Religion mixed with Politics Equals Pipebombs.

Top of the morning gents,

Have you ever had a dream so wonderful, you resist waking, even if a piss was yelling at ye? On my rotating duties on various police and narc jobs, it was occasionally my responsibility to wake up a little native girl for school, catch a cab to the airport, catching her dozens of flights to Seattle for school and orthodontia, or simply to walk with me way out back towards Ivik to go shooting. One common request from our little girl was I let her sleep a few minutes longer so she could finish her dream. I do the same. That is, if it's a fine and dandy dream involving really pretty girls. Life doesn't always give us nighttime harems though, some nights we get a room filled with buddies from 50 years ago, or a squad room filled with cops. Some living we've earned.

I must confess, I've been talking with dead friends of ours. Last night was no exception. I suffer shitty nightmares and some nights I awake hearing the phone ringing. When I walk out the bedroom to the table where I put the phone every night, I'll discover that there were never any calls. If I'm really sleepy and can't wake up, I'll dream of walking to the phone and answering it and having chats with some of our graveyard shift long distance coffin tenants. Some calls are so clear, they sound local. You know, like right next door. Yup, I'm fucked.

The callers are always the same, dead friends from Washington State, the old crew of neighbors at the senior center and phone calls from you guys, coppers long deceased still needing to bullshit with me. It's okay, I got nothing but time and I'm good for shitty humor and a long bullshit sesh. Some pals phone from my old crack house or from the book-in room inside KPD. But no matter where you drift to after you fall asleep or die, we can always count on finding someone typing reports or cleaning their guns, discussing crimes and suspects, and waiting for our arrival and input.

Due to shitty Internet connectivity out yonder, some of my callers miss my morning emails and insist I include important components of our late night discussions into the next day's cop-talk scribbling. Some pals add tearful good cheer or sorrowful confessions to y'all. In turn, I've sent them heartfelt accolades and fond farewells from you guys, the still living coppers. As a brain damaged medium, it's my job to smoke and joke with our uniformed dudes un-dead, enjoying close proximity to, and terribly afraid of departing all of us. Like us, they miss having coffee and cigarettes in the squad room or dispatch.

Spit the mud out yer mouth and clean the shit out yer ears, cuz most folks don't hear or see dead policemen, but I do. You fuckers can take a few minutes to read messages from breathless stilled teammates that miss you and are real fucking afraid of leaving us terrestrial Alaskan bacon bits behind. Another detail I need to include in this weekly collage of thoughts and foul language I puke out on paper, is last night I awoke to knocking at the front door. I opened the door and was greeted by Richard, my Vietnam Vet Marine buddy, Patrick Octuck, Grant Hildreth, Pim Vanden Ende from Seattle and a couple cellmates from narc jobs overseas. Richard had his bullet pressing equipment, Pim had boxes of guns, black powder and gun powder, and all of 'em wanted to bullshit, drink some beers and watch me assemble pipe bombs. I'm that go-to kind of guy. If I'm talking, fixing guns over coffee, making IED's over beers late at night or writing fond memories of my work histories with you, you're already dead.

From the boxes of gun parts, I grabbed some 6-inch pieces of pipe (2-inch diameter), already threaded at the ends, then grabbed some end caps to screw on. With a drill press I put holes in the sides of the pipe to insert fuse, then started mixing a nice slow burning combination of propellants. Meaning explosives. I mixed black powder, gun powder and match heads, one-third each, screwed caps on one end of my pipes, then poured the mixture in. Richard checked for clean threads, then screwed on the end caps. Clean threads prevent sparks from igniting our shit and blowing the windows outa my apartment.

Fiddling with explosives runs in my family. And so does grievous injury. Over a hundred years ago, my grandpa August and his brother broke into German ammo storage sheds in rural Estonia during World War One and stole really cool shit. They were collecting and assembling materials to make homemade explosives to blow shit up. After watching German soldiers execute everyone's fathers, making bombs became a therapeutic hobby. While taking apart German munitions and ordinance, there was a mishap and my grandpa's brother (great-uncle Karl) blew off most of one hand and all of one eye.

As an infant, I was told bedtime stories of gramps and his little brother blowing shit up and the first bomb makers I met were in my own family, missing an eye and fingers. It's tragic and saddening to see little boys getting hurt playing with mil-spec toys, and subsequent generations pulling same stupid shit. Fuck dudes, I'm in my 60's and just realized I'm likely a moron and part of a larger pattern. Me and little brother Cully sure could've used an outlet for our creativity and violent anger. I'm also thinking counseling for the generational trauma we fucking inherited. Nup, we settled for drug abuse, alcoholism and inflicting lots of pain, mayhem and terror all over Washington. In later years, Alaska.

To finish our killer fireworks last night, I had Pim cut foot-long sections of water-proof fuse, then he inserted one piece into the holes I drilled in the center of my pipes. For a waterproof seal, Pim dripped melted wax over the fuse holes. These babies are spectacular when tossed in the water, under boats. Only a few inches of fuse is needed to be inserted, just enough to ignite my fixings and detonate our homemade DuPont Fishing Lures. Underwater blasting raises bloated dead bodies and is easier than fishing. Patrick theorized we could use explosives to float seals in Kotzebue Sound. Good idea, huh?

As me and Pim completed our man-sized fireworks, Hildreth was whiny cuz I wouldn't let him light a cigarette, but was content to kick back in his chair and enjoy his first delicious cold beer since he passed away. Patrick chuckled and stated he was sure happy to visit. "Damn Karl, it sure is good to see you. We don't get out much." "Will bun get mad at us for sneaking out of the bone yard and showing up so late?" I told him that Bun was in the back room working on projects and missed visiting him in Fairbanks and Nome. My guests suffered incurable alcoholism, and like me, my pals were enrolled in treatment, recovery and rehab programs numerous times and went barking mad during brief periods of sobriety before their deaths. Heavy drinkers from beyond the grave always laugh at my well-worn joke, "The difference between drunks and alcoholics, is drunks don't gotta go to all them fucking meetings."

Back to my hobby sleep-bombing. The reason I mix three parts match heads, black and gun powder is for a controlled (slower) burn rate. If we use only one type of powder and skip the match heads, we have too rapid a burn rate and the caps simple blast off with little noise and force. Besides, our ingredients can be found in any kitchen, shop or garage. Semtex and C-4 plastic explosives are completely out of the question. Commercially manufactured bomb shit isn't needed in the recipe I follow from my Anarchists Cookbook. Additionally, military and commercial explosives are real tricky to obtain and stupid to use. All explosives worldwide are registered and tagged, meaning the burnt residue points a finger at the manufacturer and they in turn, are legally required to rat yer ass out.

Unless you can kype some toys from the National Guard Armory in Kotzebue, we're limited to over the counter black powder and gun powder. The match heads, fuse and pieces of pipe are a no-brainer. The Boston Marathon Bombers packed old cookware with ball bearings and black powder, and presto, pressure cooker bombs. No bread crumbs, no paper trails, no ATF and no Farting Bloated Idiots (FBI) investigating the investigation.

At my last Bombers Anonymous meeting, we discussed using propane canisters works too, but that'd make us no different than far-right religious Branch Davidians (David Koresh child gomers), retarded white separatist (Ruby Ridge extremists) and sick hillbilly butt fuckers like Stewart Rhodes (Oath Keepers). In other words, playing with explosives can be fun and healthy, but let's not become ass-wipes like Timothy McVeigh. Fucker filled 6 barrels with fertilizer and diesel mash and pert near leveled a federal building. Dumb ass should've stayed inside his Ryder Rental Van when he pulled the trigger. What a fucking dildo. If he drove his van-bomb to Waco, Texas instead of Oklahoma City, I would've cheered.

If yer gonna go out like us white trash Christian suicide bombers in a blaze of glory, you might as well load yer truck or van with oil drums and fuel barrels filled with common household fertilizer, soak the contents with diesel fuel, then sink yer pipe bombs into the mash to act as large blasting caps. Mind you, only one of yer Kotzebue stove oil barrels full of diesel soggy fertilizer inside yer truck or van has to detonate, cuz all the others drums will explode from the shock wave impact from yer initial (primary) barrel blast. Another solution to malfunctioning fuses and blasting caps, would be to hire my little Eskimo girl to take a sniper position way up in the towers near North Tent City and put bullets through yer van and into yer barrels full of diesel/fertilizer mush, that'll light yer shit up too.

If you aren't a Church of God lunatic or Baptist religious faggot, and don't want to vaporize yer poop like a brown Root Beer Slurpee all over the 7-Eleven parking lot, I recommend you insert a really long fuse on yer pipe bomb/blasting cap trigger, or yer gonna become part of an abstract art display with yer teeth, gonads and shit burnt and sprayed miles in the air, landing in heaps way over at Camp Nuvruk. Don't forget, according to my dog-eared copy of the Turner Diaries, it's not the rapidly expanding gasses that kill de-wormed January 6 Insurrectionists, it's the accelerating shrapnel created from truck and van parts and shredded stove oil drums. Fuck it, stuff these explosives up a Proud Boys' ass at the next Trump Rally, and run. Plug yer nose too, cuz after the crowd explodes, it's gonna smell like an Anvil Mountain Correctional Center jail cell after two men fucked.

When I was a kid, we pushed a pipe-bomb deep into the crotch of a tree, then lit the fuse and stepped behind a larger tree for cover. The explosion was deafening and the tree split and crashed to the ground all over us. Fucking branches beat the shit of me, Pim, Stuart and Cully. Talk about taking a serious dick spanking on the top of our heads. If we were jihadi goat fuckers we'd dunk our bombs in epoxy glue, then coat them with ball bearings, nails and screws, tire balancing weights or kype fishing weights out of my tackle box.

The glued on particulate (shrapnel) helps when ye gotta blow up a car. Place the fucker under the gas tank and the punctured holes and flame blast creates secondary detonations and greatly increases the effectiveness in eliminating yer targets: dismembered tango motherfuckers inside the car. Don't forget yer Irish and American Civil War history, in religious/political conflicts we get to shoot and blow up civilians, including women and children, not just uniformed militia stooges. Fun, fun.

If yer brave, toss one underneath a KPD patrol car and fuck, those bad ass jihadi epoxy cluster bombs will lift the vehicle and the uniforms on board will sure as shit fly airborne with their asses on fire. In pieces. Even heavy cigarette smoking cops suffering emphysema will finally enjoy really clear sinuses. What the hell, killing a few stupid KPD wife-beating coworkers with explosives might've saved them from dying of alcoholism, brain plaque Alzheimer's, getting beat to death by their son or leaving Rodent Rectum Rachel to chew on a hardwood door Knob-Litch like a beaver shredding wood. Dig me?

Drilling the fuse hole in the middle of the pipe (instead of the end caps) weakens the strength of the pipe insuring good fracturing. On our first experiments, we drilled the fuse holes into the end caps, but that yielded a metal rocket that would shoot miles in the air and leave a cool smoke trail, but no boom. We've even had a metal rocket scream past our heads and nearly decapitate us. In some of my dreams and memories of sleep-bombing, we've had some explosions that were so loud that after removing our hands from our ears, our chests and lungs felt pressed. We'd hear echoes from all over the county and taste smoke for hours. I can't discern the difference between lucid dreams and day-mares, but when I leap, duck or dodge my toy explosives, I jerk myself awake and return my focus back to my driving.

To further illustrate this, when I was a kid, on Interstate 5, we saw multi-car pile-up and a truck tipped on it's side, dumping out a dozen tanks of acetylene, oxygen and God knows what. Most of the tanks just skidded down the road, but two disappeared in a blink of an eye leaving cool contrails across the Seattle skyline. The valves and gauges were knocked off, releasing the pressurized gas and creating a serious fucking rocket. The compressed gasses in these tanks were normally invisible, but their explosive release created a vapor trail and we could see them way over the horizon. One tank inserted into a house and the other torpedoed miles out into Puget Sound.

When I drive past trucks with collections of compressed gas tanks for welding and shit, I look closely for lots of chains to secure those deadly missiles. You should too. My dreams are greatly affected by real life experiences, so visions of shooting, punching humans, blowing shit up with bombs, wrestling younger naked women on a wholesale level and consuming drug tonnage feature front and center in my private eyelid movie theater, as soon as I knock out.

One recurring nightmare that makes me flinch with guilt, even in my waking hours, happened in 1978. Todd Larson asked me if we had any pipe bombs assembled and if he could have one. Him and a buddy on his Seattle Swim Team wanted to blow some shit up. I rode my bike home, sneaked one into my gym bag and stealthily handed it to him on the way from school to the pool for turnout. Him and his buddy were gonna blow up his neighbor's mail box and when they lit the fucker, the front door of the mail box flew off and inserted completely into his buddy's face as he was peeking from around his house. Larson saw his buddy look back at him, stand still for a second, breath out bubbles, then tip over dead.

For the rest of Todd Larson's life he kept the details of that stunt completely secret. After seeing his buddy fall to the ground, Larson hopped the back fence, strolled as casually as possible, all the way home. He called me shortly afterwards and we agreed that neither of us were anywhere nearby nor had anything to do with this mishap. We both suffered heartburn and cramps for days and weeks. School administrators and police questioned everybody on Earth about what happened. Of course all my classmates blabbered their mouths that "Ewing probably did it."

I was at symphony rehearsal when Larson and his buddy were playing Mad Bombers, and my conductor and parents vehemently testified I was nowhere around and Karl doesn't play around with dangerous explosives any longer. Believe that? Larson and I both played dumb, and developed ulcers. Ulcers that've lasted until tenancy at our respective old folks' homes. And probably beyond. I sure as shit hope me and Larson can buy Pepto-Bismol or Tums when we reach our final destination. You coppers got the same stomach problems, so if I score some, I'll share some with ye.

After returning from 4 months in Europe traveling with the Shoreline High School Orchestra and Band, I attended the University of Washington. Me, Greg Olson and Stuart Frost joined the Frats on Greek Row for the giant parties and our alcoholism and massive drug intake could blend in with our new roommates. Just like the old days of Kotzebue, my heavy consumption was lightweight by comparison. No shit, I was a pussy drinker and drugger at UW and Kikiktagruk. The UW was also a fun place to hide pipe bombs. We blew up all sorts of stupid shit. Some explosions were heard over the keg parties and drew cheers from thousands of drunks. Ya see, with so many of my loud party favor pipe bombs, frat keggers at UW were a bit like Belfast, Ireland.

At one loud party, Stuart grabbed one of my devilish creations and ran across the street, jammed it into the nose of some rich asshole's new 1979 Trans Am, lit the fuse and booked back to our crew of plowed Frat mates. When the pipe bomb exploded, the hood and car's windshield flew a mile in the air and the front windows in the Sorority across the street shattered. Our fellow partiers loved that shit and the cheers and applause were memorable. Until a million fucking cops showed, followed by dozens of ambulances. The imploding Sorority windows cut the shit outa a bunch of girls in the front rooms.

The University and state police were seriously pissed off and questioned everybody. All one thousand drunks and bake heads. Me, Gregg and Stu figured it best we disappear through the massive crowd and make our presence noticed blocks away, with the herds of normal students gawking at all the cop action. You know, neither Catholic nor Protestant, blending like agnostic recreational bombers, blending in plain site and becoming part of the looky-loos and distancing ourselves from the coppers and all those rich goddamned drunks in the Frats. We were never questioned and nobody knew who made or who placed the bomb. But now you do.

Many years ago, back when I lived in Hell-muk-tagruk, I'd take long hikes out past Paul and Margaret Hanson's house and book across the soggy grasses and tundra, armed with boxes of shells, rifles and pistols and dogs. And a little native girl that adopted me. We'd get soaked marching way out towards Ivik, loading our guns and shooting at old oil barrels stranded in the willows along the hillside from high tides. Some shots were a quarter mile, some were way beyond bullet trajectory.

The reason I chose abandoned oil barrels to shoot is because ancient Eskimos, following the Inupiaq Illitquisat Rulebook, decorated the entire countryside with them. Another reason is we could hear a loud hollow tin "thunk!" when we hit our targets. The lesson I concealed in our fun was the different ranges and inaccuracies between rifles and pistols. Little native girls only require subtle nudging explaining the arc of a bullet's flight and where it runs out of steam and drops harmlessly into the muds of Kikik Spit.

We tried a scoped long barrel 44 mag (Ruger Super Black Hawk) from Joe Garoutte, a 38 revolver, some 22 rifles and a sweet 243 bolt (I eventually paid to Charlie Reich Sr.). Shooting with both eyes open, we could look past a highly elevated front site and keep our targets in site. My elementary school aged little native sniper girl could either stand or kneel, but had to practice breathing and extended pistol arm steadying, or tight shoulder rifle calming. After a box or two of ammunition, all kids settle down and the excitement of gun play simmers down, leaving a still profile and shooting posture.

I tried to use simple language like elevating a front site one or two feet above the oil barrel and a foot or two left or right for winds. Using the blowing grasses and tree branches swaying in similar fashion as an airport weather sock, helped my adopted native girl walk her bullets inwards or outwards until her award bell would ring loudly when her bullet spanked and punctured her ancient ancestral oil drum targets. She'd grown frustrated with the shorter pistols popular with Ulster Defense Forces and how wimpy their effective distances were. The longer cowboy 44 Long Colts and 44 magnums were manageable, aside from stinging hands, but the rifles fucking killed it.

You see, kids watch TV and see pistol shots that are stupid. It's our duty to teach young native girls to be well-trained IRA volunteers suffering sore fingers reloading revolvers and magazines and learn to be patient with each shot. On TV, nobody ever runs out of ammunition and you old farts all count the shots fired in a stupid movie shootout. I laugh at how many boxes of ammo these scenes would require: enough ammo to fill a commando's (or a narc's) ruck sack. Fuck it, we still enjoy made-up Hollywood bullshit.

Another hard fact about shooting firearms of any type, is the greatly increased lead levels in our bloodstreams requiring a decade of more for our livers to filter the shit out. We're screwed. Even after 10 years, lead is stuck in our livers longer than we'll sleep in our subterranean wooden jackets. Which is like forever. Fuck us. Centuries from now, archaeologists will exhume our bodies, examine our fossilized liquor-perforated livers, smoked lungs and Copenhagen guts and discover we're all a bunch of retarded gun-toting fuck heads. Maybe the scientists will find crusty vaginal skin on our upper lips and poopy intestinal tissue, egg shells and bone fragments on our dicks too.

During my nights of sleep-bombing, sleep-shooting, running and fighting, everything comes to an end when I flinch or move and wake my dumb ass up. When we're done shooting near Ivik and booking back into town I gotta dodge around all the dog lots chained around town, in Kim Nay's and Paul Hanson's yards, then into our backyard. I sleep soundly through all our shooting, but leaping through dog poop and avoiding getting bit usually wakes my shit up.

My horrible nightmares ain't always horrible. Some are rather pleasant. Many year ago, I've awoken numerous times to find myself naked, sitting on my dorm room bed at UAF, with a greatly swollen fat bat and majorly puffed up donkey balls. To add to the scary authenticity of my sleep walking, my naughty bits are sore and smelly. My beard and swinging meat stunk like serious pussy. Not gamey like trailer court beauty queen snatch or Washington coke-whore pussy and not rich and aromatic like native clootch.

Also, my junk don't smell like seal oil that I'd get sliming butter on a black girl's biscuit and I don't reek of jalapeno pepper belly poontang from wetting the insides of wetbacks. On my mornings, waking up after muff-diving, boring birth canals and stroking cervix while unconscious, I smell a lightly scented amorous aroma. That's evidence I dream-traveled overseas and gotten sacked and tossed in Helsinki or some shit. Arctic Europe was a frequent destination fer a government spook traveling for bogus government sponsored research. And hefting over-inflated junk.

As I sit and recall the finer episodes of my night's nightmares on the girls' dorm floors, I'll fetch vague memories of looking for a particular room number down the hallway, trying the doorknob, finding it unlocked and entering. With Shepard's staff in-hand. At this point in my recollections, you'll see that nightmares ain't always nightmarish, some are exciting and add powerful erotic rushes to my episodes of sleepwalking. Okay, I'll admit, these episodes are more accurately described as sleep-raping.

One morning, after returning to my dorm and sleeping the rest of the night, I showered, dressed, had coffee and headed across campus to open up the computer lab. Waiting near the entrance was a tall blond Swedish girl, watching me and smiling so profusely I was a little taken aback. Kristin was her name and she asked me if I slept well and did I have a good night. My face got hot. I recognized her as my pretty neighbor and the dream victim of my violent rape and thrashing. This was legally dangerous. I replied that yes I did sleep well and that I had a shit load of fucking nightmares. She smiled coyly and asked if I would share them.

As I walked up and down the aisles turning on computers and picking up scrap papers around the printers, straightening the monitors and pushing in chairs, I told my beautiful blond foreign confidant about my nocturnal adventures. She simply smiled and stated she'd had the same dreams and that she woke up energized and glowing. I just stopped and looked at her. Kristin winked, smiled even brighter, stating she hopes to have many more dreams just like mine. I gotta stop drinking and fucking, I could get cited for FUI, fucking under the influence.

Of course, in my old age, waking up from a romp in Finnish blond sugar lippy would be ideal, but recently I've awoken with a skin-like membrane on my Johnson. When I peel it off, I'm tickled from the gray curly hairs that are the last to release my shit. That's bad news boys. It means I gotta go knock on doors of my neighbors here at the senior center and return the lining of an old vagina that remained stuck drying on the end of my dick. Thank God I don't have to return a sheath-wrap ending in wrinkled colorectal tissue. I'd eat a gun if I was surfing sewage and hammering farts. Could be worse, I could find eggshell bits glued to the tip of my dick. Oh shit, that ain't eggshell, it looks more like bone fragments from the back of an eye socket. Someone ring the Peelers, jingle the piglets or call the Cops, instead of partaking a bit of penile skulduggery, I've been engaging in skull buggery. I guess that dead old lady will forever keep an eye out fer me.

Just last week, I went up and down the hallway of my senior center looking for a familiar door that I might've surreptitiously entered and sleep-raped. I stopped when I saw an ambulance crew wheeling out a fully covered stretcher with red stains both up high and down below. It's the lady I skull-porked. I know, that's disgusting, but I'm overwhelmed with comic fits of laughter. Okay, I'm sorry, but despite my dumb ass chuckling, that's a gross scenario. It also explains the broken dentures on the floor near my front door, teeth marks and bone scratches all over my shit. Oh wait, we all fuck dead or dying elderly women. We're married to them. Shit, you boys understand my dilemma. Old men like us used to fuck fine young poontang, now we treat our dicks like kitchen tools and pry open dying prunetang with our swollen can-openers.

During my drinking and drugging narc squad years, I've gotten calls from Troopers Tyler and Bleicher barking orders at me. "We've had yer buddies under constant surveillance all day, and they're all home now." "That means yer gonna go shopping fer meth and blow fer us." "You gotta get down here in Wasilla, like right fucking now." The drive from Willow to Wasilla is a little over 30 miles and they've ordered me to show up in under 15 minutes. "Don't worry about the highway troopers, they're all here waiting to assist us." Dressing like a proper drug purchaser, drug dealer and drug consumer, I'd boot up, jacket up and pack twin government issued Glocks and a gym bag filled with loaded magazines of 9 mil ammo. Then punch it. The Parks Highway in the middle of a winter night is usually empty, narrow and dark, but some drivers shit their pants when I passed them from behind at over 100 miles per hour. I always arrived on time. Decades later I have nightmares of that drive and the probabilities of an accident freak my shit out.

It's been decades since working for Mat-Su Narcotics Task force but I still wake from nightmares running and racing from shootouts and stupid trooper financed drug deals that went sideways. I wake up hung over like a motherfucker and sneak out to the front window and peek through the drapes to see if my car is in the driveway and still in one piece. On a few occasions, I found it parked on top of the wood pile, high-centered and torn up in the ditch or on it's roof way out in the woods. You know you fucked up when all the magazines in yer pocket and under the driver's seat are empty and have no memory who or what you shot the shit out of. Drink bitch. Drugs saved my life.

Here in Alaska, ye can't kill the dead and ye can't rape the willing. The next time yer wife finds you waking with a kickstand playing Super Man Tent, just tell her you had a horrible nightmare. What the fuck. She has her own erotic memories of boning her NANA Regional uncles, cousins and high school stink-midgets. We awake from fine dreams of strolling a-slumber hefting and chowing busty, leggy Arctic girls. Arctic girls not from Alaskan villages, but Northern Europe. Just visualize snarfing down a pile of blow, horking big pine tokes and chewing a handful of Viagra. I see you boys dreaming of tearing young blond pussy up. Horrible nightmares, sure.

Even in our old age, withering away at our respective senior centers, us old men still have vivid memories of fair skinned roundness, fighting, sliding and shivering on our faces and dicks. When you die, Heaven is a place where yer surrounded by non-Alaskan loved ones. Loved ones we cannot recall their names, but sure as shit remember their shapes, flavors and olfactory woods. No stupid kids, fat retarded grand kids nor herpes neither: Alaska is now in yer rear-view mirror. At the moment of yer death, I'll broadcast from Dispatch, "Wheels up, rings off."

Wake up fucks. After-life is art, free of dark aboriginal broken teeth, no dark matter filled lungs and dark brown hued skin tones. That's why it's called Heaven, no darkness. No cooties, no explosive discharge, except out yer dicks and no koomucks. Mud people and dirt worshipers are Earthbound and despite the world being prettier with them in it, we finally escaped our mixed nut half-tard coworkers.

Smile niggers, if we find ourselves waking up in Alaska, drinking coffee and smoking cigarettes in the squad room full of a bunch of cops, you're stranded here with yer author on drugs, at my keyboard. Also, if someones tells you to go to Hell, just turn and head into Dispatch, I'll probably be there typing your stories over expensive coffee and smokes.

I'll also have guns for sale, pipe bombs assembled and ready to hand out too.

Karl.

Spy vs. Spy and numerous Civil Wars.

Top of the morning gents,

Writer's block. What a bunch of crap. Since we've seen a fuck load of dead cops and croaked workmates from the NANA Region, floating to the surface of anti-social media and in statewide news, I gotta shit pile o' material, fertile excrement heaps and bigger than life tales for your author on drugs to compose. Simple, all I do is take narc jobs and police cases, churn them like dead babies in a blender and presto, I have the sum total of your awful experiences working in Alaska, fighting and losing a political war. One difference, we don't fly the American flag, the Alaskan flag nor the Confederate flag, all those specialized police operations we done, were under a black flag.

When I smear your undercover war stories, cop tales and nightmares all over this white paper, my writing is no better than rectum puke. If I pack these shit stories with proper English, lots of real bad words, I've converted comic from the tragic, our collective shit bucket careers. This article is quite similar to the Meals On Wheels free and discount lunch programs at our respective senior centers. My composition is a freshly baked big ol' turd loaf of shit house goodness, rich in whole wheat butt crumbs and curly anal whiskers, small children’s bones, vermin, canine and varmint skeletons, deformed infantile native eyes and mashed up grandparent assholes. Damn, that writing right there will make a turd. Shakespeare ain't got shit on me.

For instance, I was reminiscing old memories with Dr. Megan Lincoln and her eye clinic staff during me and bun's eye exams at the Denaina Vagina Native Clinic. I'd regaled the native gals working there with some of my more memorable KPD stories of drunks and gun play. I retold my receiving in Dispatch, the 911 emergency phone call requesting police respond to the old Miller's house that Butch Lincoln was renting at the airport end of 3rd avenue. Some Moto chick from Deering was screaming and crying, fucked up on the phone, stating Butch was playing Russian Roulette with a loaded revolver, pointing at the partying company there and pulling the trigger. She estimated Mr. Lincoln, between clicks of empty chambers, fired at the fleeing crowd twice.

I dispatched Joe Garoutte, simultaneously phoned the Chief, then repeated the emergency service request by radio to the on-call troopers. When I tone out a 10-56 (fucked up asshole) with a side order of 10-55 (same asshole with a firearm) call-out, folks tend to come flying. Joe contacted the complainant next door and before she completed her sobbing details of Butch Lincoln's drunken gun play, Garoutte heard a really loud gunshot and immediately reported back to Dispatch and all other responding police units of shots fired.

Patrolman Garoutte, Trooper Karl Erickson and Trooper Kim Nay kicked in the door with guns drawn and found Butch Lincoln suffering a pair of nasty head wounds, leaking out of two holes, each an estimated .357 inches in diameter. He'd won the roll of the dice and blasted his shit all over the place. Joe, Erickson and Nay immediately radioed me back at Dispatch to tone out emergency ambulance services and that they were on-site performing CPR and slowing blood loss. Trox, Munson and Chambley radioed they were at-station monitoring radio traffic, staged ready and loaded up in both Medic One and Medic Two, engines running and warming. Seconds later they broadcasted over loud sirens both units were 34 (rolling).

Back at Dispatch, Roy Fields was busy working the phones with MMC notifying the ER and Trauma Techs the details of the incoming transport and David Craig was fighting yet easily handling an obnoxious, loud arrestee in the book-in room. I sat at the console responding to a million channels of radio code dialogue awaiting to repeat to MMC my chatter with FAA regarding a MediVac jet that was wheels-up from Nome, Alaska. The number of personnel responding to these emergency call-outs is astounding, expensive, yet paid for out of TAPS oil royalties. The next piggy bank we'll drain for police, fire and rescue will be the Permanent Fund. Or your fucking wallet.

After Trox, Munson and Chambley were code 24 (on-scene) and prepped Butch Lincoln for transport, I had to complete the computer times, details and agents contacted and agencies responding, and finish the dispatch log as all the responders radioed 10-8 back on patrol or 34 returning to station for reports or escorting responding units to the hospital. I also had to wait for the pilots aboard the MediVac jet to radio in with an ETA, direction of approach and undertake their request I phone FAA to clear the air space, air field and landing strip cuz Leer jets take only minutes to fly from Nome to Kotzebue. The ceiling was shit and side-winds were shittier and the pilots broadacasted they were screaming in on approach with technicians warming up the equipment and ready for Mr. Lincoln's transport flight to ANMC.

I'm rather proud of my cool and calm broadcast voice scrambling so many first responders to the old Miller house at the end of 3rd avenue. I'm also pretty sure you coppers are aware of the paperwork we fill out and file. But here's the kicker, after the MediVac jet landed, turned into the wind and were prepped for blast-off, fuck-head Butch Lincoln Sr. died in the MMC Emergency Room. I've written stories of shotgun head wounds that were not fatal. Blowing out yer tongue, cheek, jaw and teeth ain't a picnic, but the VPSO training manual lectured that revolver head wounds were 91 percent fatal. Butch didn't make the other 9 percent bracket.

Another foot-note in the history of rural Alaska's massive number of self-inflicted gunshot wounds is that Troopers Karl Erickson and Kim Nay and Officer Joe Garoutte were perplexed as far as which GSW (gun shot wound) was the entrance wound and which was the exit wound. The blood spatter, GSR (gun shot residue: soot speckling) and cranial bone damage was similar on both sides of his fucking head. I've had decade-long hangovers that felt that bad.

That 357 magnum revolver had fallen out Butch's hand, did nearly identical damage entering his skull as did exiting and required considerable investigation to document the incident. Dumb motherfucker should've put the gun in his mouth like Edward Wayne Henry, Scotty Hanson or Gill Hall. At least the blast radius would've been easier to document for reports, photos and the 10-ton filing cabinets that were collapsing KPD squad room floors upstairs of the old jail like the contents of Gumby's underwear.

Another footnote of interest is the MediVac was originally requested to Nome, Alaska to pick up a drowning victim after a snow machine crashed through the ice. The patient died on the table at Norton Sound Heath Corp. and after flying to Kotzebue and Butch Lincoln died on the table at Manilaq Medical Center. The MediVac jet personnel (pilots, flight crew and trauma techs) had been airborne and sat on the airport tarmacs in Nome and Kotzebue for so long they had "timed out" and had to spend the night at the NANA hotel, getting legally required rest before flying back to Anchorage the following morning. Responding to two no-show emergency MediVac flights and the requirement to stay grounded in Kotzebue overnight left the State of Alaska short one medical jet. Fuck us.

My heart rate has sky-rocketed and my hands have started to tremble repeating this Service Request to you coppers, a million fucking years after the fact. If you boys are still human, you should be re-living these stress points and possibly hammering alcoholic relapse triggers all over again. I miss the job, hate the stress and no longer inhale monster amounts of drugs and alcohol in effort to fall asleep after my shifts.

What's funny and sad is when I completed telling this story to the staff at the Denaina Vagina, Megan Lincoln was extremely upset and really pissed off at me, yer author drugs. Dr. Megan Lincoln later confided with me that she was told by her family that Butch Lincoln Sr. (her uncle) had accidentally shot himself while cleaning his revolver. I apologized and explained that when it comes to suicides, alcoholism and mental illness, the families are the last to accept the truth. Yup, I'm such a big mouth.

Apparently Dr. Megan Lincoln, like all good cops, experienced a self-check and missed all this stupid native trauma too. She left the Denaina Vagina Native Clinic here in Kenai, Alaska and moved back to her old slot working in Kotzebue doing eye surgeries on vision trauma damage and repairs on fucked up cross-eyed FAS Manilaq Monsters. I'm telling myself that I had nothing to do with her immediate resignation and departure. I'm good at eating shit right outa my own putrid pie hole.

Regarding the upset and anxiety, you see how it works. I'll start with all the PTSD experiences you've had at work, interview the Chief for details, consult bun for dates and historical facts, then compose a fairly accurate play-by-play, just for your reading enjoyment. I only scribble a fraction of your nightmares, and I'm banking you've awoken upset, with long forgotten memories. I'm also assuming yer re-assembling these same terrifying nightmares of shit from years ago. Probably even this morning. Oh, in the minds of cops, old dried up shit remembered, is still moist, fresh and steaming, even from many, many years ago. Like it was just yesterday.

Our memories aren't constrained by the physical limits of time and space. It's the reason y'all leap outa bed in panic correcting garbage from service requests, assignments and cases decades past, stinking freshly during our slumber and I'll guess, still sting like a motherfucker. I lurch out of bed some nights as if my court appearances are today and they slam my worried stomach just as acutely as they did when we were much, much younger soldiers in the civil war on drugs.

If you could train yer fucking fingers to type 400 words a minute, you'd scribble a whole fucking book during yer cigarette break birthing a loaf on the shitter. I'd read that fucking book. It'd be a fresh manuscript with the ink still wet, stinking bathroom fresh, filled with horrid memoirs from another soon to be dead Alaskan cop.

With my literary license and sympathetic editing, you fucking cops got tales that'd make the 907 civilian world mess themselves. Some of the narc jobs you coppers were assigned were much more than taking extreme measures to enforce Alaska's drug laws, some operations were intentional killings, others political hatchet jobs and eliminations. Oops, did I just say that? Fuck it, the Obama Administration unleashed the Department of Justice on Senator Ted Stevens' ass with bogus testimony and concealed exculpatory evidence. So now we have every right to pull the same shit on 907 negroes, ice midgets and hillbilly white trash buttfuckers statewide. I don't want to hear shit about selective enforcement.

My dedicated readers will vouch fer the topics I've written in intentionally crude language. It's fucking code so you can see that I'm not just plagiarizing, I'm stealing shit and robbing all yer asses. The topics I blend into my compositional insults to y'all are copied and pasted right out of the squad room, grand jury testimony, radio chatter and bullshit sessions over beer and smokes. All my stolen shit is a recipe for dysentery and expectoration with ingredients we chuckle: extortion, theft, forgery, armed robbery, child molestation, sodomy with animals, arson, prostitution, vehicular homicide, the murder of prisoners and fellow inmates. Yup, I just heaved loose stool out my mouth. And you coppers read it.

We're also guilty of violating state and federal election laws. We've issued press releases of assaults, DUI offenses and sexual harassment weeks and months before voters go to the polls. This stunt we've pulled is almost as effective as marching our hand-cuffed defendants in front of the press for prime photos and sweet derogatory statements from the DA. That's one political stunt we all fucking dig: the perp walk. In an effort to revive Vogler's extinct AIP party, Dr. Robert Logan filed to run for State Senate on the Alaska Independence Party ticket, then we (DEA, AST) got him on camera and audio delivering booze, weed and meth in his own airplane, directly to me, yer author on drugs in Barrow, Alaska. Entrapment? Yup, yer spot on. Ain't no coincidences in our world of illegal covert operations niggers.

At any time of your life, you can perform a sitrep (situation report), self-check and brain damage analysis, then puke out a damn good story. Or do like I did with the Butch Lincoln Sr. suicide and barf out highly entertaining stories of drunken fistfights, felonious armed take-downs and non-existent arrests because your arrestee suffered a kill-shot or fatal trauma impact to the fucking head and heart via hands, fists, or feet. "Shit Chief, we let the Sorrels do the talking and I think we lost the body on the way the jail."

We've frequently waited until our suspect deposited incriminating DNA, gushed a load and busted a nut in a boy's or dead girl's ass (Mary Olanna from Shishmaref), then we kilt his ass, never radioing "Dispatch 10-80, Mike Tabor in custody." Even with a crushed trachea, teeth and testes, Mikey likes it. Fuck it, like Damon, I'd eat a shotgun if my older brother spooged tiny intestines and sucked micro-ani. Hell, if I was related to Rick Elam I'd do buckwheats on my own ass, after putting a 38 up his ass first. Ironic though, both Billy Howarth Sr. and Billy Howarth Jr. are serving life sentences for the same offenses. After I die, I'm gonna Super Glue my ass shut.

In my chats with all you village cops and frequent discussions with the Chief, I licensed myself to write about what you've seen (and smelled) and all you've been through. Here's the kicker, I get to decode cop-speak and print plausibly deniable bullshit. If I write truthfully and honestly, the times, places and criminal details still get a little muddled, cuz like our elderly brains, your painfully accurate recollections are apt to be dissembled. I just have part of the story from inside Central Dispatch or phone calls from you fuckers. Right here on this white space, I try my best to sharpen the edges of your horrible work histories, then color these tales with really bad language. Only fiction has to make sense.

Another crime story that still upsets me happened in the 29-unit apartment building. Bun and Sara were home for lunch on a day in the year of our Lord 1982. Bun and Sara finished eating lunch and were watching TV near the window of apartment 302 overlooking the graveyard. Minutes after moving from the dining table by the door and sitting down in front of the TV there was a HUGE explosion which knocked over a few glasses on the dining table. Bun immediately phoned Dispatch reporting an explosion in the 29-unit and were advised to stay put in their apartment.

According to Trooper Patterson's investigation, the super loud explosion was caused by a fucked up Shungnak village rat that was waiving his rifle around scaring his wife, then pulled the trigger. The rifle was 30 cal or better and blasted from an apartment on the 1st floor in the front of the building. The bullet passed through the second floor, crossed the central hallway and blasted into bun's ceiling in her 3rd floor apartment in the rear of the building. The bullet also punched a hole through the seat she was sitting in, went through the table and shattered a hole through the plate spraying Sara's left-overs all the fuck over, continuing onwards and blasting through the roof.

Count the walls, the floors and the furniture and place settings that rifle round blasted through. Holy fuck! The Troopers responded first to the gun call out and secured the building, then arrested the fucked-up shit-head shooting drunk and discharging a round diagonally through an entire building: first to third floors, front to back, out the roof. KPD and AST used the managers key and gained entrance, fought the super drunk gunman to the floor, then stomped him compliant.

It turns out he was Linda Lee's cousin, Gene Lee from Shungnak and was arrested for a number of assault charges, attempted murder and weapons misconduct due to his chronic inebriation. The investigation revealed he was trying to shoot his wife and the rifle discharged into the wall near the ceiling and traveling through a shit load of lumber, sheet rock and carpeting, not even stopping in the roof 2 floors up.

The bullet likely traveled miles out of town and was never recovered, but all the holes were easy as shit to document and photo in Gene Lee's trial and conviction. Dennis Tippleman was KIC president and Solveig Naylor's mom and her husband Doug Sheldon (Percy Sheldon's brother) were the KIC 29 unit managers. They all apologized profusely to the affected tenants, performed speedy repairs and even replaced the damaged tables, chairs and dining settings. But not the atomized food. That rifle bullet was fucking unstoppable. Two floors, two walls and out the roof screeching to the heavens like the bullet that exploded out of Ethan Cooley's fucking head up near First Bridge. Don't think you can hide behind a building to avoid taking fire, some bullets ye can't call back. Nor stop.

This'll piss ye off. After all the court appearances and serving his penal penalty, fuck-head Gene Lee drove his sno-go up the beach in front of the post office, then fell off his machine: super fucked up. Bun was checking mail and walked out to see this pickled puke rolling onto his hands and knees next to his sno-go, then proceed to crawl up the beach over ice and snow. The temperature was a million below zero and this stupid motherfucker was missing gloves and hat, yet crawling like a dying animal, trying to get up on Front Street, then into the Post Office. Bun yelled at Tucker passing by in the fuel truck and they both couldn't get shit-lips off the ice. Tucker climbed back in the fuel truck and radioed the Fire Hall for assistance.

Both Fire and Police arrived to assist Mr. Gene Lee onto a stretcher, then chauffeured his drunk ass to the old MMC hospital to treat his frozen hands and face from his snow machine drive and iceberg crawl up to Front Street on his frost-bitten nigger lips. He was sent back to jail for his encore DUI. Fuck it, I would've yelled "Gun!" just to see you coppers stomp on his ass, kick his chops and put yer boot heel up his poopy butt.

Okay, back to completing your police reports. You boys have watched District Attorneys lay out a hunnert prosecution cases. Whenever the testimony and evidence is too streamlined and perfect, your prosecutor will become skeptical and reluctant to proceed. Put simply by Trooper Nay, "If everyone agrees on something, it's probably wrong." Presentation of cases can't have too much corroboration. Juries are the trier of the facts and judges being the trier of the law, they'll all smell bullshit. Only a poorly schemed case will have all the data and interviews lining up like a tapestry with zero loose ends. Again, I reiterate, only fiction has to make perfect sense. The exceptions prove the rule and the truth best presented will always have contradictory bits that only serve to reinforce the legally required narrow focus on the facts required in the presentation of a compelling case and better odds of conviction.

Life ain't a cheap TV show, stupid fictional cable crime drama nor a paperback detective novel and every juror fucking knows it. Furthermore, the telling tales from long-dead cops never concludes with a sweet ending and a tidy ribbon tied around the conclusion. That's fag shit. When a DA explains evidence to the impaneled and presents interviews with defendants, witnesses and victims, the juries need to hear conflicting aspects or their bullshit detectors wil go fucking crazy. Some District Attorneys will start at the beginning of a case and proceed as the case evolves and present mitigating testimony contrasted with aggravating evidence. Like our wives' feminine napkins, juries don't like sanitary tales. (I'm no sicker than you coppers, but I like unsanitary tails).

Lawyers on both sides of the courtroom gotta learn to speak slower than Selawikmute ass cheeks frozen to a full honey bucket. Juries in Alaska are a unique blend of rednecks, white trash, black folks, natives and orientals and all of whom fear secrecy and suffer cultural superstition. Since Alaska is so spread out, isolated populations are suspicious of complex cultures statewide, pluralistic national politics across numerous villages. And civil society. On most grand juries in isolated communities, different dialects, dress code and skin color appear secret to our jury selection pool that are separated from the larger world.

I grew up in a family and community surrounded by inbred hillbillies, retarded cowboys, ass-raping rednecks and old white trash that totally feared complexities of other communities and are afraid of outsiders. Provincialism, xenophobia and village retard-remotes deem other communities as part of a secret society beyond their city limits, county lines and comprehension.

We all learned to describe outsiders as "them, they and those" kinds of people. Despite all of us being American citizens with radically differing opinions, we've wrongly labeled them liberals, conservatives, mouth breathers, knuckle draggers and low information voters. Amongst us 907 assholes, it's impossible to believe differing opinions exist, and not be wrong. In national politics and statewide polling, I tend to believe in conspiracies instead of majority rule proving our judicial and election processes really works.

Of course, don't expect me to make any sense. Kyping tales from public safety motherfuckers like y'all, makes it damn near impossible for me to say anything that I'd repeat to newly arriving wanna-be lilly-white pussy-Alaskans. I've got a knack for making sense of your horrid experiences cutting down hangers, inflating traumatized victims with CPR or dragging wheelers off children lacking pulse. I've sat and listened to you boys explain the effects of PTSD on returning veterans and some of you have done serious thought on this condition. I'm sorry to say, but I'm of the opinion, yer ass is now on the wrong side of the looking glass. Here's the shit. If I tell yer fucked up tales of KPD, AST and VPSO duties, I'm speaking gibberish to a civilized world, and it replies in kind.

You coppers are seriously fucked up. Without screaming and yelling, crying and dying arrestees and inmates crowding you, there's nothing left but battered and broken, retired public employees, recoiling from arctic noisome nuisances. Now quieted. You heard me, taking away all the loud agonies echoing in yer ears and minds, all I got left of you lot is empty bodies, no longer in service, prowling the earth, scratching an earned pension from what your beaten fucked up body's worth. You've put your best detective skills into understanding and beating murderers, brutal rapists and child molesters and you can't climb back out. Ever.

Retired cops always got a handful of cases that burden them. Cases that are usually filed under Open-Unsolved. Cases that defy solving because when you put your head into the minds of such sick motherfuckers that did the injuries you have photographed in your Open-Unsolved files, it time to eat your gun. You all have pals that we should've discouraged their suicides leaving us with their body and soulful essence blasted apart. We toss their body in a funeral pyre or pitch dirt on them, but in a barrel of liquor, we'll pickle their most tragic and saddest part, later written, I keep their weeping heart.

Let's not do that. Imagine your friends and coworkers (alive and deceased) are merely at arm's reach periphery, like the outer circumference of your web of work and friendly relationships. Now all those missing coppers are broken sequences on a gear. You're in pretty decent shape, but all them other cops that were dysfunctional machines are broken teeth causing your memories of their stories to skip and jump about.

Recalling yer dead coworkers and friends, you'll find willful filing and breaking of these machine gears, causing gaps in your recollections of certain conversations, discussions and missing pieces of information, that in our old age, we're forced to make sense of. Don't. When writing the truth about your jobs, civilian earthlings find these missing gaps comprehensible. Even a 60-year old child on drugs got yer shit figured out fer fuck's sake.

Ya see, after all these years, the State of Alaska don't owe you much. Never did. Going back 150 years, most soldiers like you fuckers never got much more than a kick in the pants, a handshake and a small stipend. A stipend that don't add up to much more than a Confederate Private's pay. And over the last 40 years, the War on Drugs and Bootlegging is metaphorically a civil war. We were jailing druggies and drunks and I'm guilty of tossing a net far beyond my job description and bagged targets more political than criminal. Following suggestions (orders) from my superiors and financial backers, I've bagged minor criminals in a civil conflict that is now best described as major political battle.

Since the creation of the Alaska Independence Party (AIP) by Joe Vogler, our state has been led to believe that our oil wealth and real estate is the property of the homesteaders, frontiersman, colonists and citizens fair: not the Federal Government nor natives. I've endured lectures from secessionists believing that Alaska is being held hostage by a corrupt federal government and that it's time we rewrite our constitution or become a country of our own. This claim extends to the reclaiming of vast national parks and wildlife refuges, lands comprising two thirds of our state's total acreage. Reclaiming this land parallels manifest destiny abrogating native land holdings and redrawing property boundries towards a more Euro-centric epistemology.

After the murder of Joe Vogler and incarceration of a stupid dumpster-diver patsy, I was further instructed by a friendly cabal of lawyers to derail the second in line to the Alaska Independence Party founder and lead him into a cage. Like a good soldier, I followed orders under a black flag and successfully ensnared (entrapped) Dr. Robert Logan. He was an economics professor at University of Alaska Fairbanks and the second wind and successor to the AIP. The law firm and my benefactors that financed this covert work was formerly titled Clapp, Peterson and Stowers. All deceased and free from inculpation.

The first 2 names may not ring a bell, but the last name eventually became Alaska's Supreme Court Chief Justice. A judge that has successfully vanquished secessionist efforts to retake Alaska and remake it in the image of a colonial fiefdom. A colony governed by us cruel white motherfuckers bent on rewriting our state constitution eliminating the liberal and social programs that spend billions of dollars on rural shit hole infrastructure and arctic garbage dump social programs.

The reason most secessionists, Republicans and Red State Alaskans are so frustrated and hamstrung is because we have a perfectly conflicted and combative system of checks and balances. No single political party, skin colored race, nor community can disrupt Alaska's courts, governor or legislation towards their views or favor. The Alaskan Constitution has successfully kept alive an independent judiciary, a vibrant press and restrained executive and legislative arms. The legislative and executive arms of government are really fucking tightly handcuffed. If we followed the letter, intent and spirit of Alaska's Constitution, we'd would've never gotten embroiled in America's War on Drugs.

That is, until spies like us got hired. Cops and troopers need eyes inside criminal operations therefore thwarting Alaska's right of privacy. That's the charm offensive that yields us such a high conviction rate: an inside dude that's almost perfectly identical to a criminal. Almost. You see, of all the countries in the world, America has the highest percentage of it's population behind bars. The civil war on drugs did a kick-ass job of locking up undesirables and keeping you and I employed.

I've enjoyed filling concentration camps with minorities, radicals and highly intelligent motherfuckers for flying booze out to remote villages, smuggling meth and LSD inside commonplace freight and even cracking skulls of inventive motherfuckers that built covert meth labs and camouflaged marijuana grow-ops. When we're part of the setup, we're also part of the take-down and tear down. We're such sneaky motherfuckers. We look almost like criminals.

All of us have contracted our skills and abilities and performed services for different instate intelligence agencies. Western Alaska Narcotics Task Force, AST, Statewide DEA, Mat-Su Narcotics and all the other outfits we've worked could be viewed as simply extra-judicial paramilitary espionage working groups. I doubt the pay was all that much, but we agreed to do their dirty work. Don't bitch, the experience is where the money was. Performing our duties was doing the bidding of Juneau policy makers, hand in hand with the DEA and numerous 3-letter agencies way above our pay grade.

Generally speaking, your hard work in 907 espionage offered each of us undercover narcs, operatives and spies an opportunity to go crazy and revert back to our inner criminal serial killer self and operate in an insane fucked up world we found irresistible. False ID's, travel and transportation, bogus dossiers, red herring backgrounds and piles of cash to buy drugs and bootleg booze is an compelling offer. That much drug-buy money for your undercover illegal purchases and our own illegal drug consumption was where the really big money lies. Fuck, did I do a truckload of drugs. All comped. All gratis.

The heavy-duty firearms and surveillance electronics and communication devices the cops provided us narcs reminded me of Christmas time reading Radio Shack catalogs and the Shot Gun News but hardly rightful reimbursement for your time and panic. As far as take-home pay decades after uncivilized warrior Joes coming in from the cold, well, that brings us back to a Confederate Private's Wages, at Civil War pay scale pension. I'm waiting for payment for all the broken bones, gray hair and wrinkles on my face, but the face an Alaskan copper has at the age of 50, is a face he has earned.

I'm still a believer in the cause. That is, until America and Alaska decides to legalize all drugs and tax the shit outa them. Drug dealers and bootleggers view ordinary people as carnival workers do rubes. They look upon their victims with contempt, sometimes with loathing. Most of the victims in the War on Drugs cannot think their way out of a paper bag, but the accuracy of the their knowledge about cops and judges, bail bondsmen, public defenders, the hierarchy of the local drug scene, the law as it applies to drug possession, transport and distribution, is awesome.

Our assumed identities, hot-rod electronics and surveillance equipment, and super killer firepower kept us employed, and kept shit load of defendants behind bars. The only problem with us soldiers battling such a vast army of psychological mutants we labeled the party crowd or less complimentary, druggies, is that you fucking cops, jailers and parole officers are supposed to be their lifetime stewards.

I've made veiled references to the Civil War and cryptic comparisons to our extinct War on Drugs. The reason is due to the radical changes we've seen in drug legalization across America and Europe. Marijuana is now legal or medically prescribed in most European countries and the states of America. With no relation to the previous Lincolns (Megan and Butch Sr.) the United States prohibited slavery by means of the Abraham Lincoln's Emancipation Proclamation Speech, triggering the collapse of the forced human labor industry like dominoes both North and South of The Mason Dixon Line.

The Capitol, Washington DC was a slave importation port and slave auction city forcing Abraham Lincoln to take a covert train route and undertake a secret entrance to his inauguration speech after a highly contested election. Us hillbilly butt fucker slavery advocates are still pulling this shit, as recent as the last presidential election in 2020. All over the Kenai Klux Peninsula you'll see trucks emblazoned with stickers declaring "Trump Won" and "Let's Go Brandon" which is white trash inbreed code for "Fuck Joe Biden." For being retarded trailer trash, us white niggers aren't real clever. All us illiterate Southerners haven't gotten the memo that we got our asses kicked in the War Over Nigger Troubles.

Speaking of which, the Civil War has gone through a number of names and some not very intelligent nor tasteful. Most favorite are specific to the North or South and you'll likely detect their regional origins.

Take a peak at a few, the titles started with The War Of....

*Southern Independence

*Second American Revolution

*States Rights

*Succession

*Between States

*Against Slavery

*Yankee Invasion

*Southern Nationality

*Southern Freedom

My grandpa knew that fleeing with a wagon filled with gold was better than sticking around and seeing the inside of a prison. His father may have been a big name in Southern Politics and the slave trade, but when asked about the impending outcome of the Civil War, my great-grandpa first called the civil war The Nigger Troubles, but ultimately called it The Lost Cause.

Freeing slaves made as much sense as allowing farm animals the right to vote, attend school and gain American citizenship. You see, my great-gramps viewed blacks similar to Alaska Natives, where voting rights and legal citizenship were vague concepts prior to Nixon passing the Alaska Native Claims Settlement Act. Not until the passing of his signature legislation, almost zero Alaska Natives were registered to vote, held public office, owned land and engaged in commerce.

Imagine Alaska Natives joining Federal troops and taking up arms with Spencer breech-loading rifles and fighting the Colonists and Frontiersmen of the Palmer White Man Relocation and the Kenai Klux Dumping Ground. That'd be a war worth buying tickets to. I'd even set up a blanket, picnic and tip back bourbon on the sidelines to see comic backwards firepower shooting blindly through blackout black powder smoke.

To be fair though, the Spencer Repeating rifle was withheld from the war effort due to soldiers firing too fast, missing their targets and wasting valuable ammunition. Rifle fire on both sides of the conflict was so fucking inaccurate that credible historical reviews estimated it took a man's weight in lead to kill a single enemy in battle. Fuck that's a shit load of wasted shooting. As recent as 25 years ago, firearms experts have ventured that each Confederate who was shot and killed required 240 pounds of powder and 900 pounds of lead. Seems the safest place to be is directly in front of a Civil War soldier armed with a single shot black powder piece of shit rifle.

My now-deceased Vietnam Veteran pals at the Sterling Senior Center claim the Civil War should've been titled like the Vietnam War: The Boys War. On the Confederate Side, the average age of the vast majority of soldiers was age 10 to 19. If you travel to Confederate War Historical Tours, you'll see tiny uniforms and puny coffins that us fair haired Northern Europeans over 6 feet tall could never fit our dicks into. You'll also see customized saddles that came with tight leather straps to keep a tiny child soldier in his saddle. In battle you'll often see a dead little boy performing the Ghost Rider stunt galloping alongside his troops, headless, arm-less and long dead, only falling when the horse he was strapped onto was finally shot through the soft bones in the front of the skull.

Most Civil War soldiers were so young, small and malnourished that most required assistance mounting up onto a horse, strapping in and following their bugler, charging into battle, both alive and dead. Imagine Alaska Natives prior to the introduction of calcium rich foods and dietary dairy supplements. As result of boarding schools with broader cafeteria fare and the implementation of Nixon's Indian Health Services, them tiny little Arctic darkies and ice midgets would be riding into the 1971 Alaska Native Civil War wearing the moniker, "Sawed-off little runts." Poverty don't got any skin color. That familiar cowboy swagger and gunslinger bow-legged stride we see in TV westerns is actually a horrid leg bone deformation from a calcium deficient diet us modern motherfuckers call "rickets."

110 years passing don't mean shit. The next Civil War would likely forcibly draft little boys that are the same age as your grand kids. On the Northern Federal side of the Civil War, out of 2.7 million draftees:

*1 million were under the age of 18

*800,000 were under the age of 17,

*200,000 were under the age of 16

*100,000 were under 15.

The remaining children that were brutally drafted on route to various battles, tens of thousands were under 13 with many hundreds under the age of 10. A Vietnam War joke explaining how US troops could machine gun little running gook children is to aim lower and don't give 'em so much lead. Could you pull the trigger on a little guy like that?

African Nations get shit for recruiting millions of child soldiers and every year 2 million children are kidnapped from the Sudan for household, sex and military slavery. Slavery is still commonplace amongst Arab/Muslim nations and illegal immigration is the fresh fuel in Western nations' low wage labor and non-citizen farm workers.

In Seattle, the largest number of drug runners and gun marketeers consists of punk kids. Yup, no longer is it young adults doing the smuggling, refining and re-selling smaller packets of cocaine. Now it is little nigger chitlens self-titled "shorties" and you'll find it challenging to prosecute minor children for felonies that would've fucked me up in my 20's. Us tenants and employees at Lem's Mortuary and Crackhouse had to take measures to avoid police contact, police investigation and police arrest.

I had hiding places all over Mountlake Terrace, in my car and meeting places so covert, I'd require Russian interrogation techniques to reveal. Being a minor child and performing the bulk of the heroin, meth and cocaine duties has revolutionized the industry and made the king pins pert near untouchable. Using kids for our dirty work may lead to another civil war with little punks taking fire and flying apart under larger artillery. Fuck 'em, they're just pukes, poor or colored.

If Red State Trump orange dick sucking rednecks here in Alaska keep talking stupid shit about another Civil War, why don't we arm up mean old Republican white trash motherfuckers our age and let 'em shoot the shit out of each other. Then let the Natives pick up the leftovers and Roto-till our butts, guts and shit back into the ground or fill buckets for dog food, bear bait and wolf traps.

Ask any First Alaska Native what he wishes for after all us ugly old non-native dust-farts kill each other and the gooks and niggers have fled Alaska.

I already know his response.

I think I'll have a Diet Coke.

Karl.