time. He also stated that the place where he lives, the people are really loud. You'll have to bear with me, cuz I'm translating 5 year old native speak and this kid wasn't making sense, so we just sat in the sun, in that park above A street, talked and had ourselves a little kid picnic.

When asked where his mom was, he took his wrappers to the trash, came back to us and said we need to walk more. I suggested I take his backpack and on the way, I opened it and found new shoes, clean shirt, socks and little kid undies. This kid wasn't fucking around, this was patent trade craft and our little Sugar Angelo was fleeing with a solid go-bag. So I shouldered his ruck and we kept on walking across Anchorage following his directions to where he believed his mom was staying.

We made it past the Valley of the Moon Park and heard a truck slow down next to us and a black man yelled "Sugar! What are you doing?" He looked at us and we told him that he was taking us to see his mom, whereupon Mr. Black Man stated that she's in treatment and Mr. Sugar Angelo is in foster care and he slipped out early this morning. The time-line made sense to me, accounting for our long walk and picnic at the park overlooking the highway.

It also made more sense that Mr. Sugar Angelo stated that the people where he lives are real loud. This nigger was yelling, upset and told us he was in deep shit with the cops and OCS Foster Care Program after little Sugar Angelo's disappearance and hike across Anchorage with a tall Finn and an old native woman. Little Sugar Angelo obediently walked over to the truck and climbed in. He didn't show any concern like he was forcibly kidnapped. We said goodbye to that little native boy, and he put his hand on the window in a simple waive goodbye. When your grand kids go missing in Alaska, pray they're with Karl-n-bun having a picnic at the park.

When you treat kids with full-grown respect and beat the shit outa their parents, you scored friends fer life. I've had to push loud fuckered up Molly Richards outa our house on numerous occasions and drag drunken monkey Vern Richards outa the cop cars and into the KPD jail. About a million fucking times.

What's so cute, is that their daughters (Tina, Charlene and Vernessa) scream hello from blocks up Caribou street, and run as fast as they can straight into me and bun's arms for mile high pick-ups and hugs. Those girls never fail to give us wet slobber kisses on our cheeks and giggle with glee at our affections. These darling child's greetings lasted years and well into my ancient memory, here at the keyboard. Nup, I ain't so tough around kids.

Over the years, we've gotten to the point where those Richards girls were too big to pick up and hug, but we still share moments whenever possible. I'm guessing they're all grown up now and have kids of their own. I pray they keep their fucked up, stroke afflicted mom far away and on rare occasions, piss and shit on their fucking dad's grave. Out of nothing, and with your imagination, I just created funny images of native women squatting a loaf and pissing femmy on a soggy wet burial mound, up at Boot Hill, overlooking Kotzebue. I dare say that image will last another paragraph.

A hunnert years ago, I was frequently visited by Warren and Bunny Schaeffer's daughters (Helen and Tina, I think). They'd run across the street and knock on my door at 894-D, before my swing and graveyard shifts at KPD. I'd put out treats like bun's cookies or cinnamon roles, English Breakfast Tea and we'd snack as I prepped for work. They'd look at me like I was a fucking Martian as I badged, booted up and got into my clown outfit for duty. When I brushed my hair and beard, their eyes got real big. Real Siberians ain't go no oommiks. I let them hang round until I had to phone Dispatch for a unit to pick me up, and then gave them a pack of gum each, then sent them back home.

Warren once chuckled and told me that I was a trip. He always asked his daughters what we do during afternoon tea-time and his girls always repeat my scolding, "Girls, let's behave like ladies" and "Hold yer tea with only yer thumb and forefinger and stick you other 3 fingers outward, the English way." I smiled and told him that it'd be bad form if I didn't teach them to behave with proper Victorian Manners and speak the Queen's English. As a topper and complete his inquiry, his daughters exclaimed that never miss an opportunity to tell their parents that you love them. Warren sure smiled like a proud papa reciting his girls repetitive lessons they retained from their tea-times and manners grooming with such a murderous Finn of my sorts. Wow, looking back, I'm so Euro-trash.

Speaking of Euro-trash life experiences, I've had children startle me by reaching up and holding my hand. This happened in public in Helsinki, Finland while I was killing time at a mall called the Latzi-Palatzi (Glass Palace). I often purchased Galoises cigarettes there, sat at a cafe and downed a couple tall glasses of ale, enjoying French smokes and watching people. I almost jumped out of my skin when my hand was firmly grasped by a little micro-unit that I assumed was a woman's. It wasn't, it was a little blond haired boy. He'd sneaked quietly behind me and accosted me. With excellent 5-year old stealth.

I looked down at him and said hello and asked him what he was doing and could I help him. He asked me if I spoke Suomen (Finnish) and I responded by saying I was American. I dragged a chair over and he climbed up and took a seat. I hailed my waitress and requested she ask him what he would like and this kid asked for a Shandy, a mildly alcoholic orange soda drink. I shook my head and instead requested he have "Pie und Koffee." She smiled at me and fetched his order.

This kid had decent English, and asked me why I was "sitting alone and watching peoples walking about." I told him that I just got out of class at the Helsinki School of Economics and that I live, work and travel by myself, and these peoples keep me company. My tiny cafe guest explained his "name was Pietro, which means Peter in your languages and that I've lost me mum." Well duh, the kid was frightened and thought I could keep him company. I told him that I was honored to be his friend and that we'd wait and see if anybody came looking for him. So we sat, snacked and chatted.

To this day, I've no reason why he approached me and requested my company. We must've had a dozen snacks and drinks and I was getting pretty intoxicated on my beer and designer French cigarettes. At round 6pm, a patrolman came to our table and started jabbering away at me and my little dude dining companion. I hadn't the slightest notion what those two were discussing until my guest translated to me that it was time to depart and that his mum was at the police station awaiting his return. I'm thinking she was in a tizzy, stressed out beyond reason. Fuck, I'd be, kid coulda been a descendant of mine, blond hair and all.

The patrolman asked me in English how we became acquainted, so I explained I came here often for cigarettes and ale and this kid requested we share company, snacks and conversation. The cop smiled and told me that the "child was reported missing and an alert was posted nationwide on mobile." A mobile is Finnish-speak for cell phones and since I refused to carry any electronic devices, I'd missed the memo. I gave him my passport, he photographed it with his fancy "Mobile" and then asked where I stayed, and the address to the campus dorm building, which he scribbled down.

The last I saw of that kid was walking away with the uniformed officer. He pulled the cop back round to say goodbye, waived to me and then they both exited the mall, climbed into a patrol car and disappeared.

On my subsequent return to the Helsinki School of Economics a year later, I had a letter at the front reception desk. I assumed it was from my supervisors at SUPO (Finland's Special Undercover Police Organization) requesting a meeting with instructions for another narc job. It wasn't. It was from the Offices of the Swedish Embassy. A diplomat's wife was shopping and her son had wandered off. I refrained from thinking that's the reason we called diplomats "Dips." Only a rich arrogant wife loses a cute little blond haired boy like that.

The letter went on to explain that her son Pietro apologized for wandering off towards the toy section but was happy to have snacks with me. He described me as that "really nice man that looked sad and lonely", so he joined me at the cafe for beer and cigs. Or more accurately, "Pie und Koffee." The letter went further to explain that I was a hard man to locate and that my "employers back in the States" had been quite helpful in enplaning my vocation, current employment status and location. I was wondering who had the big fucking mouth and sure thought of you guys at KPD, AST or DEA. There was a phone number and email address on the Official Embassy letterhead for me to communicate with.

I didn't have a "Mobile Fon" so I kept the letter in my pocket and composed a polite email response on the terminal in the Helsinki School of Economics computer lab I worked. I gave a brief (clean, edited and bogus) background of my travels at the behest of UAF, the countries I travelled and the schools I visited promoting Alaska's International Exchange Student Program. In closing, I included my estimated stay in Finland, my upcoming trip back to St. Petersberg, Russia and my return date back to Alaska.

The follow-up email was cryptic and intentionally obscure, but it's meaning was clear: If you ever need a favor, just call. You boys know in my line of work, that's a chit. And a possible solution to future dilemmas facing me. Which quite literally was a get out of jail card. Amongst the Swedish Embassy Dips and the US Department of State, Madeline Allbright lifted heaven and Earth after my arrest and detention unlawfully for espionage. (That's Russian for being such a fucking dick publishing and presenting my thesis paper on Nordic Energy Policy). Her successor, Secretary of State Condoleeza Rice took and ran with the baton along with Nordic Team assists and put gears into motion facilitating my release. Nine months, three weeks and two days later, I set foot (broken foot) on non-Soviet soil. Albeit, prison thin and crutch-bound. What the fuck. Public service ain't fer pussies.

Back home in Fairbanks, at the Dr. Porter's computer, I spotted an email from Pietro Baumgartner wishing me well and God-Speed. Whatever that means, I interpreted it as a message that my detention wasn't overlooked by a little kid that enjoyed "Pie und Koffee" with my cigarettes and beer at a cafe in a neutral country that has a longer border with the former Soviet Union than any other country. An afternoon in the company of a small child enjoying snacks at a cafe was a small price to pay for a trip out of jail, to hospital and home.

Service is a funny thing. I followed yer advice about serving villages, towns, boroughs, states and countries, but providing daycare for lost children is way beyond the call of duty. No matter the worst of it, in the world of sacrifices, suffering and failure to heal, at our old age, actually means we ain't done shit. I'm also thinking our mission ain't complete.

I just finished an inspirational novel detailing a soldier's tale serving in World War II from 1942-1945. He was a fox-hole grunt infantryman that toted ammo, rifle, pistol, cigarettes and meal rations on his back and hiked a million fucking miles chasing Germans out of Europe. During winter, on frozen, broken legs and feet. I was traumatized by his testimonials of freezing near death in hastily dug holes in the ground, covered with gilly suit cover, camo tarps and brush. These soldiers were often the front line scouts and first offensive combatants lobbing grenades under tank tracks then shooting Germans that lept out.

As the Germans took position behind their immobile tanks, they scoped the woods, trees and ridge lines for US troops and took fire from our soldiers armed with M1 Carbines, just like the rifle I sold Lynn Johnson at Chukchi College. I fired that gun and wasn't impressed with it's wimpy pistol-sized cartridges shot outa it's medium length rifle barrel. Dispersed amongst the American soldiers, were tripod mounted 30 caliber machine guns with boxes of belt fed ammo requiring two soldiers to feed and fire. These two-man crews manning the machine guns were easy to spot. The disabled, yet deadly tanks, targeted our boys, swiveled towards them and destroyed them, raining equipment, juice and his buddy's body parts overhead.

The inspirational aspect of these tales was the hardships suffered from frostbite and starvation, friends lost to high explosives and the invisible wall of injurious guilt between fiances, wives and families back home. It's impossible to share the unspeakable horrors whilst in combat (or KPD duty) with your family back home explaining the crimes he'd witnessed, and crimes he'd committed.

As our troops pushed the Nazis back to Germany, these infantry troops came across a hunnert concentration camps recently abandoned by the SS leaving thousands of holocaust prisoners. These prisoners were liberated and provided care for in MASH Unit tent hospitals staffed by the American soldiers. The author conveyed irreparable grief as he detailed his duties separating the sick from the dying, and the thousands of corpses piled in rows a mile long like cord wood. I was taken aback and heartbroken reading descriptions of the horrid smells of so much decay, the sickly skeletal survivors and those that were already dead. The still breathing dead prisoners just didn't know it yet.

Our protagonist soldier and author witnessed weeping mothers cradling frozen dead children and children snuggling (and suckling) long deceased mothers. One little boy was weeping for his dead mom to wake up and look at him pointing out American soldiers whom arrived to save them. The author reached down to take the boy's hand, picked him up and was startled at how light this child was. He put the little boy up on his shoulders and gave him some chocolate while marching the prison perimeter surveying the putrid mud-slop enclosed within electric fences and barbed wire. The remaining NAZI personnel were simply shot on site with the little boy, at shoulder height, witnessed. He gasped and tightened his grip during these ad-hoc on the spot summary executions. Seeing yer captors machine gunned to bits should've been medicinal and curative. Alas, us old men can only wish, but God laughs.

A short time after he was hoisted up and given a ration of chocolate, the boy got to watch Gestapo motherfuckers get turned into smoked German sausage. Then the boy breathed out his last breath and relaxed his grip on the author's shoulders. Some time during his walk and talk and perimeter march, the little boy died. Returning to the medic tents, his last surviving foxhole buddy looked up at the little boy and started sobbing and weeping and gently took the author by the arm, walked him away from the MASH Units to assist him in lifting his newly deceased little friend to the ground.

Ya see, you boys ain't alone. The suffering of soldiers, cops, medics and dad's is universal. Keep yer powder dry and yer dick hard. Nothing a girl need understand. Nor comprehend.

That's why you also have hard hearts and shoulders. A masculine existential concept thousands years in duration and experiences that encompass a whole lot of agony.

Soldier on fuckers.

Nothing too extraordinary, I'm just scribbling man shit.

Karl.

Once upon a time at KPD. Make that thrice.

Top of the mornings gents,

Human relationships are perty fucking complicated. These complications include friendships with our best friends and workmates and reaching across the the gender divide: our many hundreds of romances and torrid love-affairs with babes, trophies, sex partners and wives. Some not ours. I've been lectured by Dr. Marilyn Grey that the quality, duration and health of these relationships is an indicator of our own mental health. Reviewing the friends we've kept over the decades and examining the sexual romances with our girlfriends, harlots, mistresses and remarried ex-girlfriends we've loved, we're screwed.

I've been chuckling to myself at how my best friends and coworkers fuck each other over, lie about it and years later pray nobody figures their shit out. At KPD dispatch, I'd sit and listen to the cops prattle on about how this cop was fucking this other cop's wife. You know, bacon bit gossip, tattle tales. One of my more irritable and long term shift partners, Tom Evans fancied himself a knowledgeable informant regarding extra-marital affairs amongst the cops and would confide in me who was porking whom. I was skeptical of his legitimacy and expertise because the thought of him on top of anybody, gittin' ready to come, is just too much.

In our desperate search to drink like we weren't loser natives, living and working in a dry retarded village, we built a network of booze and beer swaps that we returned payment in kind. Meaning bottles borrowed, bottles paid back. Simple. Since we lived in such a shitty village and we were occasionally out of booze, we were forced to drink like fucked up natives and purchase and consume bogus beer: non-alcoholic phony faux brewskies. Our only choices were O'Dool's, Kingsbury and Near Beer.

Working mostly graves and swings, the meals were already served to the inmates so we missed grabbing extras and leftovers. Meaning, we had to pack a lunch or if the police department was quiet, book home a grab sandwich or something our wives set aside. On graves, I'd usually bring something, but on rare occasions, I grab a ride from the cops or drive home and grab anything to eat that was quick, edible and digestible, then back to work. I preferred Brita water with my meal cuz we usually had too much coffee on duty, but sometimes, I'd chug down a homosexual brew. One of those NA (non-alcoholic) beers.

I'd told Tom Evans that AC store sold alcohol-free beer and that it was nice to enjoy a couple tall ones and on that day, I was gonna chug some NA gay beer on my lunch break. After roughly half my shift, I made a quick run home to house 420, chowed a sandwich, some vitamins and chugged a 3-pack of Near-Beer, psyching myself into thinking the beer foam might quench my thirst like real beer. Upon entering dispatch after lunch, Evans looked at me with a weird smug expression and asked to head next door to the old jail.

The following morning, I was called upstairs to Captain Wallace's office for a meeting. It appears Tom Evans filed a formal complaint that I was drinking on the job and returned to work after lunch stinking of beer. I stated to Wallace that I'd consumed non-alcoholic beer with my lunch break and that I'd informed Evans that my lunch break included a sober foamy drink like Near-Beer, O'Dooles or Kingsbury. Dirty trick huh. Wallace was aware of the zero-alcohol beer for sale at AC store but in lighthearted candor, questioned my wisdom to consume such awful beverages. He told me to watch my ass around my coworkers, cops are petty back-stabbing girls and get out of his office. I keep scores like that and knew I'd settle fat fuck Tom Evans hash someday, sure as shit, fer fuck sake.

Now, most of you KPD 'tard cunts are now long gone, dirt snoozing, gone to be with the worms, traded headboard for a headstone, so I can let you in on a few comic conspiracies between Roy Fields, David Craig and me. David was known to bring pastries or cakes made from home and eat them on shift, sometimes sharing them with his work mates. In trade for a Ruger 22 pistol he wanted to buy from me, we agreed on a partial payment of delicious pastries and minimal cash.

I made lots of deals like that with Mr. Craig, and even later in life, mailing a dozen rifles and pistols (at no charge) to him at his rest home in Shelton, Washington. We shipped case lots of muktuk from whaling in Barrow to David, and after Rachel passed away, I shipped him spare left-over guns and odd bastard calibers that I couldn't sell, in need of cleaning, simple repairs or finish work. Old cops and vets enjoy gunsmith handiwork in their idle time. Old men like David Craig ain't much different from us, cleaning and repairing guns kills the time while we wait for our shift-change patrol car pickup and DB transport to Boot Hill.

Before my graveyard shift at KPD, David called me at home to inform me that he'd brought a big homemade layer cake with lots of icing, frosting and decorations and he'd leave it in the work-storage room next to the book-in room. I thanked him and told him that I had cruel schemes for it. He chuckled and advised I keep him updated. I know what yer thinking. How did a saint of an Irish man become life-long friends with such a vicious and cruel white trash farm boy like me. Yup, I'm stumped too. Maybe being retarded like his adopted son Brian made me his surrogate mongoloid.

When I clocked in at midnight, I sneaked a peek at the diabetic creation and Mr. Craig had delivered a masterpiece. He'd pasted on a coating of frosting that could've passed as mud job Spackle work completed by Sheetrock Tom Peters and had an R-Factor rating for insulation of pert near a million. David created a visual masterpiece and dumped a whole bunch of candy decorations, sprinkles and red maraschino cherries like a slaughter house floor: pretty fucking dazzling and mouth-watering.

Now here's where I'm guilty of nearly killing a fellow jailer with toxic poisoning. I pulled up the many decorations one at a time and poured in a good measure of sugary cherry flavored Syrup of Ipecac. After lifting and replacing all of the decorations, I'd emptied my whole bottle of sickly sweet vomit-inducing syrup, then I replaced the cellophane covering and closed the door.

I settled in to my shift with Tom Evans, did inmate head count, locked up all the dorm doors and then turned off the TV out in the convict daycare day room. I did my usual 0-hundred hours radio check with the patrols out on the road, received Lima Charleys (loud and clear) with a few Foxtrot Uniforms (fuck you) and Bravo Foxtrots (butt fucker) just to let me feel loved and wanted by a bunch of miserably married cops, firemen and public works motherfuckers. I put on a pot of my normal boutique coffee, some space music and then pulled out a paper-back Le Carre or Ludlum spy novel and awaited service requests via phone, CB radio or OTA (over the air-UHF, VHF, FAA etc.) reports from boaters, hikers, campers and fisherman, plus our uniforms out and about. I also awaited for fat fuck Tom Evans to start snooping around and asking what we had to munch on.

At 0200 hours, I pulled my folder down and located messages from the Chief, Kathy Elam and my coworkers demanding I bring more hangover cure-all Codeine laced Tylenol/aspirin 222's, overpriced cigars and info on gun deals I had on my bulletin board. I feigned unfolding a paper notice and read aloud that David Craig had left me a treat but didn't leave any details. Tom Evans jumped up faster'n shit and started foraging in all the filing cabinets and cupboards looking for Mr. Craig's fat man snack. He came up empty, so Evans continued his calorie hunt and minutes later returned from the book-in room holding Dave's giant cake creation, opened, cut up and stuffing a quarter of the whole fucking thing in his mouth. Boy could eat messy.

I waited until the coffee brewed, poured cups for the two us and sat back watching Evans inhale the whole cake and listened for tectonic plates shifting inside fat man Tom's turd cutter and poop factory. It didn't take more than a few minutes for him to start burping and farting up the dispatch office with the most peculiar body cavity smells. Smoking cigarettes didn't mask his belches and fresh poop fumes and only served as shit-house aroma therapy, new age butt-fart mood elevator and sick-butt faggot air freshener. Working for KPD trains us to endure stinky shit, so I just left him to his gorging and coffee drinking, belching and farting while I answered a request for assistance from a pilot's radio broadcast of on an incoming med-flight.

A life-flight was on approach, 30 minutes out, wheels down at 0245 hours, which required me to notify the Fire Hall and advise them of the incoming aircraft. The Fire Hall received my phone call, noted the ETA info, time-stamp mark, wrote down the SR number, then relayed to me that they had a suicide attempt at Manilaq Medical Center awaiting transfer to the airport and jet-transport to ANMC. Trox at FTC asked if I could tone-out all on-call staffing crew for the service request and also phone MMC ER and advise them of arriving emergency personnel. With ambulance call-outs and airport transfers, ye gotta stay on-station to make follow-up phone calls to the hospital and airport or additional broadcasts to and from parties on the road and airport if reception is sketchy. Which is like, always.

The botched suicide and homegrown cosmetic restructuring attempt was poorly achieved by a Killigvuk dude from Pt. Hope and Madeline Stalker's nephew. He'd drank a shit load of nasty cleaning product and perfume liquor and home-brew, got pouty and madder'n a puny genital bitch (klivut), put a shotgun in his mouth and blew out half his face, teeth, cheek and lips. A real beaut. His attempt didn't kill him, but knocked him unconscious, then he descended into trauma shock. He'd attempted to kill his own ass up in Pt. Hope, the village clinic threw him like a sack o' potatoes on a single engine plane to Kotzebue, then further stabilizing treatment at MMC while awaiting jet service to Anchorage. I'd met the dude a few times, fucked up at bun's brother's house, (Kenny) at house 704. A typical Inupiaq haunted house that's seen dozens of overdoses, rapes, suicides and fatalities.

After a 30 minute dialogue on the air, phone and completing the service request paperwork and dispatch log, I looked up and noticed Tom was nowhere in sight. I scanned the cameras to see if he was in any of the drunk tanks scoring some free passed-out butt-pussy or the book-in room reading Gumby's hardcore gay porn, but none-such, dude was gondo. I didn't see him all night.

When Rachel Rodent Rectum and Mental Midget Midol showed for their daytime shifts at 0800, they'd asked where Tom Evans was, I shrugged and honestly stated I didn't know. Minutes later, Rodent phoned over from the kitchen asking (screaming) what the hell happened and who left such a big ass mess and horrible stink. Again, I played dumb, cuz I'm good at it.

Midol was directed to escort a crew of inmates down to the old jail with mops and buckets and a truckload of Pine-Sol brand Eskimo Martini Mix to clean up the god-awful mess Mr. Evans pitched from the hallway, across the old jail dorms to an ungodly toilet. My puke and shit forensic training told me his guts and butt only made it to the end of the hallway and proceeded to paint the walls and floor with Tommy Gun Evans hurl, heave and fat man butt-chuke.

The inmates had to mop an evidentiary mess 30 feet long and then were directed to wash all the laundry, towels, big ass uniform and soiled undies that'd been left in the mess. Rodent Rectum Rachel was pissed off and demanded I tell her who made such a mess, so I feebly suggested "maybe Werneke had an accident" but she got madder cuz I had no other info, played mute and clueless. Yup, you detectives ain't dumb: Evans booked over to the old jail and heaved his goodies for the 6 hours left on our shift.

Rachel the Rodent Rectum gagged up puny-man sperm and steamed out a rusty butt-cheese tampon, then in an angry fit of seething vaginal anger, went upstairs and reported the puke-shit picnic to Captain Wallace, who then phoned me and asked what the fuck was going on. I told Wallace that Evans disappeared during my Medi-Vac call-out and transpo coordination SR, must've gone home and wasn't seen since. Wallace phoned Tom and he explained he had the flu and wasn't feeling very good. I awaited resolution of the MIA (missing in action) fat fuck and also clocked in 2 hours of overtime watching Mental Midget Midol piss about attempting to sleuth the sick-butt-sick barf case with her 4 FAS brain cells, wide load ass and catcher's mitt pussy.

Old Tom Evans had taken the next few days off complaining of flu-like symptoms and enjoyed some time away from your author on drugs. On the next evening's graveyard shift, David Craig was scheduled to change his work schedule back to graves with me. On our first shift together and as soon as the coast was clear I confided with David what I'd done with his cake and what became of Evan's stomach and colonic content explosion. We laughed so hard we cried like 2 old women.

We repeated our laughing bouts after Dave, out loud in a faux newscaster's voice, re-read the event logs of the complaint/investigation reports by Rachel Rodent Rectum and Mental Midget Midol's entries in the dispatch log and on the computer. My eyes watered almost as much as David's as he tried to re-enact the comedy we'd conspired and executed. His only final declaration was that I do the same or worse to Gayle Ralston. Gayle made a point of intentionally rubbing David Craig wrong, so we planned an episode involving nuclear laxatives, dog turd fudge brownies or canine body parts and stew. Then diverting culpability to the other dumb cops.

Gayle Ralston enjoyed dogging Mr. Craig's church and religion. Ralston claimed there was only one real church, which he attended and all the other churches were bogus brain-washing cults. Ya see, Gayle was an old stool rube and a retarded revivalist from his Southern Redneck roots and stuck on stupid. His ridicule of David's church only resulted in his stern dismissal from dispatch and "don't forget yer dentures and cigarettes!" After he'd been sent back to the kitchen and search for dog body parts and turds, David would murmur that Ralston oughta cut out the middle man, dump his wife and move in with fat fuck Tom Evans for 2-man grab-ass and bob for apples and cheese. Paraphrasing, of course. I can't even attempt to speak like my buddy Mick Fuck Commander old man David Craig. God rest his soul.

Over the years, me and Craig were permanently scheduled together with Roy Fields overlapping weekends to handle the high traffic shifts. A good trio we made. Me, Dave and Roy paid keen attention and eavesdropped on the cops' bragging about dumb stunts they pulled on each other and the cops they cuckolded. The native cops derived great pleasure in goat fucking the native women married to us white uniforms. If they didn't do the fucking, they sure liked to repeat filthy tales about who did the fucking.

Zona Lie was no different. She'd sit with me on call-outs for female body cavity searches and fist-fuck genital scoop-outs, drink my good coffee and if I was alone, tell me about my wife boning Bish. Ya see, Zona liked to tease me with details how Bish and bun were having a secret affair and that I shouldn't be the odd man out. The implication was that she and I oughta get even with our cheating spouses and carry on our own high horsepower affair, leaving Gordon Ito tasting Scandinavian sperm and hear super deep birth canal echoes when he snacked my fresh micro-screamers sucking on her torn biscuit taint.

I'd asked bun why I heard from 2 broads (Zona Lie and Angela Haviland) that she was carrying on with Bish and bun chuckled and informed me that those same 2 broads were part of a Jewish 3-way and they were bed-hopping with Bish, not her. Bun worked for Bish for years and baby sat his kids, but she preferred tall Finns over short fat Jews. I'd like to take credit for giving Zona colorectal cancer with my over-and-under double barrel large caliber womb service, but it never happened. Plus, I follow the rule: Do no ass. Kotzebue is one of many weird ghettos we worked where the most confusing holiday of the year is Father's Day. Colored is, as colored does, nigger.

Another funny aspect of KPD employment was coping with the Animal Control Officers. I've told you how fun it was to tag along with Billy Byrd and watch him blast a truck full of dead dogs, smoke a doobie with me and split a jug at the dump, then set his day's kill on fire. "You white boys eat yer faggot ass hot dogs like yer eating little fucking weenies, but this is how us Vietnam Vet nigger-motherfuckers barbecue chink food." Ye can't make this shit up.

Prior to Byrd's tenure as dog blaster, burner, dog-butt arson and Asian cuisine fry cook, I had the pleasure of working with Alvin Werneke. Yeah, fuck me, he was a real headache. He'd always mess up shit in the office or hide dog turds in dispatch or leave dog body parts in the kitchen or jail, just to freak out the inmates and fuck with the jailers, cops and cooks.

I'd had enough, so I grabbed a sour fish from home, wrapped it in a plastic bag and brought it to my graveyard shift at KPD. On break, I told Craig and Roy that I was gonna go out back and feed the dogs kitchen scraps, whereupon Dave told me that we didn't have any impounded dogs. I winked at him and told him in my corny dork announcer's voice, "I'm gonna go get me some Eskimo canine poontang and I'd be right back." Roy and Craig looked concerned at me like I'd turned Kikik-Nigruk and became a dog fucker, then smiled and nodded.

I went out back of the old jail, grabbed my sour salmon, creeped into Werneke's dog catcher's van, climbed under the passenger seat, grabbed the seat springs, pulled down real hard and inserted the stinky fish between the springs and the seat and then eased the springs back up, locked up the van and went back to dispatch. Two hot summer days is all it took. I saw Werneke hosing out the van and then had to endure his bitching that his van stunk to high heavens after his last mish to the dump to get rid of a dozen dead rotting dogs he'd shot and left to ripen in the old Fire Hall out front, like Gumby did with the brand new Jail Explorer. I resisted talking to him, but laughed tearfully with David Craig and Roy Fields in Alvin's absence when I told them of my stunt.

Months later, Alvin discovered the location of the source of his watering eyes and upset stomach: a now rotten and desiccated fish. He asked Craig, Fields and I, who would do such a shitty thing like that. He then queried us which cop pulled this shit on him. David suggested Gayle Ralston and Roy Fields believed Dean Westlake was the culprit and my suggestion was officer Notti. We added that it's best not to tangle with any of those guys, it'll only make things worse, and it's best to just leave it alone. Right. Advice like that only motivated Werneke to increase his dog turds, dog parts and pranks to a whole new level: Alvin started pouring piss and kennel drippings in the squadroom coffee maker. Werneke continued his poop pranks and vandalism leaving dog turds in the weirdest places for Gayle Ralston to find in the kitchen cabinets, fridge and drawers.

For the entirety of his employment at KPD, Werneke cursed Westlake with dog feet, poop and other nasty deposits in places that pissed off Dean beyond his limits. Alvin was on a rampage that lasted all summer and fall and as an encore and capping his malicious achievements he started slashing the tires of the patrol cars and disconnecting their in-dash radios. Pranks never end and Gayle Ralston had to cope with an onslaught of random dried dog poop in his kitchen, Notti was cursed with mysterious poops and guts anywhere he left his gear and Westlake got dog turds hidden in the cop cars. Eventually, in dispatch, Werneke and Westlake got into a yelling match with Dean stating that he didn't put any fucking rotten fish in his fucking van. Me, Craig and Fields could barely keep the grins offa our faces. In any group of cops, ye can find a half dozen stooges to pit against each other, wind 'em up and bust a gut watching the show. Looking back, I regretted seeing Notti quit his job and go back home to pock-marked Indianville, Tyonek. He couldn't stand the bullshit. Namely my bullshit.

I was a victim of a silly prank when Joe phoned over from the kitchen and asked what kind of sandwich he could make me. I said I was open to anything they had in the old jail kitchen, which is usually ham and cheese. Joe had a smirk on his face and I feared he'd put one of Werneke's dog turds in my sandwich, whereupon Waller stated that there ain't any turds in my sandwich. When I bit into it, I was rewarded with too much hot sauce and a cup of salt. Funny guys, fuck me. Not.

Upon arriving on numerous shifts and finding all the patrol cars completely empty of gasoline, the Chief, pissed off and rightly so, ordered me to drive over to Public Works and fill up all the patrol cars during quiet times on my graveyard shifts. Craig and Fields always reminded me of this new duty near the 0400 hour mark of our shift. I booked out front and first drove over the Jail vehicle and filled it up, signed my initials, gallons pumped and department on the clipboard, then I drove over the Chief's rig and did a pit stop window clean, check motor oil and complete fill-up. Lastly, I drove over the on-duty cops' vehicle, gassed it up and drove back over to the station.

Months after the salt and hot sauce sandwich stunt and on a particularly dead graveyard shift, Joe was the only cop on duty, upstairs reading Gumby's gay porn mags. He'd locked himself in the bathroom for some quality time, so I went back in the storeroom aside book-in and grabbed a canister of pepper mace, returned to the Joe's patrol car and reached inside the idling vehicle, turned off the heater blower fan switch to zero, went back outside and sprayed the entire canister of pepper mace into the cowling vents where the windshield meets the hood. Then I booked back into dispatch and didn't say a peep about my scary stupid payback stunt.

Near the end of shift, the phone rang and it was Lorin Downing requesting pick-up for his day-shift. Oh fuck, this is gonna be a too-fer. Not answering the phone next door, Fields radioed Joe inside the bathroom and Gumby's hairy ass man-sex magazines so he could drive over to Lorin's for shift-change. I quickly started wrapping up my shift and packing my personal crap, while Fields and Craig did the same. I walked with David on the way home to the tin shack he rented from Hank Shimshatt and we just chatted end of day BS and Fields headed his own direction home. The pepper mace stunt was simply a dud and I put it out of my mind.

The next evening, Joe wanted a word with us in dispatch. He explained that when he'd gotten into the patrol car, the heat was off and the car was freezing cold. When he turned on the blower fan to warm up the car, he was blasted in the face with red powder which caused his eyes to explode, water painfully and blind him. He stated that if he had an emergency, it'd be bad news. We just looked at him dumbfounded. Craig speculated that it was antifreeze leaking into the heater core and Fields agreed. I just shrugged.

Joe wasn't buying our lines of BS, so he further informed us that Lorin gritted his teeth and cried like a bitch from the defroster pushing pepper mace into his eyes and had to tolerate stinging eyes for his entire shift. Joe went so far as to bait us and stated that he wasn't upset with the prank and that if the intended victim was Lorin Downing, he was cool with it. All 3 of us in dispatch just continued our dumb look of ignorance. Tell you the truth, I piggy-backed on Roy's and David's exclamation of completely lacking any knowledge. It's easy to look stupid, cuz we were.

Joe didn't buy it, but left when a fresh SR came in requesting emergency personnel pull apart 2 breeding Noorvik natives that were stuck together like ass-to-ass dogs fucking, drunk in public, on the viewing deck in front of the NANA hotel and bar. The tourists were taking pictures and the Arctic Sounder documented this rare event and planned to run a pictorial on ancient cultures and indigenous butt-fucking. (I can't remember the service request, so I made that last bit up). After Joe booked out to respond to the call-out and witness real brown people having real brown-hole sex, and maybe take notes, Roy and Dave smirked at me and asked if there was something I should tell them. I tried to hide my big shit-eating grin, took a deep breath, then just chuckled spastic and told them about Joe and Jeff bringing me the sandwich loaded with a cup of salt and a ton of hot sauce. When I gassed up all the cop cars I turned off the blower fan, sprayed an entire canister of pepper mace into the cowling air intake vents right in front of the windshield, then left the car idling to get colder'n shit for the last 4 hours of a very quiet shift last night.

Roy Fields and David Craig laughed convulsively and thought my response to the salt and hot sauce dumped sandwich was a very ingenious payback to Joe for being such a fucking half-breed pecker head. We laughed at our inside joke until Lorin phoned dispatch to give David and earful griping about an entire shift with red dust frying his beady little cocksucker eyes, while David, feigning seriousness, repeatedly denied any knowledge or involvement in his problems. He hung up and we laughed a lot more, until Joe buzzed the front door and wanted to give us a lecture on how pranks are a hazard to public safety. We nodded and agreed and denied knowledge of who or why his patrol car, after 24 hours, still burned the shit out of his eyes and the day-shift and swings were pissed off at Joe and thinking he was up to his regular pranks. Lorin and Eunice assumed it was one more stunt that Joe was always pulling on the other dill-rod piglets.

Again, we all just nodded and told him we'd keep our eyes open and our ears peeled. He left and Roy really laughed at the notion of Lorin, Eunice and Joe crying like diaper swaddled whiner bitches with paper mace diaper rash in their eyes. David re-kindled his chuckling and then recommended I clue him and Roy in when I'm pulling shit like that, he'd like to contribute and share additional devious measures toward the piglet bacon bits. After Roy's suggestion, we agreed to subtly suggest that Werneke was behind the stunt.

Dave phoned next door and suggested to Joe that Alvin was the likely culprit, had no proof, but the jail was missing a canister of pepper mace. Roy and David repeated these suspicions to Eunice and Lorin. The finger-pointing quickly became a 3-man circle jerk reach-around ass fuck. Roy and Dave were my native gossip and spy network, covered my shit and were the straight guys nobody assumed would enjoy my retarded chicanery. I sure miss those two guys.

I tried to tap into one network and did my best to eavesdrop on the down-low chatter amongst the native cops. Patrick would talk about who the other native cops were fucking, and even told me about dropping by his coworkers homes to chat about guns, boobs, cars and ongoing cases and catching cop-wives boning the wrong husband. He once popped in and knocked on the front door of a KPD copper, heard someone yell "Come in" and walked right on in. He saw some dude sitting in his coworker's sofa, in his underware holding a can of beer, kids playing video games in the back room and his coworkers wife's back to him cooking food in the kitchen.

The intruder dude in the underwear just laughed at Patrick and said, "Bad timing huh?" Patrick quickly reversed course and left the premises. Octuck looked truly upset telling me this cop's wife's blatant infidelity. I was stunned that the kids were home playing video games not caring one wit that momma porked strange men. I was a little worried that him telling me, made me an accomplice to some weird shit. We swore secrecy and agreed we'd never talk about the dude in the underwear, sitting in our coworker's sofa, drinking a beer, with the whole family around. Patrick died keeping this secret, so I oughta do the same. Looking back, the cuckolded cops are the last to find out their bitches were promiscuous goat fuckers. How long did we keep the secret that Ray Blanchard's wife was boning Shane Keller in the dispatch during graveyard shift in the old jail? My mouth tastes dirty just writing this shit.

Another promiscuous cop, John Erlich would strut around dispatch like a peacock, smugly rubbing my ignorance in my face which cop's wife's pussy he was defrosting and seasoning. For such a little twerp and uttuku cookoo, Erlich created the illusion that there ain't a woman, cop's wife nor canine in custody that could resist his studly charm and desires to breed. Ick. It seemed a game that these guys would insinuate that they were boning someone's wife, then not reveal who the offending parties were.

I need to confide in you for a long overdue consolation and my payback for Erlich's wrong wife scrawging. On numerous occasions, I've heard knocking on my dorm room door at UAF, only to be greeted by a young overly busty native lady in nothing but a t-shirt, shorts and nipples staring right into my eyes. I normally don't do cop's wives, but those boobs were so gigantic, the make-up and hair were intended just for me, so I sucked some breasts into maximum inflation. I named one giant boob Huslia, the other Hughes and her darling tiny little snatch Allakaket. After breathing life and growing a pair of huge boobs to maximum pressure and alertness, I then repeated a forked tongue and fanged Hoover treatment on some fine snatch resulting in seizures and convulsions.

Allowing for a poor girl best described as a life support system for a half ton o' boobs to catch her breath, I climbed aboard and within a few hunnert drain-cleaning plunges, pushed the bottom out of that fine little Athabaskan biscuit all the way up between some seriously large breasts. You know, some racist stereotypes are true, native women prefer taller men with bigger dicks.

As you can see, some work relationships travel long distance forcing me to harvest this fine busty cop's wife's tasty little cooter and her neglected over-sized mammalian devices. Some ladies we slept with repeatedly will remain in our memories for the rest of our lives. Just recalling these dorm room memories stirs something way back in time and way up front. Boy did I enjoy my years at UAF. I never thought that I'd be seduced by so many women so much younger than I, across so many international borders and from back home on Kikiktagruk Spit.

One game of tag team I was introduced to was phone tag. My dorm room phone would ring only once, leaving the room number from a girl's room number on my caller ID. I'd only had a vague idea of whom called me, but my memory recalled a extraordinarily pretty young girl who I was too terrified to act intelligently around. Seems she was tired of waiting for this older (35) man to initiate seduction, and just said "fuck it." Or more accurately, "fuck me." So I did. I brushed my teeth, brushed my hair and dashed a micro-spritz of cologne, then ventured upstairs to the girl's dorm floor and knock on the door that was displayed on my phone's caller ID. The door opened by a completely naked young girl, barely concealed in a totally dark room and I was pulled inside. Yup, pulled inside indeed.

Some girls insisted on protection, some preferred sincere nudity. Some girls only asked for their brains to be sucked out their pussy or fancied I only wanted to have my brains sucked out mine. Possessing a finely trimmed womb broom and flavor savor, I likely have left beard rashes on the finest parts of very young women, on numerous floors, in a half dozen dorm buildings, saving the more violent aspect of sexual intercourse for later in life, with a more handsome man at their wedding: withholding their honor and staying intact for another suitor. Eating ain't cheating. Meaning, I wasn't getting fucked, but I did some serious labial lip-lock, industrial shop-vac and cervical licking on many a young lady's love muscles, yet kept my Johnson bone-dry and stowed. When you get to my level of prostitution, you'll understand the sacrifices I've suffered. Some day.

I've served up a hunnert blow-jobs on young girls, staggered back down to the hallway to my dorm room with painful cramps. So, I showered and dressed and then took my backed up and knotted problems to visiting girls from Ukraine, Sweden or Russia who finished their international studies at 10:00 pm and occasionally fit me into their schedules and folders. Of sorts.

You clowns will never understand how a man's heart can be torn into thousand pieces. I've enjoyed the company of some of the world's most beautiful women, only to suffer horrible depression at the end of a semester knowing an unbelievably pretty girl wasn't coming back. Some girls were exchange students, some were completing their certifications or graduating and had jobs back home, outside of Alaska or outside of America. Despite my overlapping serial monogamy, I sure felt the absence of missing gorgeous intimate girlfriends and adorable lovers. A whole campus can feel like solitary confinement after seeing a pretty young lady climb in a taxi, wave back at me and drive away.

Life is already way too hard. Emails, letters and phone calls after the fact, only amplify a man's loneliness. I'm a firm believer in non-existent goodbyes. No airport kisses, no curbside hugs and promises and never, ever fool yourself you'll someday fly around the world to visit. Work, war and college relationships are absolutely situational and it's best to be far, far away when the girl that loved you sobs, weeps and cries out your name. Every one of you has someone that you still hear late night, a weeping girl's echoes crying your name. Yup, I got you guys pegged.

Decades have passed since we've seen our best friends from our hometowns and past places of employment. Photo albums are a snapshot of a long time ago and if we saw our dudes from way back in the day, you'll see elderly gentlemen that look nothing like yer buddies that you'd stick up for with yer life. I've had best hombres insist we could totally rock if I returned. When I did, the old neighborhoods and towns looked really fucking weird and way different.

More accurately, I believe I'm the same, but in truth, I'm way different now. It's the same with old girlfriends from a long, long time ago. Our hearts and minds still ache and miss them like they were still right here, right next to you, in the same room, the same bed and loving you with words that we'll never hear again. Absence makes the heart grow fonder, and it never goes away.

I've seen really pretty young ladies in days of recent and almost called their names. Only to remind myself that they've grown and changed, and so have we. The girls we see today are merely our minds playing tricks on us. We'd be embarrassed to approach these unworldly beautiful women, only to see up close and in person, they were the wrong girl and that we were still wishing with all our hearts that we could keep all of our old flames in our arms, beds and lives.

Truth be told, the more times you fall in love, the more miserable you'll be when your an old man, like me. When a war-time romance blossoms, or a college love affair lights up your life, the duration of your passion is dictated by events. Wars end, station assignments end and semesters end, yet your heart breaks upon your departure, never to suffer a break-up or betrayal or death of your loved one. We pack our suitcases and with a heavy heart, make scheduled flights on time and meet our appointments at our next destination. Catch a train, hop a bus or hail a cab.

Geographical, educational and occupational separations hurt like hell and the sting lasts only a few decades, but a full-blown break-up, divorce or death will hurt you all the way to your grave. In a perfect world, old loves are just the tears you've cried, your new love should be sleeping by your side. We know different. Humans are funny creatures.

Abbreviated love affairs and excellent friendships are hard to end. Handshakes, beers and funny jokes with your buddies, or hugs and kisses, and sharing beds with our past girlfriends are like really good books, only to be finished, closed and put back up on the shelf. Being human, we reach for another one. Don't.

One funeral is enough. If you've ever seen an old woman or an old man bury their spouse, watch close and pay attention. It will break you heart. I've seen elderly men lean over a coffin and rest their cheeks against their deceased wives and elderly women do the same. At our wives' funerals, we can kiss our wives, but to avoid mussing their makeup, we nuzzle cheeks and kiss air like European greetings.

When I was hospitalized after my release from jail, I'd try to walk the hallways and get my legs back under me, heal the broken bones in my feet and cartilaginous scarring in my knees and ankles. On my walks up and down the floors of the hospital, I peeked into rooms I passed and seen old men reading to their unconscious wives or vice-versa, in German. Some couples shared photos and talked quietly about their children, grandchildren and wrapping up important conversations about their ends of lives. It hit me hard when I walked past the following day and the hospital bed was empty. All us old men gotta get used to the idea of an empty bed. That notion oughta hit you the hardest.

Here at the senior center, I knock on doors and deliver fresh bread and a hunnert DVD movies. Mostly old westerns and war movies. On my visits, I'm struck by how my old dudes live alone. Walking round their apartments, I see a hunnert photos of wives, old girlfriends, workmates and army buddies: now long gone and dead or forgotten in time obscured by distance and under darkening waters of dementia.

The reason my tales working in Alaska sound so practiced, wrote and pat, is cuz I've rehearsed these stories to pals overseas, in and out of jail. You'd be surprised how time flies when I get to reciting events occupational, educational and romantic. Ya see, I've already put a lot of time into telling these same tales of my employment for police departments, drug enforcement agencies and outfits that I've disclosed freely, and under extreme duress. A cellmate of mine who passed away while in custody told me in broken English, "Karl, if you get out of here and see your friends again, tell them that a man who has many women loses his soul. A man who has many houses loses his mind." (A proverb from Chechnya).

I guess I'm trying tell you coppers, is we've already met our quota for dead best friends, workmates, cellmates and army buddies. Wives and girlfriends too.

And broken hearts.

Karl.

I smell mashed potatoes. Wait, make that raw uncooked potato. Duck!

Top of the morning gents,

When we were kids, we absolutely loved car chases in movies and TV. I really like Steve McQueen in Bullet and Roy Scheider in The 7-Ups. Stunts, shoot-outs and chases are a mainstay for us Boomers that were crapped out by ugly Depression era mommas. On TV, me and my brother Cully sure liked the reverse 180's and driving on 2 wheel stunts that James Garner performed in The Rockford Files. As as a matter of fact, the 1971 Pontiac Firebird Esprit is still to this day referred to as the 71 Rockford.

Little did I know was that many times our favorite movie stars were injured whilst performing these stunts and that the movie studios all but eliminated leading men from taking such stupid risks. To star in a big budget movie, all the cast members have to secure a performance bond, otherwise called a Surety Insurance Bond. The stars have to cover any absences, sick days or drug rehab days off-set and away from work. The movie studios have ongoing expenses that require some way to pay for idle staff, set crew and contractual fees. You overdose, your insurance covers ongoing expenses at the studios while you pamper yer faggot druggy ass in rehab. In the case of Richard Pryor, he was such a frequently hospitalized crack nigger addict he couldn't secure a performance bond and was removed as co-star next to Gene Wilder in Blazing Saddles.

If you crash a stoked up an automobile manufacturer sponsor provided car, your insurance pays for the repairs/replacement and yer busted limbs and teeth. James Bond only sits in a stage set Ferrari, Vin Diesel only reads his scripts inside a camera loaded Plymouth Barracuda or Dodge Charger, sitting perfectly still. Not one single leading man, lady or movie star ever gets to turn on the ignition and drive anywhere in these prop/stage automobile sets. The cars are too expensive, the camera crews and sound sets are too expensive and the actors can't afford to get a hang nail or scratch doing brodies, donuts, jumps and spectacular maneuvers we see in the finished product.

Roger Moore never drove a muscle car or race boat over jumps and none of the cast in Fast and Furious ever did more than let a fan blow their hair, make cool faces and read their lines while the animation techs created the appearance of these dildos driving such expensive props. The leading homos in the TV series Dukes of Hazard never performed the airborne stunts and killer chase scenes with inept backwards village cops. 150 mph, sure. That's such phony mucous. They're all sitting in a bogus stage set, going nowhere but deaf from the sound track, spinning the steering wheel like those coin-op kiddy rides in front of the grocery store. Imagine being called to step in and do the love scenes with Catherine Bach: that's us, the stunt cocks.

The drivers you see doing such spectacular deeds behind the wheel are professional stunt doubles that specialize in performing these feats. Find a stunt driver and paste on make-up, wigs and then let him put the risks of crashes and expensive damage on his own goddamned insurance. Both James Garner and Steve McQueen broke their legs making the Great Escape, and learned a valuable lesson: stunt driver doubles are cheap and replaceable.

The reason I'm thinking of dumb automobile stunts is that a few years ago, I remember telling you coppers we were following a stinky oil-burning junker pickup with loud shit-ass dogs barking in the back of the truck. We pulled alongside and bun whistled with her thumb and forefinger really loud and the dogs all jumped to our side of the truck. So bun whistled really loud again and called the dogs "Come on boys!" and one of the dogs jumped towards our car and got turned into red soup, shit and hair globs as Glenn Highway traffic smashed his guts like a Goodyear Tire Food Processor. The asshole in the oil-burning junker truck never knew he lost a mongrel mutt and kept rolling. Numerous cars next to us were busy on their phones calling 911 to report the canine blender dog shit shake and creamy crap smear a Glenn mile long, but not us. Bun just smiled and told me, "Punch it Appa."

Over this last summer, the back roads of Nikiski were getting upgrades and repairs which left rocks and debris all over the highway, forcing traffic to weave back and forth around dirt and pebbles like we were drunks. Similar to my upbringing, Nikiski has lots of shit-ass mud-farms inhabited by ugly motherfuckers. Just like me. On the side of the road I spied 3 "fugly" girls (fucking ugly) riding horses along the side of the road, galloping their oinker swine asses and bouncing their unsightly piggy tits. I accelerated to match the farm puke girls and steer the car toward a random scattering of round rocks roughly the size of golf balls or potatoes with diameters of 2-3 inches. I moved my Subaru's tire path to run over the sides of these rocks on one edge. Two rocks made loud "Boink!" sounds and I saw one stone shoot off the road and pick off a horse right on the rear flank and another rock peg an ugly white farm trash girl on the thigh. Score! The horse reared up and dumped the farm 'tard piggy sow off the rear and the fat girl I pegged in the blimpy leg was forced to ride her own waves of obesity and clumsily dismount, falling into the bushes and trees with the horses ghost riding minus fat chicks. Hillbilly mutts are fun to fuck with.

What you dildos don't comprehend is that I'm a product of my upbringing. I'm from Seattle where Road-Rage originated. If someone is driving DWO (driving while oriental) ye shoot out windows and pray ye put a third round-eye above their chinky slits. On my daily commutes to restore the Campus Apartments in the University District, I'd listen to a hard rock radio station located on the 100 position on the dial called "KISW, Seattle's Best Rock." On mornings, they broadcasted "the morning news for those of you on drugs" and overdubbed coughing, gurgling bong water and dopey stoner talk botching up the local and state news. I laugh at retarded stuff like that.

After all us Seattle drivers smoked fat chiefs, got chinked and baked like clams, KISW played "Electric Lunch at High Noon Ya'll" followed by Bozo the Clown music and with lots of clown chuckles announcing it was time for "Freeway Roulette." Seattle traffic was supposed to change lanes like spastics and drive like special needs bake-heads. Looking miles ahead, I saw hundreds of cars wander all over Interstate 5 causing rush hour traffic to slow down to a stoner's pace. Some drivers would roll down their windows and wave extra steering wheels in the air and then sweep across 3 lanes of traffic like they were stoners out of control. Even on our off-days, me, Marty, Cully and Eric would rally out on the freeway at this time everyday, just to smoke out, burn some boojey and fumigate our beaters. Fuck we'd laugh at the traffic around us. Those fried brain retards drove just like us.

My old 66 Dodge Dart was a super dependable rust-bucket. Me and Larson did a resto on the engine, new brakes and tires and since we lived in Rain City, we always sported high grade windshield wiper blades. In the backseat, I'd placed plywood and carpet over the rusted holes in the floor to quiet down the road noise and keep water from splashing in. Larson had 6 gallon-sized milk jugs filled with old used motor oil and wanted to take them to Meadowdale Beach to burn on our bonfires. On the way up North on I-5, we were piss-douched with a major rainstorm downpour. The rain was pounding the hell out of the roof of the car and my high-dollar wiper blades were earning their keep. Larson told me to pull in to the center lane on the Interstate, maintain speed, then started pulling the carpet and plywood off the floor of my old Dodge Dart. Marty looked back and asked, "What the fuck?" and Larson just grinned and stated we ain't partying at the beach in the pouring rain and proceeded to pour the milk jugs filled with old used motor oil down through the holes in the floor, right onto the freeway.

One jug at a time he poured this black shit through the holes in my floor onto the freeway in the pouring rain as I maintained 55 mile an hour. The oil spattered up in the air like speedboat or jet-ski rooster tails as traffic blasted through our mile long oil slick and sprayed this noxious slime on the windshields of thousands of cars behind me. I seen wipers flying like fucking crazy, only to smear a film of shit across the auto glass of slowing cars suffering zero visibility.

Traffic receded away from us and eventually we were the last car on the freeway pulling the red lantern and caboose. We never heard of any collisions, but it was fun to stop five lanes of traffic, have fun laughing spastic and recycle used motor oil in ways only Larson could think of. We smoked another bomber joint and snickered like funny fuckers all the way to the beer store, then drove back home to Lem's Mortuary. After we got a good fire going, we sat around the wood stove and chuckled buzzed. Only red neck motherfuckers know that motor oil and heavy rain blinds faggots like ammonia butt cream in the eyes.

Another Seattle neighborhood activity was something called "Egging." You all know how this works, ride around and pitch eggs at houses or cars, then throw rolls of toilet paper into their trees. I think these activities are past down since the 50's when white punks on dope had access to cars. On the mud farm we had chicken pens containing a hunnert chickens and an equal number of eggs every week. If Cully collected eggs and let them age until they were rotten and stinky, we'd have 2-3 coffee cans full of ammunition to throw at poor victims of random violence. Stuart, Pim, Cully and me would scavenge liquor and weed, then rally around North Seattle and look for opportunities to fuck shit up.

We'd be on the lookout for cars with open windows and pitch putrid rotten egg bombs aiming for the narrow open targets. Most of the time, we merely splashed a horrid stink-bomb on windshields, the windows and the sides of cars driving the opposite direction, but sometimes we'd score. On summer evenings lots of folks enjoyed driving around utilizing the poor man's air conditioner: open windows. As we sped around, driving drunk and smoked out, we'd occasionally pick off the driver's face with a rotten egg or blast one through the open rear window and see kids cover their faces from stink bomb high-impact injuries. Then the smell would likely kill them. Chemical warfare dudes. Fuck I'm funny.

One evening we were speeding around and Stuart was pitching foul nasty bombs out the side window at parked cars and cars coming out of the Driftwood Theater. He wound up and hurled a beautiful spiral right into the open window of a car that pulled directly behind us and started pursuit. They were pissed and were chucking bottles of beer at us as we weaved around traffic and tried to force them into a wreck.

Apparently the rotten egg blasted the driver in the chest and splashed guts on him and his bitch. Talk about a horrible date to remember: a beater car filled with cackling punks throwing perfectly aged sulfur stink bombs on you and your girlfriend. They chased us all over hell and we must have missed every cop in Edmonds, Lynnwood and Mountlake Terrace flying around exceeding speed limits, traction coefficients of friction with our tires and forcing our chase car up on the curbs and across front lawns. Despite picking this butt fucker off with many more rotten eggs, he kept coming.

Cully yelled at me that we should ditch him in the Indian Trails, a wooded area surrounding Catfish Pond with bike paths and hiking trails too narrow for automobiles. So I picked up speed and at the last minute yanked the wheel hard and almost took air barreling down a narrow dark dirt trail through the trees, we flew down to the bottom and I had to brake super hard to make the tight left turn at the bottom to avoid flying into the swamp. I killed the lights and floored it down the same bike path we all took to elementary school our entire lives. We could race this bitch blindfolded and with moron mongoloid muscle memory and a farm kid's sixth sense we avoided clipping trees, only turning on my headlights in time to sneak between steel posts at the far entrance of the woods and book.

The following day, we sneaked into the woods to see a wrecker pulling their car outa the swamp. That hard left turn was tighter'n a bitch and following hillbilly dopers into the pitch dark woods was retarded. First, take a rotten egg in the face and all over yer car, then drown yer date in a stagnant pond. That's the history behind the pond's name: Catfish Pond. His bitch gulped and choked on water and pond scum with her terrified vagina and screaming wide-open beaver, forever changing the smell of the fish. Way to go dildo, and I thought the rotten eggs smelt fucking terrible.

At the YMCA where we all swam away our misspent childhoods, we snagged fire extinguishers that you wrench off the top, fill them with any nasty liquid on Earth, then pressurize the canisters like an auto tire with an air hose at any gas station. We'd pour ammonia, old lady perfume and my dad's Avon butt-gas belch cologne, then connect a pressure hose and turn this fire extinguisher into a urban warfare spray-gun weapon. We filled and charged 3 of them and loaded into Stuart's Dodge Coronet with a 383 V-8, smoked some bowls, down bottles of liquor and beer, then went driving on a mission to spray stupid motherfuckers.

We'd try to be smart and spray a whole line of cars waiting for lights at intersections. In Seattle, you had 3 lanes: left turners, a straight through lane and right hand turners. We'd try to speed down the straight through lane and spray the entire lane of right hand turners and douche open windows and the faces of the drivers. Unbeknownst to us, we sprayed a trooper van filled with convicts en route from court to jail. The driver's window was rolled down and he took a piss load of stinging stink in the face and across the interior. The prison van driver tried to pull out and chase after us so we fucking booked. A van filled with prisoners ain't much trouble for Stuart's Dodge, so he punched it and flew around the block a few times emptying our perfume canisters, then headed to my place. I hopped out and pulled the fence aside so Stu could park his car in the backyard, then I pulled the fence back and we went inside.

One of the fuckers handcuffed in the court transport van recognized us, knew about our pranks statewide and ratted us out to the driver, who then reported our stunt to the local bacon bits. The Mountlake Terrace cops drove by a bunch of times awaiting our arrival, eventually parking down the road to watch for a carload of long hair rednecks, armed and dangerous, with fire extinguishers filled with stinky ammonia, old lady perfume and my dad's old fart butt-spray cologne. We weren't busted yet, but we were all stapled on Chief Don Beuler's Most Wanted List. He was obsessed with arresting us for a number of charges, namely being under the influence of mental retardation, parental inbreeding and fucking goats in the ass. The last part I made up.

One of Beuler's defective detectives approached Lem's crack house and knocked on the front door. I answered it, said hello and denied any knowledge of spraying dangerous and caustic chemicals in the face of a uniformed officer. I pointed to the cars in my driveway and told him they were the only cars registered in my name and he could compare the plates to the complaint he was servicing. He played coy and walked around my rusty shit cars: beater Dodge Dart and an old junker AMC Ambassador, scribbled the plate numbers, makes and models. Two super mature and dorky automobiles and not what he was looking for. He asked to open the car doors and look inside and pop the trunk. Nothing. Mr. bacon bits even sniffed the insides. I asked what kind of car and plate numbers he was looking for but he advised me that the officer was blinded by dangerous chemicals and couldn't see details and that the complaint was based on a prisoner who named me as the suspect. I shrugged and shook my head, then told him I was sorry I couldn't be of more assistance. I pressed further and asked who the prisoner was but Barney gomer piglet wouldn't reveal "his source." I'm still stumped who ratted me out. Hell, you know yer a loser when you have so many friends in jail, you can't narrow it down to just one.

Now remember, ye don't have to be behind the wheel to have fun on the freeway. Lem's Mortuary was on a hill above Interstate 5 and perfect to practice our golf swings. We'd tee off buckets of golf balls stolen from my grandfather's golf course and experiment with large woods or if we were skilled enough, we'd swing irons aiming for the highway. The balls would arc over the fence and trees, then bounce off the freeway pavement way below, occasionally striking a car. We must've played thousands of late night golf tourneys practicing our swings and perfecting our hook so our balls would pitch to the left and down into traffic. Never operate golfing equipment while impaired on alcohol or drugs. Or both.

We also constructed a funnel-ater. A large sturdy funnel with holes cut on opposite sides connected with 10 foot sections of surgical tubing: the same rubber tubing you get with Wrist Rocket Sling Shots, but a lot longer. I'd have two buddies stand a dozen feet apart holding the ends of the rubber tubing, put a potato in the funnel, back way up and let the potato fly like a really big sling shot. That fucker would soar a half mile or better and explode on anything it hit. Asphalt, cars and big rigs. We launched apples too, but potatoes went the farthest.

We even debated launching the neighbors' shitty cats, but we couldn't catch the little fuckers. If I could build one big enough, I'd launch dogs too. Maybe little children. That'd be a funny gut-buster. Launch a retard white micro-unit dullard kid a mile in the air and bounce his shit offa truck or passing car. Fuck 'em, eat traffic and leave a skid mark and crap smear longer'n dog shit burger on the Glenn Highway. On one mile high launch, we pegged a bearded biker with a high velocity potato. Fucker just slid along the roadside, scrubbing his fat ass off on the highway. That'll teach Mr. Harley Davidson Tough Guy not to eat hard uncooked French Fries and un-Baked Potatoes and drive at the same time. To date, whenever I see ugly hairy-assed bikers on the highway, I imagine an exploding potato blasting their craniums like an organic grenade and hydro-shock mashed raw potato bomb.

The Mountlake Terrace Newspaper headlines likely declared "Shitty Biker Volunteers For Organ Donor and Yard Sale. Death by Mr. Potato Head." Or, "McDonald's sued for serving uncooked food". Our supersonic potato exploded on his greasy skull like a spaghetti bomb, explosive diarrhea or JFK blowing a gasket all over the rear of the presidential limousine. Next time you see a nigger druggy racing around on a wheeler or sno-go without a helmet, just visualize Karl and stoner dudes packing his ear hole and blasting his brains out his eye holes with a potato moving faster'n hyper-sonic Hellfire missiles shot out of a Predator Drone. Okay, a potato shot out of a homemade funnel slingshot from way above. At Lem Mortuary and Crack House.

Years ago, when me and bun lived in Willow, we drove up to Talkeetna to visit a grower dude and score an elbow of weed. We had to wait in a long line of stalled traffic as emergency personnel cleared a doozy of a pile up. Yup, a whole shit pot of bikers were chopped up like stew meat and smashed like burger. A long line of fat old white bikers were aligned 40 strong in parade formation of greasy druggy puke Harley Davidsons in tribute of old fat white long haired shitty bikers. An old guy about our age was heading the opposite direction in a Nissan Sentra and the opposing parties were approaching each other at a combined collision speed of 130 miles per hour, then in a blink of an anus, stopped dead. Well, the vehicles stopped dead but the guts, poop, blood and eyeballs kept on flying airborne.

Once traffic was cleared to proceed past the burger zone, we drove by and seen a dozen mangled bikes, a long line of ambulances and wreckers plucking bent boomer tricycles and geezer 2 wheeler toys and loading them on a flatbed destined for the bone yard. The culprit vehicle was a simple little Jap-mobile: the Nissan Sentra. The old man driving Nissan had a fit of sneezing and his car veered across the center line and took out a stink pile of shit-ass bikers. That's it. A fit of sneezing. No crime, no drunk driving, no druggy driver, just an old man sneezing like a motherfucker and swatting ugly bikers off the highway like shoveling shit offa pit bull dog fighting floor. How cool is that?

Ya see, I've had my fill of stupid bikers. Ugly motherfuckers gave me and my buddies grief for doing such good business at Lem's Mortuary and Crack House. Seems the bikers didn't appreciate our entrepreneurship, marketing zeal and creativity avoiding the cops. We'd be visited by fat slob piggy shit bikers thinking they were gonna warn us to move our shop, insofar as to rat us out to the cops. When fat old bikers are outnumbered and out-gunned, they tend to stop the harassing house-calls. But it still warms the cockles of my heart to see and hear about bikers smearing guts across roadways like a bagel topping or sandwich spread.

During my tenure in Willow working the Mat-Su narc job, I was always putting up with shit-ass wanna-be bikers. Up at the Rick and Bonnie Carlson's we'd have to stomach drunk fucked up bikers pouring out meth on the counter tops and mirrors and it was my job to stage party photos with my new "buddies" and send copies to the Trooper office. I'd always have a camera on hand for these nimrod bikers to ham it up and pose in front of their drug piles and liquor bottles. Two particularly obnoxious scooter fuck ups were John Hyde and a stinky dill rod nicknamed Rat. I'd often refer to Rat as "Rat Fuck" or "Pus Rat" which rhymes with muskrat. John Hyde preferred to be called Raw Hyde, which made me think of the sand paper inmates discover when they fucked him up the ass.

Their hangout when bar-hopping was the Silver Fox, part way between Meadow Lakes and Nancy Lakes in Willow. Of course my bosses encouraged me to frequent the joint and partake in the festivities, insofar as covering my bar tab, but not the whole bar, just those 2 particular druggy fuck-head biker turds. Troopers Tyler, Bleicher and Bowman were out and about awaiting my signal that these boys were fucked up, armed with pistols, packing meth, cocaine, green bud and departing the saloon. Of course I bought them dozens of shots of Jack and pitchers of beer, smoked a shit load of weed and snarfed piles of blow. When the boys were making for the door, I phoned trooper dispatch, which notified my back-up crew to converge and wait for the inevitable brawl out front in the parking lot.

Raw Hyde and Rat Fuck said their asshole goodbyes, thanked me for the rounds and stumbled out into the parking lot on a mission to deliver some drugs up north of Willow. As they mounted up and started their Harleys, my team of cops surrounded them and attempted to arrest them for driving obviously drunk, but also for the guns and drugs they were packing. The records check Mat-Su Narcotics ran on them turned up multiple felony convictions and both currently on probation/parole. These greasy stinky niggers were sitting ducks and may have a good entrapment case if they didn't pull knives and pistols and start swinging. Tyler, Bleicher and Bowman had some tactical boys in the wings and when the fists and fur started flying, they made a grand entrance and delivered a million fucking blows, gallons of pepper mace, then a Tazer light show that lit up that stretch of the Parks Highway like a thunder and lightening storm. Do you smell smoking gonads and teeth?

These two motherfuckers never were prosecuted and all my happy family photos of their partying were never required at grand jury or petit. Raw Hyde and Rat Fuck thought they were gonna fight, cut and shoot their way outa their inevitable arrest, but my supervisors had a much different idea. The troopers took some punches and cuts, but the guns were stomped on the ground breaking the fingers and hands aiming them, yet these boys were tuned up mean and ugly and amped up on the booze I bought them and all the blow they hoovered down. The pepper mace was only a minor irritant, but the baton blows, shotgun butt impacts and Tazer shit fucked 'em up in a big way. You'd think my bosses would of just opened fire on these hostile Tangos, but the close combat and flying fur kept the 40 cals and 12 gauges holstered. It's PR-24 and ASP baton party time niggers.

John Hyde and Rat Fuck were both rushed to the Mat-Su Regional Hospital in cuffs with a million fucking cops and emergency vehicles as escorts. Me and bun waited for the fireworks and strobe lights to leave the premises, went out to our old Caddy and motored North back home: super drunk, stoned and wired up to beat shit. This work is stressful. We couldn't sleep till the next afternoon, and after we got notice from the head office that both these boys had expired handcuffed to their hospital beds: heart attacks and internal bleeding. What you just saw was a highly orchestrated assassination of two ugly motherfuckers and a good trashing of their motorcycles. My phone rang of the hook with my entire neighborhood and circle of druggy pals telling me updates on last night's events at the Silver Fox. Like I didn't already have a clue. It was righteous.

For you civil rights advocates, I believe you have a legitimate complaint on how this arrest and homicide was orchestrated. Yes, it was a pre-arranged hit on two full-fledged members of the Hell's Angels and yes I did pour gallons of booze down their throats, extinguishing a forest fire of green bud smoke and washing down cups of snorted powdered drugs. You may assume it was a lucky guess they'd pull weapons on the cops and you may assume the cops would exercise extreme measures to subdue these hairy asshole monsters. And it was a beaut. I got high-fives from my bosses and accolades from all my subsequent undercover employers for decades to follow. And I am completely happy with the outcome. I fucking hate old fat white biker trash and still I feel good with my small part of that op. I suspect you boys do too.

Now wipe that grin off yer face and let's get back to Lem's Mortuary. To keep inventories to a minimum, I had to switch from a store front cocaine operation to only picking up wholesale weights, packaging the shit up, then making deliveries to preferred addresses like Door Dash or Grub Hub. My customers totally dug that shit. No more visits to a house of ill-repute, plus I always layed out piles to snarf as we did our business. That always gets folks psyched. I'd sit, chat, do comped lines, down a beer or two, then glance at my watch and head off through the boonies and back roads to meet my delivery route schedule. After my route was completed, I'd only have scraps and extras to share with my house mates and beer guards. The preferred party at my house was maximal alcohol and marijuana, minimal speed, meth or cocaine.

Back to our potato and golf assassinations on I-5 just below Lem's, the Warren Commission will release the Zapruder film footage of us blasting sick Washington fuckers with golf balls, apples and potatoes 20 years after our deaths. Shit, most of my dudes were dead and long gone mere months after these dumb ass stunts. Fuck it, us few remaining KPD 'tard cunts ain't long of this world, lets have a party at the Chief's and shoot lethal projectiles at passing cars on the Parks Highway. The kids will love it and we can load and shoot the neighborhood pets with our homemade funnel-ater through open windows of assholes speeding by heading to Willow or Shitbanks. What the fuck, we're gittin' drunk in the Valley o' Trash. After launching apples, potatoes, cats and puppies into Parks traffic speeding by, we could have a drunken orgy, but if the only bitches there are our wives, let's drop that notion: that's gross. I oughta grow up. When I'm like 90 or some shit. Fuck us.

Here's a weird story you'll dig. A truck loaded with lumber was involved in a rear-end collision at a stop light north of us here on the Sterling Highway. The lumber never slowed down and speared all the cars in front, killing a shit load of dummies. It's funny how 60 miles per hour feels nice and mellow to a dip shit, until your vehicle is abruptly stopped. Then everything in your car kills even more motherfuckers. On the Seward Highway, just South of Girdwood we seen a hellish head-on collision with a shit load of blood and guts all over the fronts of both cars. Both cars had dogs in the backseat and upon impact, the dogs killed the drivers and passengers in both cars. Everybody had their seat belts on but the dogs kept going 70 mph and collided in a fraction of a second at a combined impact velocity of 140. Fuck, that's some fucked up dog shit all over yer ass and made identification of the vehicle occupants nearly impossible. DBDS. Death by dog shit.

I recall an accident back in the 90's when Frankie Evak was driving drunk and speeding with Nush and Octuck passed out like stink monkeys sprawled all over the car. She was approaching Fairbanks at high speed and crashed into stalled traffic, awaiting rescue personnel to clear another accident 20 cars ahead.

Their car piled up and crushed numerous vehicles into tin accordions as they sped directly into a virtual parking lot on the Chena Pump Road. Frankie, Nush and Patrick weren't wearing seat belts yet survived with only major injuries, covered in garbage, beer bottles, cigarette butts and puke. It's a miracle Patrick, Frankie and Nush didn't end up on the hood or all over the parked cars they blasted into. Mrs. Evak fucked up dozens of cars she rear-ended, driving while blind at over 80 mph for Team Bacardi and exploding into a stand-still pack of idling cars. With her eyes closed.

Again, nobody fucking died. God looks after drunks and derelicts. Frankie Evak was cited for felony DWI (driving while Inupiaq) and numerous misdemeanors such as seat belt violations, waking up behind the wheel doing 90 and generally behaving like a drunk ass bitch.

Crash scene analysis found zero trace of rotten eggs, golf balls, apples nor potatoes. And no dead dogs, nor dog poop. Except one unsolved mystery: a side window was shot out. Don't blame Nush. He never.

Eskimo drivers, no survivors.

Well, okay, three.

Karl.