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.