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.