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.