I've weaponized my smell.

Top of the morning gents,

I was walking down the 3rd floor hallway of ANMC Hospital Housing when one of my former coworkers made a face and asked, "What the fuck is that smell?" My retarded retort was, "Yer smelling some rank-ass rasty white folk. Didn't you know that ANMC stands for Alaska Norwegian Medical Center?"

My dude from way back in the bad old days laughed and said, "Shit Karl, that is so wrong on so many levels. The raunchy stink that's hurting my nose smells like the old Kotzebue Jail when I got busted selling weed fer Zagars. Dude, I'll never forget that ripe smell. It's nasty like rotten butt wipe." Dennis shook his head and grinned when I told him the old KPD jail was scented forever when Ronnie Norrell died and leaked native piss, shit and barf all over his jail cell floor.

Partially digested Eskimo food, my Everclear liquor and postmortem indigenous diarrhea has a uniquely sweet smell that stays in yer nose forever. Truth be told, the Everclear Ronnie chuked all over himself Pim sent from Seattle to me and Higbitch. The freight package contained zero LSD, but had a slew of guns possessing dubious provenance and questionable title. Mr. Norrell wanted to simply purchase a bottle offa me and Brian, but we turned him away and told him if he showed back up with a fat sack, we'd give him 2 bottles. We weren't aware of Trooper Carl Schramm's bootlegger torpedo mish, but taking cash can be troublesome, we both worked like dogs and had plenty dineros and booze, preferring fine bags o' bud as trade. Looking back, 2 bottles is sufficient quantity to kill an Inupickle. Mr. Norrell proved that. What a fucking nimrod.

Dennis chuckled at my trademark poor taste explaining, "Nobody could ever forget KPD's natural bouquet of village clothes never washed." Ya see, when inmates are booked in, all their clothing is put in lockers along with their personal possessions. As inmates do their time, their clothes age like fine wine. To remedy that overwhelming stench of rotten "kugs and crusties" we marched the volunteer inmates down to the old jail, let them pick out new laundered orange coveralls they wanted to wear, fresh bedding, then let 'em strip, shave and shower with city paid shampoo, conditioner and toiletries.

As they stripped and showered, they dumped all their ripe raunchy clothing into a washing machine. Four washing machines means only four inmates at a time. Them's the rules. Like an ugly tall Home Economics teacher, I instructed them to pour in a HEAPING scoop of powdered Tide with Bleach, crank the knob to "heavy," shut the lid and pull the knob to initiate nuclear sterilization and engage industrial sanitation of clothes that likely never got washed since manufacture and purchase.

For fun, as our city's most ineffectual puny bacon strips trotted down the steps, and in front of the inmates, I used to razz our white wimpy cops that Eskimos could beat their asses daily. Lorin Downing got red faced and angrily declared, "I coulda whipped that nigger, 'cept he used germ warfare." Proved emasculate, Lorin easily kicked his wife's ass a hunnert times. He's a stud.

What's startlingly accurate, according to subsequent discussions with Rodent Rectum Rachel, his puny bearded wife, Lorin beat her and her girls weekly, until she divorced his scrawny ass, and took away his house and police certification. Boo-hoo. They were a perfect match for each other's violent incest, but working with those two was a pain in the ass. And stinky. After a couple years of this illiterate husband and wife garbage, the Chief offered me a tasty escape clause. So I went home and called him, then called the City Manager and accepted their scholarships and the layoff package. Then I burnt all my clothes.

I'm being disingenuous regarding the forced hygiene and brutal laundry inducement. I actually bribed the rank inmates with cigarettes and overpriced coffee to volunteer to strip, shower, launder their ripe garments, put on fresh orange coveralls, help clean both facilities and feed the dogs buckets of grease and food scraps. All without PR-24 and ASP baton encouragement. Mace and Tasers weren't on the menu as conditioner to violent wooden shampoos. In truth, the inmates weren't such bad hombres after they were freshly showered, shaved, dressed and enjoying my cigarettes and good java. I tend to judge folks poorly, when they exercise poor hygiene. Humanity and world peace starts with a bar of fucking soap.

A good fresh air and light duty exercise outlet for inmates that were doing time for petty stupid shit and in no hurry to run off was to help break up pallets of freight. Northern Air Cargo and Everts Air would deliver pallets of groceries and cleaning supplies in front of the old jail and we'd task the misdemeanor inmates with carrying in the boxes of supplies and stacking them up on the bunk beds in the old jail. Of course they curried favor in the form of java and smokes.

Another chore was pulling the dog kennels apart and scooping metric tons of dog crap into garbage bags. Then the 2-ton garbage bags were tossed into KPD's dumpsters out front. Sometimes, the inmates needed to bang the kennels to knock loose the concrete poop free, rake it all up and bag it up. No uniformed dill-rod would walk near the dumpsters on hot Kotzebue summer days, that odor would knock flies offa shit house wall.

I didn't mind playing gun bull supervising inmates as they helped Public Works clean and sort out their garages. The inmates also helped organize the Water Plant and the packing debris stacked around the facility. Those city boys were dysfunctional in keeping their workplaces tidy and gladly welcomed the inmates help hauling worn rusty old auto, truck and equipment parts out and into a waiting bucket loader and flat bed. Some ancient axles and differentials were so heavy, four inmates were needed to heft them fuckers out.

That shit was then hauled to the city dump and the inmates loved riding around town and down to the now non-existent Kotzebue K-Mart heap o' trash beyond the sewage lagoons we fondly called Kramer Lake. Mike Kramer did an endo and flipped his wheeler, trapping him in the poop soup, hence the comic titular change from Davis Lake. Can you taste me?

Ready with willing crews of inmates and before we departed the jail for work outside, I'd have Octuck lecture the inmates that he was responsible for chasing down "runners" and blowing their legs off with a scary 12 gauge shot gun. Nobody strayed a single meter. Besides, they'd miss their release dates and also lose out on the bullshit seshes with my unending packs of smokes and boutique coffees. Shit I've even handed out darn good mid-priced cigars as bribery and inducement treats on the nastier job. Like the dog shit. Those dog kennels were so awful, the inmates and their clothes required another Wash, Rinse, Repeat. Dog poop tastes and smells just like human poop. I'm from Kiana, I oughta know.

Back to my visit to ANMC. I suggested to Dennis and bun that the native hospital oughta have a hair salon in the foyer of the Hospital Housing. They looked at me like I was a brain-damaged retard and stated that it would never get used. Next time yer at ANMC Q-house or Hospital Housing, you'll catch my drift. Being a Bethel First Nations mongoloid don't mean first to shit, shower, shave and haircut.

One charitable donation to both the new and old jail I thought rather magnanimous was Auntie Charlie frequently came to the jail and gave all the inmates haircuts. Ain't he the shit? He even manscaped Tom Evans', Barney's and Gumby's lard ass pucker brush. On my swing shifts (4pm-midnight) I was startled to see fresh haircuts on all the jail birds. And smiles on the fatter cops and dispatchers. With hairy blubber KPD obesity monstrous keesters as his snack tray, Auntie Charlie surgically removed surplus hemorrhoids and cysts and handed them to Gayle Ralston who added them to his Southern Cuisine cooking. I made that last part up.

Ye gotta admit, a shower, haircut and shave does wonders for some of them village river rats. I swear, they'd arrive, chained and cuffed, disheveled and dirty as shit. After the "white man treatment," some of them beaten, bruised, hungover motherfuckers actually looked presentable due to the grooming and a few intense sober weeks away from Lysol and AquaNet Hairspray cocktails and Mashburn's super laxative bootleg home brew.

I've shown inmates their book-in photos and then held a mirror up so they can see the striking difference between wasted drunk and under arrest, versus shaves, haircuts, laundered clothes and sobriety. Maybe I'm an idiot, but some of them village fuckers looked pretty damn good after they went through the spin-dry cycle as their clothes did the same. My advice to our First Nation convicts was, "damn, take a look at what happens when you spend more on hair care products, garment care and grooming, than you spend on pussy and shitty liquor." And boning their relatives. Maybe my stupid humor was lost in translation, so for further illustration, as bun grew up, her mom frequently screamed at her, "He's your cousin!" Personally, I preferred goat pussy over my own sisters. I never got the clap from goats. And they could read better too.

On my prisoner transport flights for the VPSO's to Anvil Mountain Correctional Center in Nome, I often saw White Mike Baker in the gen. pop. day room in the center of the quads cutting the hair of most of the men in custody. Mike's mom owned a beauty salon in Michigan and he was extraordinarily gifted with scissors and electric razor. Funny, we'll only remember him as a weed seller and bootlegger and completely disregard his employment at the Kotzebue Daycare as a cook and janitor. And prison yard barber.

Since you asked, yes I've wondered how his kids are doing. His girlfriend, that upriver Starbucks rat-breed chinklet, was hospitalized fer liver failure and abandoned their kids to White Mike. Being their father, he took them with him yonder stateside. Don't get yer ICWA panties in a soggy wad, Mike's kids looked a lot like him, so the Inupiaq community celebrated their departure with Northern Lights performances at the airport singing an ancient Inuit dance called, "Smell ye later nigger. Don't come back now, ya hear?"

Tubby Goodwin did a damn good rendition of that dance. You can see him doing it can't ye? God loves animated faggots, especially Mark Bird's homo-boy. I know that's tasteless, but Mark and Sarah Bird wanted Tubby's ugly head on a spike. After the investigation it was proved the Mark Bird's boy preferred to walk on the wild side, partied down at Little Kivilina and wasn't awoken to getting raped like Richie Reich. Meaning he happily drank a shit load of liquor, then let Tubby turn his ass into a cream filled doughnut. Okay, take barf break.

Those ripe clothes and Norrell's Everclear Shit'n'Barf are what Dennis Jennings brought to mind while we walked to our rooms at the ANMC hospital housing. The hallway had that subtle aroma of decaying quiff-whiff. I was there as escort for a post-surgical exam on bun's new knee. Dennis was flown in from Kotzebue for ENT exams and diagnostics on his new hearing aid. He'd lost his hearing after a series of strokes and heart attacks. And a brand new tumor he's growing in his brain. Like his lineage, he was cursed with vascular diseases and cancers.

What the fuck. Some of us have brothers that killed themselves by suicide or alcoholism. Others of us inherited diabetes and Alzheimer's. Wake up fuckers, very few of us KPD grunts, AST gomers and OTZ party maggots lived to see 50. Examine Erlich, Hildreth, Octuck, Blanchard, Nay and Jewell and including Tubby and Bull Hensley, I've put decades on their ages at death. Maybe I oughta enter muktuk eating contests and drink myself to death. To quote Willie Nelson, "I don't wanna be the last man standing. But then again, I guess I do." To avoid relapsing, I'll decline Willie Nelson's monster habit of toking premium doobage.

You coppers remember Dennis Jennings from his theatrical antics at City Hall and his initiative to recall Gordon Ito from City Council. We had no dog in that fight so me and bun were the first signatories on the recall petition paperwork, thus triggering a hunnert others registered voters to follow suit. Poor Gordon got his ass and vagina handed to him and was ousted from the city council quicker'n shit through a gay goose. Or a fat dispatcher with the runs.

It's now a NANA Regional holiday celebrating the date when Gordon augured into the frozen Kotzebue Sound in his rat-trap airplane. It was determined he was greatly overloaded with muktuk and the crash scene investigators all had boners due to the impact smell of 100 octane low-lead, whale pussy and one good Indian. At the Kotzebue DMV you can purchase commemorative Gordon Ito license plates with the letters imprinted DED NTV or HAF BRD. I chose the plates imprinted with RTD NGR. Figure it out.

Gordon Ito was a graduate of the Gary Knopp School of Flying for the Blind and thought an FAA pilot's license beneath his station in life. Gary Knopp was an Alaska Legislator that lost his pilot's license 15 years ago after he failed the FAA eyesight exam due to glaucoma, never purchased insurance for his airplane nor received inspection certification for his rust-bucket Piper Cub. At barely 1,000 feet, poor Mr. Knopp flew directly into the flight path of a commercial airline Beaver, fully loaded with tourists and their camping gear.

The deceased totaled 8: Mr. Gary Knopp and 7 on board the Beaver, leaving his surviving family completely bankrupted from the massive litigation claims that followed. In the inevitable lawsuit for negligence, the confiscatory subrogative property and asset seizures the judge awarded the injured parties afterwards totally zapped every penny in the deceased Knopp's estate. Gary Knopp's wife and kids are now doing tricks alongside homeless natives and crack niggers on the sidewalks of ScareView in Anchorage.

The wreckage fell all over the Sterling Highway, littering busted shit over a hunnert speeding automobiles which included me and bun. The airplane litter landed in chunks and was plainly obvious to all of us commuters as to what occurred directly over our heads. The gross aviation litter and debris field immediately stopped traffic for over 24 hours. I tried to phone 911 but the circuits were overloaded and way too busy, half the fucking world was phoning in scared shit-less from witnessing airplane and body parts rain down.

Seeing occupied seats, boots, jackets, nose cones with propellers, tail parts and wing shit on the goddamned highway, traffic behaved mighty fucking white and pulled aside, put on their hazards and volunteer firemen immediately ran up the highway to stop any forward vehicle movement and also block lookey-loos from fucking with the horribly stark evidence of a low altitude mid-air plane crash. I quickly determined FAA and NTSB were on their way and we were in for a long stay in a mile long highway traffic jam. So I reversed, did a U-turn and sped along the shoulder halfway in the ditch all the way back home to our apartment at the Sterling Senior Center. You boys still can't comprehend my choice of lodging can ye? We've since moved to a beautiful lakeside resort apartment fer dildos older'n dirt. Get over it.

Back to my story. I worked with Dennis Jennings at the Welfare Desk upstairs at the Roger Nordlum Promiscuous Herpes Building in Kotzebue way back in 2006. I was let go after my 6-month probationary period. Seems I got the wrong message and instead of terminating my entire caseload of slobs for non-compliance with the Food Stamp, Medicaid, Energy Assistance, Heating Assistance, HUD (Inupiaq Housing) and AHFC Housing voucher programs, I was supposed to coddle the niggers, beg and plead with them to do their gimpy work activities and search for a retarded J-O-B at the Unenjoyment Office.

Instead I closed out a hunnert case files because my wretched clients never attempted to do shit fer their benefits. Stupid me, I wasn't supposed to lecture my clients that the Traditional Eskimo Subsistence Lifestyle is insufficient, impossible and unsustainable without massive public assistance and welfare programs. Herman Reich once stated that subsistence caribou costs him over $150 per pound when you add up the expense of gas, gear, boats and motors. Paul Hanson's guess was more than $300.00 per pound. Seal meat, well, fucking forget about it. You better walk yer dick out on the ice and club the shit outa them like Octuck and Murphy.

I was also not supposed to make comparisons with Alaska Natives and black scabby ghetto niggers or illiterate inbred hillbillies like me. Oops, my bad. Maybe I oughta empty bun's savings accounts and hand them over to darker stinky motherfuckers. The Grateful Dead's album "Working Man's Blues" implies we all gotta cut out a check to feed, clothe and shelter homeless drunks, druggy brain-dead hippies and third world geniuses. I had to flee my hometown to score substandard ass-wipe employment privileges taking public safety shit work all over Arctic Appalachia north of 70 lat. At any time, you coppers can tell me to quit whining like a punk-ass bitch and shut the fuck up.

Dennis Jennings may be a pain in the ass, but he was a really fun pain in the ass to work with. I've had a hunnert coworkers that've caused me great pains and great laughs. I worked with you lot, a bunch of knuckle-headed cops and I've also worked with some real prize-winning A-hole pals too. If I was hungover as a motherfucker, I'd get annoyed at my best friends and my favorite compadres on job sites.

I often worked hungover on construction sites in Seattle and also dope sick doing restorations and repairs on a million fucking rental properties. One black landlord I did work for, cracked us up when he repeated a racist slogan he'd heard from his filthy stinky nigger tenants. "Hay Bla Mambla. Kill da white man. Kill da land lo'." Mr. Black Landlord called it a Big Lipped Colored Prayer. Mr. Black Landlord was the boss that stated, "Never rent to nurses or teachers." I nodded in agreement, kept my mouth shut when he added, "And no niggers." That's when I felt comfortable enough to laugh with him. At him too.

One of my funniest workmates was a high school classmate. Jack Jorgenson was a witty son of a bitch, a charming pickpocket and also a hard working fuck-ass. We did paint jobs on apartments in the Lynnwood area and also did a remodel on a junker house that Jack purchased himself needing paint, carpets, windows and a kick-ass wrap-around deck. My work went towards rent, cocaine and green bud. And beer too. Most of the structural work Jack did while I was tasked with show-work, meaning cosmetic paints and trim shit.

After we completed the wrap-around deck on the house that Jack built, we painted the entire house, then we landscaped and groomed the yard and driveway and raked up all the scrap lumber and building debris nice and pretty. The monster pile of cut ends, boards, beams and plywood I loaded into Cully's old green 66 Ford Econoline van and made dozens of trips to my brothers Toby and Cully and Callahan's place. They heated their North Seattle house all winter burning mondo piles of lumber in their wood stove and free shit is best. The electric baseboard heaters were disconnected so the marijuana grow room halide lights wouldn't show on the utility bill. We might be ugly hill-tards, but we ain't dumB.

Jack Jorgenson's secret for good work reviews is to complete the front side of his jobs first so the buyers and renters see kick-ass perfection as they drive to the property. All the rest we did afterwards. I met Jack in high school and was impressed that he'd rebuilt a '67 Pontiac Firebird as an auto shop project. From the ground up Jack stripped the whole car down, rebuilt the power plant and suspension, then sanded and painted the interior and exterior with bright GM yellow factory paint. Including repairing the vinyl seats and dash.

I know, a rich kid slaving away in auto shop sounds counter-intuitive, but Jack had a secret mission in mind. After graduating from high school with us, he spent his summer slopping fish twats and pubic crabs in Alaska. Then he sold his prized perfect bright yellow Pontiac Firebird, added his summer's earnings and with the combined proceeds, put money down on his first project house that I'd been recruited to help on. Imagine that, a rich kid, born in a house that's easily worth over a million today, beats the shit outa his own ass and rebuilds houses.

Another pal from high school was a dude named Stuart Frost. He was also a rich kid that lived in a rich neighborhood, but contrary to the lazy slobs next door, Stuart took work in the apple orchards of Eastern Washington. I ain't kidding, this is work now done by Methicans, beaners, wetbacks, spics and illegal immigrants. Stuart worked all summer and returned for the beginning of our senior year super tan and muscled like a German super model. I got sick of the prettiest girls at school asking me about Jack and Stuart and if I could introduce them. Girls are such horn dogs.

Stuart didn't stop at working in the orchards. All during our senior year he worked afternoons and evenings in the produce section at Tradewell, a grocery store on 5-corners. Not too shabby for a rich kid with a silver spoon up his nose. After we graduated, I spent the summer in Europe with the Shoreline School Orchestra, Stuart and Jack did their work jags up in Alaska slopping fish lips and crab lice. Stuart spent his saving going to UW for a bachelors degree and Jack started his home repair and restoration mission: now called flipping houses.

During our senior year, both Stuart and Jack proved to be stalwart pals. Stuart snagged tickets to a butt-load of concerts and shows, but he also scored a coveted pair of tickets to the 1978 and 1979 Led Zeppelin concerts and gave me seats right next to him. What a dude. Those tickets were a bitch to obtain. The first concert was held at the Seattle Center Coliseum and the second was at the Seattle King Dome. Put on your time travel thinking caps and imagine Led Zeppelin performing directly in front you. Way rad. The only concerts that were as fun as Zeppelin were ZZ Top and the Grateful Dead. Pink Floyd, David Bowie, Yes, Clapton, Stones and Steve Winwood were noteworthy, but they sure as shit didn't kick ass like Zep, ZZ Top or the Dead. Those were like family reunions. Minus the goat porn and outhouse humping.

Jack Jorgenson shoulda changed his name to Bubba. He had friends everywhere. His charm and cocaine acumen affirmed connections to friends in the restaurant and concert business and he handed me and Cully tickets to Bumbershoot when SRV played a smoking hot Hendrix trib, including a booklet of drinks coupons to the boutique winery and beer garden. Fucking A dude, that was sweet. Jack also scored seats to shows like Jeff Beck, Super Tramp, Moody Blues, Jethro Tull, Three Dog Night and Pat Travers, and gave me and Cully seats: all comped. You'll remember Pat Travers songs, "Snortin' whiskey, drinking cocaine" and his affirmation to the benefits of wife beating, "Boom Boom, out go the lights."

If you coppers remember large venue rock concerts you'll recall stadiums prohibited carrying in bottles of liquor. The glass projectiles were problematic enough, but the stadiums also exercised a concessionary monopolies selling shitty overpriced plastic glasses of beer. At $12.00 per cup. Fuck that. Marto, Callahan and Cully invented and perfected a system of using a Seal-A-Meal pouring bottles of Jack Daniels into the plastic bags, sealing them and taping them to our backs between our shoulders. When we entered the stadiums we'd lift our jackets and shirts to show no contraband firearms nor liquor and walked on in.

Upon finding our seats, we'd take off our jackets and shirts, assist each other and peel the tape off and retrieve our liquid pillows filled with brown whiskey. The audience surrounding us would stare at us with wide eyes, jaws slack and mouths gaped. With just a quick bite on the corner, we'd be our own bartenders, each with a fifth of liquor in our grubby hands. Tip yer head back and squirt a stream of eye-blasting bourbon in yer mouth like a bota bag. We'd never share a drop with mooching scavengers and beggars unless their was an explicit agreement they'd sit close by and load bowels or burn twisters. Mix and match, contrib nigger. On one show, we doubled up our backpacks of booze and stowed half gallons. Then played bartender for a dozen decent chaps that were happy to share and share alike. Exponentially wasted.

Another method of smoking super strong green bud during reserved seat theater shows like Frank Zappa was for one of us to wear a large jacket, connect and extend a plastic tube to my over-sized party bowl pipe. The plastic tube needed to be long enough to reach the length of 3 seats both left and right. Covertly creating a tent inside my jacket I'd load a bowl, put a lighter to it as my buddies and brothers left and right would put the plastic tube to their mouths, pull down monster pipe rips, sit tight and try to contain them, then blow them vertically straight up. No lighter flare, no evidence of anyone smoking and nobody the wiser. Except one audience member looked at my brother Cully and whispered "What the fuck are you guys doing?" Cully coughed quietly, then told him it was bad gas from super spicy Mexican food.

Testing my brain damage, after graduating from high school I spent the summer in Europe with the Shoreline School Orchestra and then a year at UW. The following summer I slopped fish at Dutch. From 1980 forwards I did some building restoration and fish werk but found better pay operating Lem's Crack House and Mortuary. Of course both Jack and Stuart dropped in for comped lines of blow, I owed them boys. Big time. Still do, but as the years passed I drifted north and found employment with a bunch of VPSO's, cops and troopers. I'm such an idiot. Instead of getting arrested by Mountlake Terrace PD, King County Sheriffs or Washington State Patrol, I took work with you lot at KPD and AST. I'm a real genius.

Another friend of mine here on the Kenai is a trooper and an acquaintance by happenstance. Actually by my own stupidity and recklessness, but a cop nonetheless. On a part of the Kenai Spur Highway the 2 lanes merge to one lane, closing down the outside right lane. I figured I could step on the fuel injectors and ease ahead of the car next to me and move into the left lane. The fucker in the lane next to me saw the dead end ahead and mirrored my acceleration and punched it. We were both playing a game of chicken with my lane ending soon when a pair of troopers lit us up and pulled our shit over.

The dude I was racing was tagged with offenses for suspended license, no insurance and speeding. I figured after my license was run, they'd give me a verbal. Nup. Fucking trooper told me that "it don't make a shit of difference if you worked public safety, you were racing that asshole flat out, but I'll cut you break and only write you up for 5 over." Five over meant a ticket for doing 50 in a 45 mph zone. A trooper slogan you'll hear is "five over, game over." My thought was, "five over, bend over." Yup, I'm a spaz.

The minimal ticket really was a favor, due to the fact we both were racing neck and neck, screaming past 75 and upwards. I contested the ticket and the judge pointed to the lights on in the courtroom and stated, "Mr. Ewing, your driving offenses pay for the lights in this courtroom." "I'll waive the points, you pay the fine." My insurance went up for 3 years after that regardless and bun looks at me like I'm an asshole. Cuz I am.

Back to the roadside chat with the trooper. Concluding his business with me, he lectured that "I see you driving all over the peninsula, night and day, putting thousands of miles on yer car every week." He's right I do. "Mr. Ewing, I want you to do me a favor and drive with your headlights on 24/7 and do exactly the speed limit every single day. Basically, I want you to weaponize the speed limit." I was stumped.

You see, when my younger brother was still alive, he'd look over at me and ask, "Should we give 'em the treatment?" I'd feign dismay and ask, "What kind of treatment did you have in mind?" Culy would grin, chuckle and then take his foot off the gas pedal and let his van slow down to exactly the speed limit. Then he'd say, "The 25 mile an hour treatment." And that's what we did. A lot. Whenever we'd have a tailgater climbing up our asses, we'd repeat that same dialogue, then slow down whole armies of pissed off Seattle white motherfuckers. They'd honk, give us the finger, blink their high beams at us and then try to pass. Nup, Cully would weave all over the road and block dill-rods from blazing by. Nobody in a brand new Beamer or a Benz would risk a collision with our junker cars that'd absorb any crash and continue driving for decades. You could see steam come outa their heads and guffaws from us. Good clean fun there.

Years later I've been done exactly that. I do the exact speed limit, everyday, all day and hold up traffic like a major fucking dickhead, cuz that's what I am. Here's the funny part, I get waves from the Kenai City cops, the Soldotna City cops and the goddamned troopers. On most occasions, I get a chirp on their sirens or a brief strobe on their cherries up top. Weird huh. At the gas station, the clerk said he saw the troopers give me both a wail of siren and a quick light show. I told him my orders and that I drive exactly the speed limit, all day, everyday. I've weaponized the speed limit. "Fuck dude, I just thought you liked pissing off the traffic behind you." Okay, that too.

Here's a funny after-effect. I was getting tail-gated by a souped up BMW blinking his high-beams at me. As I approached the trooper speed trap on the Sterling Highway, I merged over to the shoulder and gestured the dude to pass. Mr. BMW lit up his after-burners and roared past me giving me the finger and did light speed through the speed trap and right past two AST safety-corridor double-fine motherfuckers.

My ass clenched at the price Mr. BMW paid when I seen him on the roadside, hanging his head in abject defeat, getting his ass gaped receiving the riot act from the pissed-off state bacon units. Just for fun, I drive up and down the highway, holding back traffic and let them pass a quarter mile ahead of the radar-armed pigger patrol speed trap. Works every time. I smile and wave as I motor past their new found shitty legal sitch. Why yes, I am a moron. Thank you.

Last winter I was getting friendly gestures from a gnarly pickup in my rear view mirror for doing the double-nickel exactly, so on a long sweeping broad turn in the road here in Nikiski I eased onto the shoulder and signaled for Mr. Pickup to pass. He did and as he opened up the throats of his roaring engine on our typical shiny icy roads, his truck drifted to the left, then went sideways, swung the other way, then rolled over and over. I honked and waved at him as I drove around his crushed brand new fancy pimp truck. All the trim and paint lost it's luster and sheen once crushed and laying on it's side. I noted the mile post and called 911 to report a drunk driver rolled his brand new Ford truck on the Holt-Lamplight road and the driver and passenger looked like they needed an ambulance immediately. Multiple units responded and the poor fucker blocked traffic for hours.

Last October I was driving in the early morning, pitch dark, blind and barely doing the speed limit of 55 as I entered the Moose Suicide Collision Zone on the inbound Kenai Spur Highway. I had a fancy Chevy Suburban on my tail, burning my hair and collar blinking its super bright high beam LED headlights, blistering the paint on our Scuba Douche. Bun pointed a moose to me a mile down the road standing on the side of the highway, looking to cross. We kill over 250 moose a year on the Kenai highways and they always destroy vehicles. I waved to the driver behind me, signaled, pulled slowly to the shoulder lane and let Mrs. Suburban floor the gas pedal in her 4-ton urban assault baby killer and roar past me.

The timing was beautiful. That shiny Suburban punched the moose way off the highway and put her crumpled accordion vehicle into a snow plow tunnel dive way deep in the waist high snow bank on the side of the highway. As I drove by I saw the entire nose and windshield smashed and scabby with hair and blood and the airbags fully inflated. Made my breasts really hurt. If airbags inflated into our ball sacks, we'd be hurting for certain. Thank God they're aimed directly at fat mamma's piggy tits and fugly face.

Those airbags leave nasty marks and ugly contusions and that wheel bitch maxivan SUV pilot sure as shit sported some doozy bruises. I'm just happy those bruises weren't on our fat puffy gonads. As a good citizen I phoned 911 and advised Central Peninsula Emergency Services of the adult moose kill, totaled Chevrolet Suburban with airbags deployed and with this year's super deep snow fall, a tow truck will be needed. The dispatcher asked if there were any injuries and I advised that children were in the vehicle, so in my best KPD graveyard radio voice, I replied, "Roger, that's a good idea."

In the summer of 2019, on the way home from Clam Gulch near mile marker 100 we saw a giant moose canter down the hill towards the other side of the highway. This huge fucking male moose galloped directly into oncoming traffic and a Lincoln Continental hit the fucker at over 60 miles per. This fucking moose went 30 feet straight up in the air, did an endo and landed on it's head and neck. Then it got bashed again by a pickup driving in our lane directly in front of us. I braked so hard my tongue and lips stretched out like I was performing an abortion, but I got our ABS brake equipped Subaru to a dead stop in mere meters causing skids and horn honks behind us.

The Lincoln Continental that pitched that Outdoor Channel trophy moose skywards was no longer possessing any glass. The headlights were scattered, the hood folded and the roof buckled, the windshield went inward and all the side and rear windows were busted into safety cubes. The driver was a mom with a half-dozen kids with her and she was so stunned and bewildered she staggered into traffic like she was drunk. If the piled up gargantuan moose heap didn't stop her lane of traffic, her mindless antics pulling all her children onto the highway sure as shit did. She frantically yanked those children outa that car without any regard for their injuries nor impending impact from speeding traffic.

A couple Good Samaritans ran to her assistance and pulled her and her kids back to the shoulder with cars screeching to a complete stop in both directions, but no satisfying smashes or crashes. My phone call to 911 was a real emergency and they sent everything. Those kids looked like rag dolls with shock-worthy blank stares and speechless. Not a peep. I suspect they weren't seat-belted and got a high-impact face punches from each other's body collisions, the car's interior and all it's contents tossed all over them cuz one kid was holding his arm and a little girl held her hand to the side of her head like she had an ear ache.

You see, I merely followed Mr. Trooper's advice and fully weaponized the speed limit. The subsequent fallout is pure comedy. Most of the time I call it my retirement hobby and civic duty. A retard in an all-wheel-drive Subaru (scuba douche) burning only Premium Super Unleaded, armed with a coupla revolvers and a shitty burner cell phone can be a dangerous combination. I'm a REDDI Report frequent flyer and weekly on-scene accident and crime scene reporter. I'm so often dialing 911, when I call, the emergency dispatcher answers with "Hey Karl, what do ya got?"

You fuckers oughta thank God you don't work in my precinct. After 40 years of intensive shit-ass training, I've found police departments make fun play toys. Instead of SWATTING bogus armed assault police requests, I just drive around at closing time for the bars and let 'er rip. Cops love chasing fucked up drunks and wasted retards on the highway. This winter I'm trying for an all-time best.

For you skanky motherfuckers, you'll appreciate this one. Me and bun were in traffic and my mind wandered off to the land of fossilized pussy. You know, that place men go to when they want to reminisce former lovers, old girlfriends and barnyard poon with our sisters. My mind was way off in the curly weeds when bun nudged me and asked "where are you?" I hemmed and hawed and tried to clear my mind of young girls in the UAF dorms with my face planted on a pristine muffin, draining the swamp and cramping my neck and throat during Olympic Tongue endurance events.

I looked at bun and said I was just daydreaming, why do you ask. She looked at me and said, "I was asking you what that awful smell was and you were off in your own world with a smile on your face and didn't hear a word I was saying." That's when it hit me. I was smelling some fine quiff and my ancient hard-wired odor neural pathways led me straight to memories of my stupid suicidal high-risk breeding patterns. A might powerful stench was on me, so I told bun the stench was "my upper lip." That's hillbilly code talk fer vaginal vampire.

We were following a rather large boat and the bilge drains were open and pouring boat douche water onto the highway and spattering fish sauce and slaughter juice up onto our car and we were sucking fumes that'd make a dyke smile, a faggot barf and give a cop wood. I rolled down the window, feigned composure and tried to be cool. Bun was looking at me like I had a third eye or an extra testicle. When it comes to beautiful naked young girls fighting for my attention, I was in possession of both.

I regurgitated my patent answer that I like long drives cuz they clear my head and it's a good time to chat about normally boring topics like house buying or stupid children. Her response was "I thought you'd left the building and I was alone in the car." Women are smarter than they look. And smell. And yes, I was a thousand miles away snacking on bush-lips 50 years younger and whoever was driving the car wasn't me. Of course women never pull shit like that.

In Sterling, pert near midnight, me and bun were driving our 10-65 patrol route when we heard a real fucking loud alarm ringing. We slowed, rolled down the windows and saw the front door of the Moose River Dental Clinic was smashed in. Sterling is ground zero, patient hunnert and corpse million 6 in the scourge of prescription drug abuse and croakage. I stopped along the highway, barely in the entrance of the dentist office parking lot and phoned 911. The dispatcher said, "Hi Karl, what's up?" and I reported the dentist office front door smashed to bits, the alarms blaring and that the target of the break-in was likely the medicine cabinets.

She told me to hold, then advised me troopers are nearby, stay where you are and they'll respond quickly. Shit, 3 AST units came screaming down the highway, in motorcade formation, doing over a hunnert with lights and sirens wailing really fucking loud. I blinked my high beams and all 3 patrol cars skidded in to both the entrances and exits. A uniform approached me and asked what I saw. I told him about the super loud alarms which were still blaring and pointed out the pristine footprints in the foot-deep snow in and out of the dentist's office and down the side of the highway.

The cops grabbed their guns and flashlights, carefully looked inside and secured the premises, then sent one unit to follow the footprints. Which led directly to a hillbilly motherfucker's house. A hillbilly with a badly cut hand who denied any knowledge of a break-in at the dentist office a half mile down the road at exactly 12:08 am tonight. The trooper smiled and told him that he merely asked him how he cut his hand. Guilty consciences are an easy give away. Especially retard suspect number one and person of interest clown porker by the name of Ernest (Ernie) Sandback. I had to testify in his robbery and criminally stupid charges at the Kenai Courthouse and Ernie dim-tard was convicted of everything. I thought all my court shit was over years ago.

The Central Emergency Rescue Station now ranks 2nd in the state in service requests and emergency responses. The busiest fire and rescue station is located in Anchorage. I guess that makes sense, but to think that our borough fire and ambulance crews came in right behind a service area with 6 times the population, well shit, that's impressive. The entire Kenai Peninsula has 50,000 residents and City of Anchorage has a smidgen over 300,000.

My mission is to start a shit load of fires, create thousands of auto accidents and facilitate a hunnert heart attacks, strokes, fatal falls and injuries. Then I can phone 911 and report disasters similar to what KPD suffered during the infamous Pondu Days. You know my number: 1-800-stage-a-crash.

If an FBI Special Agent contacts you guys and asks questions about former coworkers that may be engaging in a conspiracy to create counterfeit medical emergencies, bogus suicides and questionable fatal injuries involving elderly douche bags, you boys know what to do.

Act dumb, shake yer head and deny any knowledge of such a dumb shit.

My name is Nobody. I was never there.

D7, K160, N606. Code names and numbers for a hill-tard with a pussy whisker rash on his face.

I'm just a phantom that leaves a bad smell.

Again, my name is nobody.

Pewing.