History seldom progresses upon consensual intercourse.

Top of the morning gents,

I was steamed at my grandpa when he told me that my wife "was a little dark, ain't she?" My grandpa joked declaring Alaskans are composed of mostly "whores and miners, cuz my uncles shipped 'em there." I tried to explain to him that she was the last of the dying breed of higher blood-quantum Eskimos and not a descendant of the first waves of ugly hillbilly frontiersmen, redneck explorers, illiterate trappers, pecker-wood settlers, white-trash homesteaders and slave-wealthy colonists.

The uncles my grandpa referred to formed the tug and barge and steam-ship magnate, Archer-Ewing Incorporated. My great-uncles fled the lost confederate campaign to Seattle for the next financial frontier, shipping prospectors, miners and supplies, opium (laudanum) and liquor, plus black-market purchased children from the orphanages all over the Pacific Northwest up to the Alaska Gold Rush ports of Ketchikan, Skagway and Nome. These imprisoned children were forced into the sex-trade brothels that made Alaska the number one sex tourism destination in America before and after the turn of the century (1900). My grandpa recalled funny stories of loading steamers "six-deep" with children, both boys and girls, negotiating terms of sale with Soapy Smith and Wyatt Earp, then marching them ashore at gunpoint, to whore-shacks, fuck-tents and houses of ill-repute, to get reamed out at least a dozen times every day. The price was $10.00 a hump, with mobster brothel-keeps skimming most of the proceeds. Brothel-keeps Alaska's recorded history painted as famous law men and gambling dandies.

History is written by the survivors, and these little whores didn't live much longer than their warranty of a thousand days shredding ass and shedding vaginal tissue and dumping out their whore-house offspring and diseased progeny into slop buckets. Promises are hard to keep and history proves this: even today. I try to tell the truth writing these tales with historically accurate details from the assholes that profited from it and by stealing stories from you coppers' case files. Case files that Patrick Octuck gave me on my last visit to his condo in Fairbanks and source material for tales I weave in and out of reality, fiction and literary license. Familiar criminal details I gleaned while speed-reading through Officer Octuck's boxed files ending up here upon a canvas splattered with real stinky paints.

We will never encapsulate nor credit you coppers, what you've sacrificed in blood, cartilage and guts. Oh yeah, misspent sperm and lost opportunities harvesting delicious younger women whose beauty is unfortunately wasted upon the young. In summation of your payments in pain, stress and familial frustration, and poorly aimed ejaculations, our shit-ass lives add up to these pathetic shambles we've got left. Fuck, it's a damn shame that you only had one life to give for your job, village and state. And thinking of the genetic improvements you contribbed to rural Alaska, only two testicles. It's no fucking mystery why us assholes got several boroughs and villages (and countries) chasing our shit for child-support. Child support that's a few million years in arrears.

Now watch how I build my stories. It ain't no secret that they start from an of honestly sketched kernel, a seed of truth that steadily grows into a gigantic bullshit tree. Before I conclude this lecture, you'll see that none of my police tales and reproductive stories ever get smaller with retelling. This you know. Our collective memory is far too accurate. The sharp edges, burnt skin and torn scalps never dull over time, but my stupid humor eases the stomach you get investigating homicide crime scenes and the subsequent collection of grisly bits of hair, semen, blood (spattered and droplets) and the odor of poor humans injured to death, then abandoned to freeze, or ripen to sour. With some heavy lifting, I'll transition from the grim, the blunt into my silly wit normally found in child-care centers for autistic Finns or a detention facility for Nordic mongoloids like us. Dumb and funny.

Transferring from the Mat-Su Narc Squad to the Kiana (down-river triangle) VPSO posting, I received a really nice recommendation from my bosses, Troopers Tyler and Bleicher. There words typed in my review were that I had an extremely thorough understanding of Alaska Statutes and damn near photographic memory of important details in my case work. My after-action reports and debriefs listing names, faces and important details regarding locations of firearms, egress and hidey-holes and ambush hazards important for warrant searches and breaching premises. All while buying drugs with state monies, consuming some too.

I suffer from an iron-clad memory and my heavy drinking and mountainous marijuana consumption hasn't given me a speck of relief, my detailed recall stays far too sharp and still stabs my guts at this end of my life. Some of the shit we seen is too awful to look at again, then describe in this email. Just a few weeks ago, after I heard my brother Cully died from excess drink, I secretly prayed for early on-set Alzheimer's to dilute and wash away graphic childhood scenes we shared together and similar to what you've felt and witnessed in your investigations. My storied horrors have a starting date over 60 years ago and pick up speed and intensity after working with you lot. A bunch of fucking cops in the same boat.

You see, you lucid animals are part of an extinct era and reciting Alaska history is like a nostalgic trip to your own backyard, rural Alaska. I guess mine too. I get to pick the brains of you coppers regarding long ago events, recent shit and police assignments. I also include historical data of our more enjoyable yet uncooperative pussy and forced intercourse events. This composite meat grinder output is a mixture of fetching news stories from the Helsinki Sanomat, Arctic Sounder, Skagit Valley Mirror and UAF Anthropology textbooks and researching violent crime stories and forced breeding patterns across boroughs, demography and centuries. My job is to paint landscapes in your warped imaginations carefully shoveling leaking body cavities, limbs, teeth, and hair around the old squad room until we're knee-deep in cigarette butts and coffee grinds. And hot shell casings.

These confidential details I've boiled and rendered from decomposed sit-reps and after-action reports are my ingredients flowing freely into these postings. Like fucking diarrhea. Planet Tagruk is a real place and time, but I've skimmed heaps of bullshit and vaginal discharge off yer tactical optics that pleasantly blinded us ass-raping subhuman creatures in uniform since fucking forever. Simply put, scrape pussy and poop crust, then our nostalgia allows us to forget the things that really sucked. And smelled. Planet Tagruk is a theme park decorated with nightmares I pulled outa yer ass and tickets come with a free side-order of South Tent City hatchet and gunpowder genocide, penile ethnic cleansing, snuff-rape and highly ethical hetro-porn. I frayed my best paint brushes, but these images should be clear enough now.

Have a clue fuckers, my typing is faster than chatting, thus allowing you rusty killers to recall fond memories of lethal-breeding and comic forced-entry. For your convenience, you can read these postings at your leisure, on-duty while appearing to look just like regular work-related emails without snooping butt fuckers looking over yer shoulder. Again, talk is cheap and phone calls can be overheard by other stupid cops. Email may be old-stool and old-fashioned, but has proved safest and can be retrieved and re-read from your password protected folders, saving us from asshole coworkers, marginally literate children and menopausal spousal prosecution.

Don't forget our retarded resumes. With so many warrants, court orders, evidence recordings and wire taps on our phones in every village all over fucking Alaska, we can never again phone for reservations at Asian massage parlors for rub and tugs, blow-jobs with deep-throat swallows, premium seats at cocaine dens and private wine-tastings at your local grow-ops and meth labs. With these criminal postings and criminal details sourced for my scribbling, we'd never get to the really good shit, without getting a nosy state trooper interrupting us on the phone line ordering "You guys quit fucking around! Pick up your guns and get back to work!"

As posted before, we fail to forgive those we've hurt the most. Don't feel bad. Our memories of innumerable young women have crumbling and decaying blank spots in them and even late tonight, we'll gaze at faded photos of naked girls we loved, now stored at the bottoms of ink wells we've dipped our dicks. We've all piles of micro-dot spy photos of beautiful faces, boobs and legs contained in microscopic movies of wonderful bedroom events that never quite rinse out of our souls.

Examine our internal battles with our selfish chromosomal genes. If we took marching orders from our DNA, we would've been infamous vaginal tunnel rats mining ovarian treasures, scrambling eggs, drowning tonsils, painting cervical targets and detonating deep-sea depth charges. Okay, I'm lying. We've almost always dutifully followed orders from our over-stuffed, DNA infused, spermatozoa bags and raped village rats, sexy FAS retards and fertile women with boobs that inflate as we push deeper and expand right before our eyes.

The proof of your crimes against humanity is a million cuckold men that gotta strap boards across their asses to prevent falling in. I saw our pictures in my anthropology books and we were victorious in battling a million hairy ape-like humans and we also succeeded in out-swimming millions of our own sperm. Wait, it's worse. We also succeeded in out-swimming millions of other mens' sperm too. In review, the only complaints I hear from the prehistoric girls you coppers fucked was that it really hurt.

"What's the difference between a rural Alaska cop and a pit bull?" "A pit bull won't stay up all night fucking a village cop." For a young man, doing a 1-2 year tour of police duty in third world Alaska, made a man out of you. Staying decades longer has made something else out of us. Peel back the layers of hominid, amphibian and reptilian brain matter, we find flexing violent scrotum. Now look in the mirror. Northern Europeans possess pert near 6% Neanderthal DNA and this violent genetic command structure has no restraint nor consideration for consequences and if we're surrounded by pretty young women, our fangs lengthen and we regress back to walking on our hind legs.

Our wives are fading and shrinking and our predatory breeding behaviors will be erroneously rewarded with totally bogus headstone etchings virtuous. We promise our spouses that we'll never stray but when separated by clean sheets, foreign languages, off continent bedrooms and wooden dreams, monogamy and celibacy aren't easy virtues to take into the nocturnal hours. Without the company of warm naked girls speaking languages we can't understand, vigorously vacuuming our over-sized punching bags, sleeping alone becomes the cousin of death.

We ain't the only motherfuckers that spread our DNA across oceans. Combat stress and rotating police duties can drive a man into the arms, legs and birth canals of beautiful women with names we never knew. Evidence right in front of your face is the number of mixed-bleed children surrounding the closed-down Air Force bases all over rural Alaska, with Kotzebue being no different. Old man Richard lived down the hallway from me and bun's senior center apartment. Dig this, he compared his years in Vietnam to my years working with a bunch of cops. You fuckers were also in combat and produced a shit load of extra-marital mud-strays that look an awful lot like you. Rural Alaskan cops will often ask,"how's yer wife and my kids."

Richard pulled out a box of loose photos and shared pictures of pretty girls and Vietnam War photos of him and his buddies, 50 years ago and continents away. One photo I wished I'd kyped and scanned to post online was a crumbling black and white photo of him and his teenage war buddies from his outfit. They were just fucking kids still in their shit-soaked uniforms, rifles, rucks and sidearms holding beers and cigs embracing delicious Asian babes grinning shitty like motherfuckers. Instead of his uniform, my buddy Richard is wearing a blood-caked Smokey The Bear t-shirt emblazoned "Agent Orange. Only you can prevent forests."

I asked Richard what he remembers of his battling alongside South Vietnamese soldiers, fighting the North Viet Cong in a brutal proxy guerrilla battle against the Chinese. He looked at me, then smiled and confided with me that Vietnamese girls still light his fuse, "cuz like Japanese pussy, there's barely enough legroom for an amputee." Looking at his high school age war buddies and their concubine sugar cooters, he sadly admitted that all those smiling boys in that photo were horribly killed and sent home in flag-draped coffins, except him. Richard stated that our American soldiers didn't get killed in Vietnam accidentally, because in actuality, he tearfully confessed, that he survived the war, accidentally.

He speculated that war atrocities can also stimulate baby booms. After World War I and WWII we witnessed huge baby booms, the largest being from 1946-1966 that resulted in the births of us dumb asses. When yer brother comes home in a box, the survivors rub their groinulars, grab their crotch rockets and engorged pockets, and get busy. America also had significant spikes in birth rates after the Korean War, the Vietnam War and even a notable bump after the 911 terror attacks. Richard joked and declared that with a bottle of whiskey or cheerleader beer (sickly sweet wine coolers) a boy could ignite a fire in his girlfriend's panties by simply buying tickets to a slasher movie. Girls love horror flicks and so do our hard dry boners.

He elaborated that even today, contrary to Hollywood's bullshit fictional accounts, when he recalls the airborne shredded body parts, blood-soaked muds and shit-painted faces, "I feel something's being torn inside me, like doing an autopsy on me while I'm still alive." Wars are recorded by the victors (and rapists), not the pregnant vanquished. Newspapers and books published today, repaint inaccurately, events rotting below the ground, years long past. My buddy Richard paused, looked out the window for a second, then stated that when it comes to a soldier's stories about combat, "Only the truth exists: falsehoods need to be invented." From the look on Richard's face, the truth was unspeakably awful.

My now deceased Vietnam Veteran Marine buddy Richard did share some unspeakable shit to me. He and his troop were shot all to hell and retreated out of VC mortar range. They'd come across a river and filled their canteens, washed their boots, feet and clothes, and burns and cuts, then camped the night after quenching their thirsts. That following morning they followed the river and marched toward their air base. A few clicks upriver they found hundreds of dead, bloated and rotting American and South Vietnamese soldiers floating, leaking and stinking in the same river they just slaked their thirsts and washed in. My only comment was that in Shungnak, the water tastes a lot like that.

Richard admitted that he worried about dysentery shits and stomach worms, but stated that as they continued marching towards their air base, they came across dozens of flooded rice paddies that were choked with even more dead humans of every nationality, with hundreds of dogs eating the corpses. A villager whistled and started walking back to his hootch with that whole pack of dogs running and barking after him, fat and happy, and ready to be sorted out. What I mean by sorted out was the entire village picked the healthiest and happiest dogs, cut their throats and proceeded to butcher and eat them. It's a crime and a sin to be cannibals, but it's totally cool to feed yer dogs on tons of human meat burger, then eat the fucking dogs.

Over the last 50 years since we evacuated American troops out of Vietnam in 1975, over 2,000 US soldiers have been unaccounted for. We've etched over 58,000 names on the Vietnam Memorial Wall, but the missing in action numbers are still searched for. Richard has given numerous interviews to Department of Defense teams investigating these missing soldiers, taking statements and testimony from those soldiers who witnessed the deaths or capture of American GI's. He has examined dozens of maps and aerial photos and marked where he saw his buddies and unit comrades got shot or blown apart and even did his best to recall their names, their outfits and the ranks of the tattered uniforms they had on the moment they took enemy fire.

Richard recited figures of over 3 million North Vietcong were killed and more than 2 million South Vietnamese became dog food, crow bait and pond scum. The 58,000 dead US GI's and the 2,000 MIA soldiers are the statistical calamity that survivors believe their return home was the rarest of odds and hence feel their accidental existence after the war is a mistake or undue gift. Years later, a guilt-ridden curse. I walked to the kitchen and filled his coffee mug, gave him a bottle of Hennessy Cognac and let him freely pour his non-dairy coffee creamer. As the apartment quieted and he drank generous measures of his coffee royal, we both heard Bun crying, alone in her sewing room. She's got a long list of native classmates from her Indun boarding schools that fought, died and remain missing to this day. American soldiers aren't the only ones that lost friends in combat. Old native women got a long list of abbreviated romances and entire lives destroyed, no longer around to visit, fall in love with again and go dance Pow-Wows with.

These paragraphs from Vietnam are word-for-word transcriptions, cuz like you fuckers, no matter how we tell the tales of fighting, and your careers working shit-hole rural Alaska, ain't nobody gonna record nor believe the truth. I've repeated to a hunnert civilian faggots about a call-out requesting emergency assistance because a little Eskimo kid riding in his plastic sled, being pulled around Kiana by his older brother driving the family snow machine. The rope snagged the sno-go track and pulled the plastic sled and little brother in and under the snow machine frame, crushing and shredding the little brother between the track the seat above him.

I got the alert over CB radio at the VPSO office and Rudy Hecker was doing paperwork in the magistrate's office next door. He said, "oh shit," grabbed his jacket and followed me to the location. The boy's feet were sticking out of the gap between the track and the seat and was crying his heart out. We tried to lift the snow machine and expand the suspension to pull the boy out but he was stuffed and packed in their too fucking tight. I had most of the community helping me, but the kid died from flail chest, meaning suffocation from crushed lungs and drowning in broken ribs.

Rudy Hecker was a retired trooper and the village magistrate so when the village health-aide shook her head, looked at her watch and called it, Rudy made note of the time of death for his records. You'd think we could call in for a medivac air-lift, but even the volunteer firefighter helping us shook his head after failing to find any pulse. The firefighter and health-aide refused my efforts of CPR due to his broken shards of bones and massive abdominal trauma. He congratulated me and the health aide, announcing that our efforts were valiant, albeit in vain.

To commemorate our efforts, Kiana's fire chief went back home and over the CB radio told the village of Kiana that the VPSO and the Manilaq health-aide deserved commendations for freeing that little kid and attempting life-saving measures. Rudy Hecker also put in kind words with Trooper Dial and Kozloff when they flew in to take possession of the body, take testimony and statements. Both Dial and Kozloff entered the VPSO office and caught me wiping my eyes. At Hecker's insistence, I got a commendation in my file. To this day, even writing tonight at round midnight, I hate crying around cops.

To add insult to my injury, telling my personal testimony about failing to revive a little native boy that got smashed and ground to shit on the track under a sno-go, I've gotten scowls from crispy stink-biddies and crotchety old wet-farts at the senior center. I've even gotten scoffs, huffs, denials and disputes from these lower 48 raisins when I tell them about the scary number of crashed airplanes, the number of dogs rural cops shoot every year, the number of hangers VPSO's cut down and the drowned or frozen corpses rural Alaska police and fire retrieve annually. Them old dried shrunken newbie 907 dried fruit roll-ups believe they can dispute your work histories. Alaska's history too. I fucking hate newly arriving old Medicaid, Senior Benefits ($250 per month longevity bonus), AHFC housing voucher, heating and energy assistance and PFD poverty nigger fucking pensioner tourists.

Most libraries carry bullshit about Alaska's vanishing tribes and languages and myths of noble savages. We were there to improve shit, with guns and dicks. Yet with questionable results. The majority sub-dirt fatalities are due to alcoholism, suicides, alcohol-related injuries and homicides. When two colliding ethnic groups want to make two different worlds, I see violence as the only remedy with our current rural Alaska communities resting upon heaps of dead men. And we only killed some of 'em.

History is built upon surviving offspring from frisky females but not their dead boyfriends' stacked bones and churned human shit. After fucking monkeys, then niggers, we fled dark hairy African stank-pussy, chasing other breeds of new snatch in the form of older, more ancient lippy, now long-dead obsolete hominids. Like Neanderthal and some interesting smelling biscuit called Cro-Magnon and Australopithecus. Entire cave civilizations went gone missing after we fucked and killed them. This murderous pursuit of red bush or blond haired quiff drew us males out of equatorial pussy northward to flavors and scents we just had to taste, sniff and inseminate. Some by force. History seldom progresses upon consensual sex.

Imagine a massive steamroller of humanity flooding out of the African continent, chasing sexy little runts with body odors that flared our nostrils and lengthened our bone spears. No shit. Do a self-check and take a look at our running away from stink-hillbilly white cunt, way north to poison native clootch with our bigger dicks and testicular gush. The children gimping all over Barrow are far darker, shorter and see out of chinked blinking peepers. Then look at the thousands of round-eye half-niffs piling out our own bedrooms after we unsheathed our big tools stowed unsafely in quick-draw penis holsters.

As us men rally towards newer gash to fuck, we also kill everything else in pursuit. We don't exterminate men of military age, we smoke them due to their breeding age. Who wants smaller brown dicks fucking up our trim. To prove my own propensity for harvesting foreign vaginal treats, my DNA holds evidence of my historical rape. My DNA reads like a serial rapist's sexual assault criminal record, I got way too much Neanderthal alongside lineages of prehistoric races of hairy subhumans in my genetic code. Looks like I fucked lots of cave dwellers. Their women too.

Northern Europeans possess much higher levels of ancient DNA from long exterminated and vanished species of human beings. Which seems to indicate that we first fucked them, then hiked away with tiny herds following our pied piping. These newer, taller, smarter, GMO babies followed our troops like farm animals, killing their own spawned-out birth mommies in our wake. You see, all newly discovered races of Homo-Sapien are fair game fer fucking. Cannibalize the males, lick the females, then spear their fine flavored soul kitchens with fresher more plentiful ingredients. Don't tell any women though. If our ass-raping secrets leak out, they'll figure our shit out that longer dicks impregnate more often and whole races of invading rapists have been absorbed way up inside their shivering gaped swollen vaginas.

The last of Earth's long dead sapiens from our Paleolithic parties and cave man orgies are stored in code, way deep in our gonad bags and inside our favorite concubine's delicious labia. Sketching these paragraphs fills me with the urge to foist my dick upon terrified little girls in college dorms, high school showers and even inside adult day cares and force feed 'em my Super-Soaker. Survival of the species don't happen with tiny dicks that spit micro-droplets. You're living proof that sperm lasts 20,000 centuries when it's sprayed all over African pygmies and European Eustachian chew toys like a fire hose. By the tank full.

Imagine our 2 million year trek fleeing nigger pussy in the barf-crotches of Earth's earliest humans, stinking up the Olduvai Gorge, porking everything with titties en route, exterminating their shitty skinny-dicked husbands and boyfriends, finally arriving on the European continent to find blond Norwegian and Finnish girls running full speed to greet us. That there is a mass exodus with a tasty reception. And side-order of intercourse. My male ego and self-esteem surrounding my penis is both play-thing, and murder weapon. Male humans are so cool. Standing upright, habitually bipedal Homo-Erectus motherfuckers, opposable thumbs and grasping hands to better aim our DNA-rich hydraulic glob injectors. Gentlemen, start fucking. Between our hairy hind legs, we crossed continents marching on our dicks, leaving slug tracks and skid marks longer than 2000 millenia.

If a young girl asked you where all the extinct species of humans went to, just drop yer trousers and heft out yer Johnson and inject her with TMI (too much information), plug in yer USB port, cum a load and drive it home. My point being, we're gonna breed you prettier, smarter and taller. Now go pork her sister and momma. I prefer half-breed babies when they look like me. If they don't, stomp on 'em. My secret to surviving this long is by pushing aside ancient citizens of the former countries subsisting there and dilating their cervix working the pussy hotel, earning room, board and torn foreskin providing invaluable womb service. Our dicks saved the world.

Displacing whole herds of poor indigenous human beings is called ethnic cleansing. Killing them wholesale is simply genocide. We've seen this mixture during the westward expansion of the United States. We also diluted and absorbed Indun DNA while quoting Manifest Destiny, justifying forced aboriginal intercourse. With American expansion north, south and west, we assigned new nationalities to Mexicans, French Canadians, and Natives. Meaning, not them, but their mixed-mud children. The Oregon Territory was purchased, Louisiana was purchased, Texas, New Mexico, Arizona and California were seized by force and Alaska was bought for a penny per acre. And us tall white guys fucked everything in site. And smell.

We're all half slave and half tyrannical rapist, but nationality reassignment and ethnic cleansing is preferable to genocide. Examine the half-lives of our native neighbors and in-laws. Ethnic cleansing moved our Alaskan Natives away from urban centers, returning home with larger white babies and vaginas. Big city genocide pours out of a bottle. Village ethnic cleansing pours out of taller Euro-trash porn-star donkey balls. Next century, Alaskan natives will shackle their own dumber, shorter and darker family members with orders to "put the slaves on cruise control, I've got a fucking hair appointment." How cool is that. Even surviving stink-nates got bigger, smarter nads.

Our blended DNA contains all the world's extinct cave dwellers' chromosomes and newer modern Homo Sapiens skin, eye and hair color. We've also unknowingly dragged some genetic problems in our ball bags along our 2 million year-long trail of rape. Norse motherfuckers raped the world like livestock, but also inherited a genetic intolerance for liquor. Don't think for a minute Natives are the only ethnic and racial group that instantly dissolves in an alcoholic bubble bath. The number one cause of death for the Nordic tribes ages 18-55 is alcohol poisoning and alcohol-related fatalities.

We're talking alcohol injuries and acute alcohol intoxication as prelude to departing this planet. I oft point a stinky finger at drunken natives, but the Nordic propensity to croak fucked-up, frozen and broken due to alcoholism is equally legendary. Another proof of historic rape concealed in our swinging meat is Diabetes. Yup, northern Europeans lead the world in Type I Diabetes. Not the fat-ass obesity diabetes that can be handled with sick-butt pills, but the kind where the pancreas just fucking dies and we're forced to replace it's function with thrice daily injections of Insulin.

The research is still pending and we've no clear explanation for our Northern European rape-happy pancreas' failure and expiration. The scientific consensus has determined a flawed strand of DNA we've carried from our long dead 75,000 year old cave artists' great-great grandmothers. Or more likely, exposure to viruses working at rural Alaska village police departments. I blame my near-death sobriety and insulin addiction on the million years of aboriginal pussy I raped. Pussy that still stinks my beard and dyes it red.

Speaking of red beards, I've a true story about the hazards of having girls tag along on bear hunts: whilst on their periods. My bunnik and Grandma Magdelene were telling me a story about hunting with Charlie and Kenny and two other families, across the bay near Sisolik. Three boats departed from 704 Front Street and booked across Kotzebue Sound, heading to camp located on one of the Tikik native allotments. The mission was to pick berries, scout for caribou or geese and bag anything within the reach of small caliber rifles.

The boys and fathers booked out early to go hunting and the girls and moms stayed near camp and picked tons of berries. Okay, not tons, but easily more than a couple hunnert pounds worth. Near dusk, after regrouping at camp, the men and ladies could hear a super loud pair of roaring bears near their berry patch. The men grabbed rifles and booked flat out towards the fighting bears. What they found was probably worse than any nightmare you and I have ever witnessed. One of the young girls was on the ground being torn apart by two large bears. Both bears weren't eating the poor girl, just digging and clawing the kid's head and lower abdomen.

The bears appeared to behave like dogs digging in dirt, but roto-tilling the shit outa that poor girl with their front paws. After shooting a few rounds off and scaring the bears away, the poor girl was missing her face and scalp and her ass and crotch were shredded and dug away. She'd been on her period and the bears got pissed off. Pissed off major and were gonna kill the bitch flaring the nostrils of land mammals for miles around. I asked what happened to the poor native girl, Magdelene said they buried her there. In 1954 Alaska didn't have police departments, search and rescue, nor troopers. "We just bury her. Nothing else we could do. We can't put her in the boat. Bad luck. Then we gotta burn our good boat." I was dumbfounded and speechless.

After I got over the queasy puke feeling hearing Magdalene's gag-worthy tale, I told my spouse and her tough-ass mom about a weird menstrual event that happened up north near the Skagit River in Washington State. A lady called the State Patrol and reported that she killed her husband. She stabbed him numerous times in the chest and abdomen because he was another Pacific Northwest serial killer and she found his collection of trophies.

She was cleaning out the big freezer in the garage and found two large boxes without labels, so she opened them. She found them filled with used tampons and Kotex pads. She flipped out and accused him that night and he didn't have a chance to pull an answer out his ass. She just killed his ass, chop-chop. The State Patrol investigation revealed that he worked at the local high school as janitorial and maintenance, just like my job at the District Office in Kotzebue. What was later discovered was that since you cannot flush feminine napkins, he emptied the tampon and Kotex pad collection bins, but didn't pour the contents in the trash and take it to the dumpster. He kept them all and filled his stash boxes in the bottom of his big chest freezer in the garage.

What he declined to tell his wife was that since he was an avid bear hunter, possessed current hunting licenses and bear permits, the appropriate tree hide equipment and the correct rifles for bear hunting. He'd kept the 2 large boxes of used tampons and rusted pads to use as bear bait during the next hunting season, just a few months away. His wife found his morbid bear baiting stash, and like angry bears, fucked his shit up with a kitchen knife and opened his heart, lungs and major arteries. She had no idea about the practical usefulness of keeping such shitty bleeding used cotton and paper products in his freezer.

She went berserk and assumed he was fucking girls at the high school, or raping and killing them, keeping trophies in the same Washington fashion all us boys were trained. Grandma Magdelene and Bun haven't looked at me the same way since. His wife didn't spend more than a few days in the clink. This occurred in 1982, during the height of Washington's Green River Killer, Ted Bundy and unsolved dead baby rapings statewide. The DA opted out of prosecuting her.

Now back to my rapist's history lesson. If you're clan looks closely in the mirror, then compares their facial bone structure to a chink or nigger, they might breathe a sigh of relief and thanks that upside-down reverse discrimination works towards their profit. Survival and profit are the impetus us early white settlers happily paid our marital aboriginal minorities' grandmas with sweeter pussy and bigger, tastier boobs. The last pure-blood natives are frozen below ground, over a hunnert years ago. Everything since, is blended skin tones, bigger brains and bigger nad-packages. And body odors.

On this current reincarnation cyclic rotation and world-wide shorty nigger displacement, I was born a generation too late. If yer author on drugs was in the decision mix mere generations earlier, we'd be working with and married to foul smelling white frontier reeking colony women and pumping out retarded white prairie-dull children. Wait, that's a gross notion, cuz in this paragraph, with a new set of brushes and pallet board of stinky paints, I just recreated a colonial carbon copy of Palmer, Alaska. Fuck that shit, I'm gonna puke. I hate Valley Trash pussy. It stinks and wrecked my car seats.

If you want to learn history first-hand, force your teacher over her desk, tear off her panties and fuck her. Deeply. Once you've flooded and cooled her red snapper, hop into a coin-operated time machine and you'd see our ancestries running this weird shit-show putting all yer in-laws in harnesses and enslaving them like white orphans, Red Skins, Chinese Coolies and African slaves. When this option exhausted it's usefulness, our great-grandparents would've chosen to liquidate entire subsections of hominid subspecies deemed not genetically sufficient nor economically viable. My grandpa paid good money to enter the Edmonds, Washington fairgrounds, eat cotton candy and candy apples while watching darkie gimper-dudes dance at the end of a rope. WTF, ugly minorities and worn-out whores bitch if we straightened their spines with fresh rope or blew their guts out with new guns.

"Keep yer powder dry and yer dick hard, and the world will turn." You see, being truthful about human history is really fucking gross. Albeit funny as shit, but gross. All this talk about rape, slavery, ethnic cleansing and genocide makes me hungry. And horny too.

I've often told fine young women, "I promise I won't cum in your mouth. But if do, eating sperm will give you bigger boobs." Don't think this over too much, but when I pass really pretty women with large breasted heavenly cleaved grand melons, I think my sperm might've built those wonderful piles of roundness. I also feel excited when given a chance to bust a nut in smaller breasted babes, "smaller the tit, the more the monkey." History wasn't thought out very well nor planned with any thinking, cuz a stiff dick ain't got no conscience. Fairy tales, well, are for fairies. Don't blame yer mindless extra-large tools, pretty school-age girls are just like us, they have an IQ no greater than their yawning, drooling, hungry vaginas.

Open wide and say "Ah." Wow, that felt good. Too much information can make sounds like a belch, burp or fart and surplus forensic evidence is commonly wiped offa my dick and onto your drapes. And your bed sheets. Sorry, I hate to dine and dash, rape and run, kiss and tell, but it's my nature. I got way too much Neanderthal DNA forcing me to only think with my dick.

Who's the fairest of them all? I've been attributed the quote that "I had a duty to service that booty." Holy fuck, where did all these babies come from?

Gentlemen, start yer engines.

Karl.

You could learn a lot from a dummy.

Top of the morning gents,

Dr. David Porter. my old boss at UAF, questioned my intelligence and doubted my common sense. He was right you know, I've got neither. After finding a buyer for the Bush Pilot Bar and Grill to the NANA Regional Corporation (earning 5% of $1.4 million) he asked me why I insist on working aside all these police. Police he viewed as highly trained robots and nowhere near clever as yer dummer author on drugs. He was chatting with me about fallout after the Date-Rape Drug Bust that Nush and I undertook on the UAF Campus a couple years before. His male chauvinist joke was that due to my hunnert girl-buds, chick-pals and dudettes, I'd experimented with GHB and Rohipnol on scads of barely legal tasty babes before making any arrests. My involvement in this case remained secret and I stayed mum and anonymous, but the raid had a sensational impact on the campus and sent shock waves across thousands of college age kids. And accolades from their parents statewide. "Karl, when did you develop such a hyperactive sense of responsibility?" My answer was village-based, personal and kept private. Dummy up.

He further asserted that, "In life, Proust says we end up doing for a living, whatever we do second best." If I might have done other work better, I'll fucking never know. I've since heard old man Porter spout a bit of wisdom that states, "The career finds the man, not the other way around." What the fuck, I wasn't always a paid narc and disruptor to the peace and dignity of the Great State of Alaska. My first childhood jobs were delivering newspapers at o' dark thirty, milking goats and pet slaughter, then working as a gas-jockey at R&R Automotive. I hear your snide thoughts, besides fucking farm animals, I also pumped Ethyl.

Due to so many fiery explosions at filling stations, Washington was the last of the states that allowed customers to pump their own gas. At R&R Automotive I ran out to greet motorists pulling up to the pump, take their requests (fill 'er up, check the oil, wash the windshield) and no matter the year, make and model, filled their tanks with the higher priced Super, or Premium grade fuel. My boss, old man Bob Jones explained that no human alive can outsmart the oil companies and you get exactly what you pay for.

The octane ratings were only consumer selling points, but anti-knock compounds, anti-foaming agents, moisture control, upper cylinder lubrication, corrosion inhibitors, carburetor cleaners, fuel system detergents, gum, varnish and sludge solvents and fuel injector cleaning agents are in a much higher concentration with Super/Premium grades of fuel. Some top-grade fuels, such as Chevron and Shell, put 14 and 12 (respectively) fuel conditioning additives in their products to achieve their proprietary burn profiles and performance characteristics. Regular fuel is cheap because it's missing most of the additives that are real fucking expensive. And for your information, gas stations only make a few pennies on each gallon they sell. The real money is in repairs and auto parts, and in later decades, coffee and shitty food.

My father drove mid-60's Volvos and an old 1959 Triumph TR-3 sports car and the minimum octane of 100 was published in the owners manuals. To accommodate these fuel requirements, my dad recommended we pump Texaco Sky Chief 104 octane or Union 76 of the same rating. Conventional (regular) American fuels clattered, back-fired and idled roughly after shutting off the engine (dieseling). I know, weekend mechanics can retard the timing by moving the distributor back a notch, but that usually reduced horsepower and fuel economy. Let's be real, them old Volvos and Triumphs didn't have any horsepower to spare. They were 2.0 liter (121 cubic inch) 4-cylinder engines equipped with twin SU carburetors and needed all the help they could get.

My dad'd yell at us kids whenever we pumped regular grade fuel and periodically checked the credit card receipts to enforce his orders. Besides, we all had credit cards for fueling up the family's half-dozen autos and trucks. What the fuck, he paid the gasoline bills, so it weren't no skin off our asses. This generosity with the fuel expenses from my parent's money allowed me to fuel up my buddy's cars (with Leaded Premium/Super) up to the normal number of gallons my parents' cars consumed during an average fill-up. Some American cars during that era had giant fuel tanks so I limited my fill-ups to within normal Volvo tank capacities when I filled my buddies' beaters and muscle cars.

Yes, it was a childish scam I committed, buying for my dudes, grade premium fuel with my dad's credit card. This scheme allowed me to facilitate outings with my dudes, driving fucked up all over Seattle smoking green bud and drinking green beer. That was my contrib, I'd chip in a tank of Hi-Test Ethyl hot-rod gasoline while my other buddies happily loaded bowls of weed and poured liquor or beer. Fuck, upstate Washington even had early innovator gas stations that sold beer and wine, so on the way north to my grandpa's 7-lakes property, we gassed up the automobile, and gassed ourselves up too, on my dad's gas station credit card.

Back then, we called shitty service station that sold snacks, "choke and pukes." Nowadays, we got gas stations that sell rotten sushi, hard dry sandwiches, sour mayo moldy potato salad and junk food. I'm queasy just listing these shitty double-barrel barf/diarrhea inducing inventories. Just to be safe, on long drives, I only purchase coffee that's still dripping and angrily refuse old burnt shit. Coffee expires mere minutes within brewing, this I know, it was my duty to brew high-dollar boutique caffeine mud for my parents, friends, coworkers, cops, professors, computer lab-rat cohorts at UAF and now my spouse of over a hunnert years.

An employee benefit as a gas jockey, old man Bob Jones at R&R Automotive let me bring my junkers into the shop for repairs on evenings and weekends, if I brought beer. Lifting the cylinder head offa my 66 Dodge Dart (225 slant six), he'd loosen the head bolts, then look at me, Larson and Cully and state, "Now we find out if Karl has been burning shitty gasoline." Upon lifting the cylinder head and examining the underside, he'd smile and declare, "Well fuck me running, looks like he's been taking my advice." Apparently mechanics can tell if yer a cheap git and pumping regular crappy gasoline from the carbon deposits on the intake and exhaust valve seats and hard white ash welded to the spark plugs and spherical combustion chamber.

I paid attention to that old man, he was my boss, creditor for auto parts, repairs and fuel, and surrogate father to all us tenants and beer guards at Lem's Mortuary and Crack House. Come on fuckers, I was barely old enough to vote, drink and sell drugs. He hired me part-time for years. If I finished prepping an exterior paint job and had a few hours until I had to return the power-washer, I blast the front lot, dump out powdered detergents, then spray out the shop floor and bays.

Aside from my regular duties pumping gas, old man Bob Jones would direct me to haul the old batteries and rusty used radiators to the recyclers and for payment, let me keep all the proceeds. During the late 70's and early 80's, prior to opening Red Dog, lead was almost as valuable as copper is today. $5.00 for every auto battery and straight weight for radiators on the scale. Some days I'd add bags of aluminum beer cans and cases of returnable beer bottles and earned over a hunnert bucks. Decades ago, that was rent, food and seed money for bulk cake purchases. Figure it out.

As I drew near my last year in Washington and mere months away from fleeing to Kotzebue, my boss's son Keely Jones shot himself, in his car, out front of my house after a chronic chemical party. I never worked at R&R Automotive again. Old man Bob Jones couldn't even look at me and not start crying. It seems the blood work came back with near-lethal levels of alcohol and cocaine, and a .41 magnum round mushroomed through his head like Butch Lincoln Sr. In his car, in my front yard. I should've towed the car around the corner and down the block and across the continent. And dumped the fucker somewhere else, like Michigan.

I can't dwell on dying friends and little brothers much longer. Looking back, none of my job offerings were consciously accepted. I usually took any work that was offered to me. Construction and rehabilitation of old buildings and houses (U-District Seattle, parent's rentals and Kotzebue unnuk shacks), fish guts and crab slime (Dutch, Cold Bay, D-ham) mopping puke, wrestling drunks and dragging immiktuks into jail cells (KPD), dummy patrol with Mashburn, Dickie Moto and Marvin Ramoth (VPSO), narc werk (AST statewide, North Slope PD and SUPO overseas), inventory (AC Harware OTZ), expediter (AC Barrow) accounting (KBRW Radio and City of Galena), selling retail lumber and building materials (KIC Lumber and Hardware), selling snogo parts (Northwest MotorSports), hauling office furniture from the Eskimo Building to the Pilituq Center (National Park Service and LIO) and mixed in with these follies, buying and selling drugs. Dummy me, rarely with approval from a bunch of fucking cops.

My buying and selling drugs blurred the lines between private subsistence missions and state sanctioned operations. I've seen DA chins drop, mouths stunned open and sheer surprise explaining my decades of smuggling odorless sheets of LSD inside dog kennels, mailed within CD packaging and even inserted inside my billfold. During grand jury on the Capone Narc job, I was completely candid with District Attorneys Benedetto and Garner about my rampant retail sale of acid to citizens, criminals, cab drivers, bootleggers and drug merchants within their jurisdictional districts. The jaws fell, the mouths caught flies and the faces colored in the same fashion as I kept my poker face slack displaying zero smirk. In my peripheral vision, I've seen my oversight uniforms groan and lean forward into their hands upon the tables on my side of the courtroom. What the fuck, I'm under oath, why start lying now.

During my contract work with Mat-Su Narcotics, I was scrutinized for engaging in blatant criminal activity, days and minutes prior to signing up. During recess at trial, taking a break in my court hearings about a string of my own minor offenses I incurred, Judge Beverly Cutler took a brief break in her chambers to discuss the Narc Squad's efforts to dismiss my driving violations, drug possession beefs and blatantly false accusations of engaging in illegal criminal activity. Like selling meth and blow to bikers and hillbillies, at a tidy profit. Judge Cutler told Troopers Tim Bleicher and Bill Tyler that, "It's my view that a healthy streak of criminality in an undercover operative's background never did your cases any harm." "I see he grew up hard school, could be useful, but I caution you gentlemen to proceed very carefully."

After all my guys were convicted and sentences were handed down, the defendants all claimed unlawful enforcement and entrapment because I was breaking the law. Yup, what a bunch of fucking dipshits. The dismissal of these charges came to light after felony convictions in all the drug investigations my bosses directed me to facilitate: with state monies. Their appeals were filed on the notion that I can't engage in criminal activities while contracted to do narc work for the State of Alaska.

My supervisors at Mat-Su Narcs did a spread sheet on the dates these alleged crimes my defendants claim I committed had occurred and it was clear I was neck-deep in the drug scene prior to my hiring. Upon signing the contracts and going to work for the cops, I stopped growing pot, selling meth and blow and as you can guess, I was a born-again squeaky-clean narc. At that moment, my shit was now free of worms, cysts and maggots. Yummy.

Whenever possible, I even resisted consuming drugs while wearing a wire with my uniforms nearby eavesdropping. On occasion, my target sellers would delay or decline our business arrangement, voicing loud and clear I wasn't leaving the premises without my best wine tasting and mucous mass-spec analysis by shoving spoonfuls of crushed window shards up me snout. On a few trooper buys, they'd pull their pistols, cycle a round into the chamber, direct the barrel at my face and again, ask nicely, that I do a line of product and verify the quality of their wares. Courts, troopers and juries are extraordinarily forgiving when audio evidence clearly indicates their star CI faced a doomed drug purchase, sunken drug case and bodily injury, or worse, threatened with gun play. Only then do I heartily hoover down piles 'o crystallized broken pane goodness. Delicious-ness.

Darn, I was under duress and in an existential pinch, I had to snarf down whole grams of expensive powder. Yup, you betcha, it was tasty and really good. I savored packing my beak and converting my saliva crunchy with delicious piles of sparkling chemical death cake. I repeat, yummy. My audio evidence clearly indicated a wine sommelier's critique of the meth or cocaine's bouquet, vintage and initial flavors and lasting aromas. On tape, forced to snarf tasty blow, I became a crystal meth snob and shared my expertise. For the jury's benefit, of course, in the line of duty. Some work huh.

Regarding the accuracy of these criminal claims that I was a double-dealing dirty dog, their assertions are true. After the KPD/AST narc job taking out Ken Hall and Chris Ciringione under the direction of the Dynamic Duo Nolton & Nay with Waller and Garoutte (Mutt and Jeff) riding shotgun (machine guns actually) I moved to Willow and set up another grow room and started mingling with the pot growers, coke and meth dealers. This entailed more than just consuming weed, meth and blow, but also buying and selling the shit. Hey, a guy's gotta earn a living and the cops were real slow in approving my application and actually putting me to work.

I was dangling out in the wind for about a year, free as a bird and quick to meet and greet all the players between Wasilla, Willow and Talkeetna. I was growing decent quality bud and trading ounces and money for bulk orders of cocaine. The meth came around in batches when manufactured in the labs that made the Mat-Su famous. When the crystal meth was completed and I got the phone call, I bought larger volumes at much cheaper unit prices. Then unloaded packets of sparkling yellow glass up and down the Parks Highway, Caswell Lakes and the Hatcher Pass Highway. Smash a piece of bud with some of this meth, pull down a big huge bong rip and shit, it'll take a few minutes to see straight. And recall the day of the week, find the door, and remember what kind car you drove. Cocoa puffs fer brekky, nigger.

As soon as the Troopers took my photos, signed the contracts and gave me a shit load of audio, surveillance and firearm equipment, I simply stopped the selling and focused solely on purchasing wholesale amounts with state money. The transition was seamless. I was already neck-deep in the upper Su-Valley o' trash illegal drug industry, now all I had to do was bring Tyler and Bleicher along for the ride and play Show & Tell. At this point, all the subsequent purchases were prearranged by me with approval by the cops. I was wearing wires, with the cops surrounding the drug houses, monitoring my negotiations while I was buying all this shit.

I've received numerous compliments from the troopers, judges and juries for my interesting and candid conversations with target dealers. You coppers know this is legal-speak for gross, foul and really, really shitty Karl talk. While in their houses, flashing cash and purchasing premium blow, weed or meth, I'd chatter on about pussy, beer, guns and neighborhood politics. While shopping on the trooper's dime in Caswell Lakes, I had a cocaine dealer (Fast Eddie Larson) brag about pistol whipping punks, porking other men's wives at gunpoint in lieu of payment insofar as holding up, pounding on debtors with a pack o' hillbillies armed with shotguns, backing his play, coercing payment. The troopers kept poker faces as the tapes played in court while the legal staff and jurists were taken back and aghast at the content of my discussions buying felony weight drugs, with our voices reciting sickening puke-worthy scripts.

You remember the conversations I had during the Capone trial. Every judge I sat in front of got red-faced hearing my foul cuss-talk with druggies and I've often heard, "Mr. Ewing, the court finds your recorded testimony very colorful and interesting." "We've reviewed the audio evidence submitted and in our view, they are completely admissible." "We see no evidence of entrapment, inducement nor coercion and in the court's view we are ruling the defendant freely engaged in banter and dialogue with the State's Confidential Informant." "If the defendant insists on allowing the jury to hear this evidence, he may have grounds for a mistrial, due to incompetency and inadequacy of defense councils." Ouch. I enjoy seeing defense attorneys feel rope burns on their necks. And dicks.

For your information, yes I knew I was steering the drug chatter way out into legally tenuous areas, but I always pushed the boundaries. If I could get my druggies chatting all sorts of incriminating blabber-mouth garbage, I'd smile and nod, give thumbs up, fuckin' A's and lots of "Fuck yeah dude." Gun talk, kicking ass, stealing other dealers' stashes, wives and money, bragging participation in other crimes like robberies and murders was always on my mind, so I fucking allowed our drug-consuming, booze-drinking bullshit seshes go way long into self-incrimination and inevitable incarceration. On the Logan Case, he went so far as to ask my advice on how to kill an asshole department head that was trying to get him fired. He pled out and the juries never got to listen to our long chats about other felonies. Let 'em hang themselves with their own big fucking mouths.

Encouraging my clients to further hang themselves, I've manufactured bogus prison talk. One shit-ass weed grower (Ed Alexander) and his biker partner were bragging what they were gonna do to a fucker that'd received elbows of bud, on credit and never paid for it. My advice was, "Just punch him on the gonad bag, his shit'll tighten up sweet for fucking, like right now." The tape followed our guffaws and chuckles like we were all ass-raping convicts. Regrouping with my supervisors, Bleicher whispered to me, that taped shit was foul and nasty. "Fuck dude, that was pretty gross." Well, duh.

Men love to brag, especially when they're fucked up on alcohol and powders. Hearing my audio tapes in grand jury and petit jury trial always gives me a start, cringe and serious YIKES when these tapes play. My supervisors were Oscar Award winning stars with their crisp uniforms, stern faces and feigned surprise at the direction and length of my druggy talk with my druggy dudes on trial. When buying meth off Rat Fuck and Raw Hyde I instructed them that if they can't git a nut porking a debtor's underage daughter, put a choke on the bitch, that little girl will thrash and squirm all over yer dick, or put a bullet in her head and her ass will pinch yer dick off.

My supervisors weren't amused as the dialogue descended into blowing cops away and pissing on their bits. The audio was honest and authentic, but unfit for civilian consumption and lit a fuse at the trooper office. It's no mystery why my supervisors at Mat-Su Narcotics maced, tazed and beat them to death outside of the Silver Fox. Okay, I may be partially culpable, but their fucked up responses and comments I recorded as audio evidence painted them as sick rapists, butt fucker biker trash and cop-killers, and put a bookmark on their homicidal intent towards my uniformed supervisors. I merely opened that door to the topic. And layed out the welcome mat. If yer criminal case is at Death's door, I'll pull you through. Fuckin' A.

Any defense attorney, either paid or public, should know better than let these tapes play in front of 12 white Mat-Su jury assholes and neighbors of their peers. As usual, defense lawyers fight to suppress my foul-as-shit taped conversations as prejudicial, and when the judge allows the evidence, it plea-bargain time with big fucking felonies on top of the heap. Fucks 'em every time. See? I ain't so dumb.

Now, for my ace in the hole. Not all my drug cases were prosecuted by my supervisors. Some of our cases had poor audio quality, aside from chopping razors on mirrors, snorting down shiny piles and our collective coughing on cocoa puffs and frosty peaks. Many recordings were composed of vague dialogue over prices and amounts of drugs and some cases were ruined with barking dogs and crying children. The troopers and district attorneys frequently met and examined the clearly discernible aspects of my undercover drug purchases and we agreed that the intent of selling felony amounts of drugs was plainly obvious, but the sound quality wasn't perfect and could use another take. Meaning we scheduled another purchase insuring obvious language and loudly detailing the drug by name, the amount I'm buying and the amount of money I'm handing over. 10-2 (Lima Charley) motherfucker.

The cassettes that were only decent, but not Academy Award Winning, we'd bring in other state agencies very interested in my clients that were receiving our drug purchase funds and failing to report them on the household income statement. On some of our evening fishing trips, we kicked the evidence and entire case over to the Welfare Fraud Unit, HUD Housing Authorities Heating/Energy Assistance and Probation/Parole.

Yup, all households receiving Food Stamps (Electronic Benefits Transfers-EBT) deposited on Quest Debit Cards, AHFC Housing Vouchers, Medicaid medical benefits for low income individuals and families and Fuel/Energy Assistance must declare and sign all monies coming into the household. Otherwise commonly known as an MMR-mandatory monthly reports. You see, to receive all these numerous welfare benefits, you gotta be dirt poor and meet hard-set income levels. Yup, low income implies low IQ. My philosophy: let's fuck the poor. It's a family pastime. Who's the dummy now?

When we play Karl's audio, trooper testimony and supply photo-copied images of all the Alaska Dimes (hundred dollar bills) duly sworn and documented we delivered to these households and took possession of weed, meth or cocaine, the Welfare Fraud Unit has an air-tight case of felony fraud. All families on the nigger dole, I mean Public Assistance, agree and sign to the factuality of their monthly MMR statements and also permit the State Of Alaska to examine all bank accounts, car loans and mortgage pay stubs anytime and without notice. That's how ye fuck a poverty nigger and not get scabs on yer dick.

Don't forget, over a third of Alaska's residents (38%) are receiving Medicaid and 34% of Alaska's population is receiving Food Stamps (EBT) on Quest Cards to purchase non-prepared food items. We can only guess the number of cash-only drug sales occurring in these households statewide and the Fraud Unit totally LOVES bullet-proof evidence of bogus, dishonest documents. Oh, and another point. Housing (HUD-Inupiaq Housing etc.) hates any illegal drugs on their premises and Medicaid and heating/energy assistance has keen interest in prosecuting phony income declarations. Fist fuck, wrist watch.

These insights and experiences got me a job at the Welfare Office in Kotzebue. These work experiences also got me layed off after my 6-month probationary period (non-retention) due to complaints from my former clients, shit-nates and ice niggers. The in-box of gripes from shit-poor toothless Induns in the NANA region pissed off at yer author on drugs must've been an avalanche. I'm smiling right now, but still a dummy.

Aside from notifying the cops about boatloads of booze or snogo sleds packed with shitty liquor, I didn't undertake any AST bootlegging purchases in the NANA Region or elsewhere. I did take a North Slope Borough Public Safety undercover job as a CSA, cargo service agent at Cape Smythe Air Services. At the direction of NS cop Nick Sundai, I examined 3 entire filing cabinets of freight invoices and determined that more than half weren't filed with ABC (alcohol beverage control) nor filed with the City of Barrow tasked with regulating the lawful purchases and legal limits to monthly liquor purchases.

The monthly limit is 6 bottles of liquor, 4 boxes of wine and 5 cases of beer. A Barrow liquor permit is suspended for 3 years if you get a DUI anywhere in Alaska and 5 years if you are merely charged with a Domestic Violence crime. Those Eskimos up in Barrow don't fuck around, you punch a native woman, you lose yer permit to order legal liquor and gotta pay big buxsh for a bootleg bottle. No-teefer salmon crunchers never die, they just smell that way.

Remember yer VPSO training academy, Professor Godfrey (trooper brass beyond God status) lectured us brown shirt grunts that dry village liquor laws banning the importation and possession of alcohol only limits normal social drinkers away from booze, but alcoholics will always find liquor in mouthwash, cleaning products, colognes and hair care products. That small fraction is nearly impossible to interdict, but bootlegging motherfuckers trying to sneak in late at night, is where we excel. VPSO's intercept a shit-load of booze in sleds motoring across city limits late at night and stinky fish-cunt boats motoring in at all hours of a the day.

Don't ever try to outsmart a VPSO guarding his home turf, especially if his last name is Mashburn, Moto, Ramoth or Ewing. We fucked 'em up wholesale and some of the booze actually arrived at the VPSO offices for prosecution. We agreed that R&R whiskey (and shittier) would be cataloged, but high-dollar brands were to be analyzed and sampled amongst us. You fuckers ain't that dumb are ye? We consumed the super yummy potato and corn-fuel liquors like Jack Daniels, Hennessy, Jameson’s, Ketel One and leaded premium vodkas with all the delicious fuel additives and proprietary burn profiles way beyond our reach on the liquor store shelf. Go ahead, make a federal case outa that. I dare ye.

The only time I've ever enjoyed these brands of liquors was standing one step outside village city limit lines, freezing in -40 below blowing snow, surrounded by my favorite academy classmates in brown uniforms, chugging super expensive booze, cigarettes and smiling like a batch of VPSO motherfuckers. You see, the back trails that wind all over the NANA Region are best described as worms or intestines. Those trails in and out of Kiana, Selawik, Noorvik, Buckland and Deering aren't geographical drawings on a GPS map or directions uttered by an ancient language, they're bookmarks in scrolls older than continental drift and tectonic plate shifts.

Our late night VPSO patrol sectors aren't really places. Hire my cohorts to guide you there and you'll easily see and feel they're best described as a time warp. Mashburn, Ramoth, Moto and myself were the future surrounded by a land and a people that hasn't changed in pert near 10,000 fucking years. Give or take a hunnert ice ages. In those covert hides where we lay in, waiting silently and surreptitiously glassing incoming snow machine headlights and listening for burbling engines loudly rumbling and echoeing across rivers and valleys, we were foreign sentries, interfacing geological epochs, awaiting prehistoric smugglers.

VPSO's weren't an armed service, but we kept rifles and pistols stowed, ready and warming to greet approaching loud and engine oil scented suspects. We'd never require firepower though. All around us was an invisible moat of time, culture and language. We were lost in space and trapped out of sync with our adversaries pulling contraband freight. Anyone from our century and in the present would never detect our camouflaged lookouts. Bootleggers, drug smugglers and spies, could only see us by crossing an unfathomable chasm past.

Me, Ramoth, Moto and Mashburn were protected by the fourth dimension. Us VPSO brown shirts remained invisible, in -40 below quiet and darkness, until mechanized headlights illuminated us, standing across game trails tramped down by extinct species of edible herds, now fossilized turds. You rural coppers are the last of dying breed that follow my travels back in time retracing my footprints invisible, undetectable and unscented. As that generation of state, city and village cops vanish, all these incident reports will no longer exist.

Humanity exists on a narrow linear pathway. A cop's entire life is best described as fractured, purgatorial and incessant struggle to adjust to time and space shifts. Meaning, old fashioned village assignments and geographical relocation fer new patrol and narc jobs. We've all heard the corporate slogan that if we've been on a job long enough, we eventually get promoted to our level of incompetency. For most of my life, I've been stuck at the field operational level, freezing my face, shivering behind concealment, committing felonies, making drug purchases, recording fucked up bullshit sessions with defendants, testifying in courts all over the state and no promotion ever came along. Life far harder than we've disclosed. Our side gigs in other professions were our comeuppance. If duration is the prize, then we're the fucking winners. But not if you look closely at your wind-burnt, time-worn face in the mirror. Okay, skip the mirror. Look closely at your gnarled gunslinger hands.

Taking work in other industries allowed us to renew our membership in the human race, sober up and get our bearings again and exercise lost capacities to give back. Like all you constabulary fossils, most places I've worked, I've left in better condition than when I first arrived. If narc jobs, construction work and odd gigs in the NANA Region and North Slope Borough are any indicator, you know why I should've pitched a tent and taken up permanent residence at the Kotzebue Jail or the City Dump and never left town. I fucking spent way too much time driving there and dumping convicts and shit. I get it now, underneath all our varietal works of questionable legality, we're just highly qualified garbage men. Even today, if I chew my fingernails, I taste deposits of human bucket dooky. I won't say yummy anymore.

Funny, since most states have legalized marijuana, all my criminal growers and sellers are back on Food Stamps, or working an 8-5 jag like all of us. I've visited all my pot dealers since legalization and it ain't pretty. Regardless of IQ, skin color or dental health, poverty is the sweetest form of discrimination. My old pot growers and dealers are now all nigger broke, unemployable as stoner retards and surviving on picking and eating worms, larva and grubs outa animal turds. Metaphorically reading with your tongues of course.

So, if accounting and construction are my second best skills and occupations, I've got to figure out what I do best. Working narc jobs with you killers has a finite perishable shelf life and the real estate market will be suppressed for as long as the Federal Reserve hikes borrowing costs way beyond affordable. As a matter of fact, my real estate agent just texted me that interest rates for basic home loans went from 7.5% to now about 9% just last week. Interest rates this high remind me of stagflation during the Reagan Administration. Bun recalls Certificates of Deposits (CD's) at her bank paying 15% and saving accounts earning about half that. Fuck.

I'll have to settle for visiting, talking and communicating by clicking a keyboard like a fucking machine gun. But don't think I gotta clean up my act. Free speech implies colorful language and pissing in the ears of whining nigger blog readers, uppity native women and bitchy gay activists, believing that I ain't draining my multivitamin rich free-flowing urinary downpour soaking their hair and clothes, flooding their ear holes and insisting that it's actually raining outside.

Yup, like you killers, I got a foul fucking mouth. In my court audio evidence and writing shit loads of research papers, I relied on training from a bunch of funny coppers. You lot. Even today, when I brush my teeth, I still taste dispatch and the squad room. Don't act like you don't know what I'm talking about. Writing triggers responses in all our senses. You sure as shit smell these paragraphs, and can see the pictures I paint, albeit highly sexual and excremental, you also hear it and taste it too. If these postings have the desired effect, aside from itchy trigger fingers, you coppers should also be reading and remembering with yer dicks.

My mouth isn't always this foul, at least in public, but your collective memories of Alaska is far more foul than my typing. Just ask the troopers, court clerks and coppers listening to my evidentiary discussions on tape and filed away in courts all over Alaska. They'll say "Wait, that sounds like Waller, Octuck and Blanchard!" One point you all should keep in mind, my bullshit should ring familiar to our comic crap us armed hens cackled and laughed whilst bullshitting over coffee and smokes at KPD.

This infectious humor has gone old school viral amongst old men and spread to remote AST and VPSO stations. You know what my top skill is, picking up injured body parts as brushes and traumatized body cavities as ink wells, painting cruel visual and stinky nose porn with the chunks. I simply channel you funny fuckers, reshape yer horrible jokes into new contexts, thus effectively stealing them. Yer all dummies, just like me. And I thank you.

Our language over the decades is witty, dirty and humorous. It also sucks ass and chews grisly turd bits, but our mental and dental health has sweetened with our old age. I floss, brush and wash my mouth out with soap. I gargle with Leaded Premium gasoline, Lysol, Pine-Sol and Summer's Eve douche and apply Preparation H to my Volvo, my vulva and my white-nigger lips.

Like Botox, Preparation H shrinks hemorrhoidal tissues and speeds healing of the occupational inflammation in our ears and nostrils from working KPD. I like the way it tightens my shit up.

Yes, and it tastes yummy.

Karl.