Tribute to Marty Hall, Dennis Singleton and John Granberg. Champion pals.

Top of the morning gents,

The impetus for my writing ought to be obvious as the blood on yer nose and effluvium on yer fists. It serves as handcuffs to keep you coppers connected to a rude group of friends, neighbors, unruly coworkers at the local PD, the Trooper offices and lastly, us homely losers at far-flung remote VPSO detachments. The title of detachment is a misnomer because we were all a part of this turd, a piece of this continent, basically fucking interconnected molecules, yet regardless of differing races, ranks and uniforms: low wage public safety grunts. Or better put and more accurately, bullet dumps, punching bags, alcoholic guilt soaks, combustible aromatic hydrocarbon rich tobacco smoke processors, varietal turd sizes, fecal contents and stressed out stomach acid digesters.

You see, you ain't women. Ya ain't bitches neither. Yer friends of mine and in an idea of a larger group, your death will diminish us all. You fuckers are involved in a uniquely murderous clan of mankind and it's in yer best interest never to ask for details of whom has passed. Fuck, some of ye could've been kilt in a fire, doing laps in a septic tank, wolfed down by dogs, or still alive and reading my stupid shit. You already know a hunnert fucking coppers and first nation members that have gone before you and when the church bell rings at village funerals, the bell charges a toll. And that toll is paid for by each of ye with price tags such as gray hair, arthritic hands, sore feet, sick guts, constipation, foul tempers and bad backs. With alcohol, tobacco and firearms unavailable analgesics we're forced to take death as an aspirin.

My old friend Timo in Helsinki, a former United Nations Peacekeeping soldier during the Serbian nightmare and a man of many parts used to say the weirdest shit to us comrades as we parted company after drinking till closing at a pub near campus. When the Viking themed bar announced last call, Timo would state that "we're approaching the shank of night when all things dangerous are probable." Additionally more confusing, as us students and campus staffers parted ways and headed home or towards HSEBA (Helsinki School of Economics and Business Administration) dorms, he'd yell in our direction, "Night Bless Soldiers." Weird huh?

Timo was a Finn, born and raised in Nordic custom to be genetically and spiritually grim. Educated as a lawyer and to satisfy Finland's mandatory 2-year military service obligation, he volunteered to serve as a soldier in the United Nations Peacekeeping Forces in the Bosnia Kosovo Serbian civil war between churches. Timo figured wrongly that the Balkans would be an easier hitch than armed patrol along the Finno/Russo (Finland/Russia) border. That border being the longest of any country neighboring Russia and the duty was notoriously shitty, colder'n a bitch and usually entailed aiding freezing, starving illegal Russian immigrants fleeing across. Finland has similar challenges as America documenting and relocating humans trying to gain entrance to the richest countries on the northern European continent: Norway, Sweden and Finland. Better known as the Nordic Region or Scandinavia.

Comparing Border Patrol duties with Kosovo, Serbian carnage, Timo commented that religious conflicts bring the most awful wartime atrocities, unspeakable torture and disfigurements by neighboring churches during lunchtime leaving us attending evening services with our ancestors. Wake up fuckers, he's speaking metaphorically, meaning dead. Some veterans have attempted to write their Balkan Civil War memoirs but such literary endeavors never quite capture the flavor and authenticity of their awful years of service due to the fact that innocent tortured humans cry, scream and bleed profusely before dying and cruel vile paper bleeds little. Over drinks and smokes I asked him about his experiences and he dismissed them saying, "Nothing you haven't already seen Karl. Hunters kill animals, soldiers kill humans and I'm so sickened I can no longer do either. That's why we drink, to kill the worms that haunt us." I never thought about my alcoholism that way, but it works.

We chatted about sick awful scenarios and Timo was gray and drained. He said, "Karl, me old son, why do I get teary drinking with you?" My response was that I'm often accused of asking way too many questions. Drug buddies, narcotics suspects, cops back home and my mother-in-law gripe, "Adii, quit asking so many questions!" I'd smile, hand out another cold beer or iced whiskeys and cigarettes, then repeat my queries until I drain them of every ounce of information I was after. As you coppers already know I operated my very own MK ULTRA Program. I've used chemical agents commonly available such as nicotine, ethanol and cannabis but also job site leftovers like Rohipnol and GHB (date rape drugs), cocaine, methamphetamine and codeine to coax honest responses from unknowing, unwitting subjects.

Subjects I was interested in, I squeezed every last bit of gossip, chatter and nonsense I milked out of pals, affiliates and cohorts of my targets and if I'd no warrants to record them, I still recorded them, then submitted written synopsis's to my supervisors in the form of discussions and phone calls with the players I engaged. Some of my discussions produced information far beyond the scope of my duties and regional jurisdiction, but still greatly appreciated in other cases outside my purview and "need to know." One dumb ass dude talked forever about a bombing outside the gates of the National Guard Armory in the Mat-Su and a reprisal shooting on the Glenn Highway orchestrated from within Mat-Su Pre-Trial.

I had zero clue what this drugged up fuck-up was blabbering about, but as it turns out, the info was forwarded to other agencies and matched, corroborated and expanded stupid shit I've no clue. Odd bits, scraps and loose ends are all good intel and go a long ways in the hands of smart troopers, drug investigators and control agents of other departments not remotely related to my stupid narc shit. Many years later I marveled the tales told me. You'd be surprised at the treasures I've extracted using a pile of legal and illegal drugs, usually without the use of electrodes to the ears and lips or LSD. Okay, I'm guilty of enhanced interrogation on my narc squad gamers and losers, plus long dead native cops and old ladies from upriver, but you boys get to hear their echoes germane every time I send you shitty emails. And no, at no time did yer author on drugs compose any of these emails under the influence of his own arsenal of dangerous drugs. Sure.

Back to drinking, smoking and joking far across geographies continental and European, ye gotta have something to share, so I contributed Alaskan suicides such as Russell White Sampson's stage craft dangling at the end of his own stinking rope, Edward Wayne Henry cleaning out his entire cranial cavity with a shotgun leaving an empty vessel with his face still pristine, attached to the front. My stories get better with each telling. I mentioned the double-tap shotgun suicide Larry Brown botched and upon waking still in Buckland alive with half his face shot off, dug through kitchen drawers and cabinets, found more shells and put the shotgun back in his mouth for a head and neck explosion repeat blast do-over leaving an unforgettable self-inflicted slaughterhouse headless meat pastry us VPSO's failed to comprehend. We heard both blasts: first from the VPSO Office and second making our cautious unarmed approach. Upon making entry, it took a few seconds staring at the scene we stumbled upon to understand and take it all in. I stepped outside and smoked the very best cigarette I ever enjoyed in my life. I didn't puke.

Reluctantly detailing the Kosovo wartime dog meat hamburger experience, Timo stated, "Christ Karl, carting the carnage away, I tho't looked like long lines of rolling bins leading to tinned meats factories. You know, like that Spam shit you Americans eat. You ever wonder what's in that stuff?" Since I've personally downed a million cans of the greasy pork fart crap yielding raunchy slippery fecal animal byproduct turds out my ass, his descriptions struck a delicate sensitive nerve in my alcoholic 907 memories. I considered making a joke about turning dead crack addicts into canned pet food during the height of my own brainless service to America's civil war on drugs, but refrained. In battles between criminal, political and civilian tribes of moron humans, leaving millions of homicides between churches, neighborhoods and drug cultures, they're ain't no winners, only losers like me. Possessing no comic punchlines, I kept mum.

My university chums that served in conflict zones were of the understanding that you cannot let nightmare experiences rob yer soul, take over your internal dialogue and pollute personal photo albums, except mine. And yours too. Nobody owned your mind nor faculties for seeing and hearing new fresh scenery and a returning soldier shouldn't form biased judgments about human nature since leaving combat. Sure. At KPD and college in the company of good pals suffering PTSD there shouldv'e been plenty of new material to draw from and refill your mentally unhealthy reservoir. If a veteran of a civil war on drugs, public safety or armed church combat looked at the objective grim ghastly aspects of our collective nightmares there'd be far too much material to draw from to fill yer paint pallet, dab yer brushes and put forth striking awful images. The septic tank overflowing our mental material ends up here at an address called Hellblog Alaska. Take a seat, put on yer reading glasses and chow down on some good shit.

Public safety careers and wartime service are a passage with no exit. Sounds and smells will transport a man back to patrol duty, armed conflict, bone-head flashbacks, corpsman's trauma and ambulance medic triage scorecard losses that will likely haunt you indefinitely. You coppers know that humans turn on each other as easily as they turn on you or themselves. If you had three monkeys together, two would unite against one, then the two would betray each other. Not always, but often enough for a cop, soldier or spook to draw the conclusion this is the universal human condition. Three slightly differing tribes, churches, villages or clans behave the same and have slaughtered each other since time's dawn. You peace officers and your peace keeping services may quite possibly have proved futile and useless. The endless subsurface pain and sickness you're suffering wasteful and mistaken as a fool's errand. Our eternal stupidity erodes into our eternal shame and anger. What the fuck were we thinking?

You may not like my analogies of church funeral bells tolling but looking back at you coppers, that fucking funeral bell has claimed more of your best friends and comrades than cholera. Your damned career choices, career lifestyles protecting stupid children in native towns, villages and regions diseased have pulled earthbound more fellow deceased gunslingers than typhoid fever. Wait, pardon my daft outburst, but I ain't fucking done. Adding overtime rotating shifts, alcohol consumption like mine euphemistically called heavy drinking, brown bottle flu, or John Barley Corn's curse means we're living on borrowed time. Jesus fuck! Un-fuck yer head and rejoice in this realization. Adding a smoking habit of foreign cigarettes and expensive cigars we've vanished far more armed dudes and uniformed dudettes than Bubonic plague. Put that in yer pipe and smoke it. Just don't light yer pipe until I've perished and joined ye. Figure it out.

I know the shit-ass odd jobs you coppers have signed onto and some of these contractual work jags occurred in places where God couldn't be found anywhere nearby. Some of our jobs were located in geographies and latitudes so shitty, sadly his Son wasn't within ear-shot and upon recollection, the Holy Ghost was also not in attendance. This surmises that your horrid devastating behavior and treatment of obviously guilty suspects requires zero forgiveness. Nush was on-duty assisting a senior officer serving an arrest warrant and their arrestee resisted and fought his captors brutally. Nush and his supervisor, like Timex watches took a beating and kept ticking. They sprayed their arrestee with mace, tazed his ass to smoking ruins yet seemingly unfazed. When their suspect grabbed a long section of heavy gauge rebar and swung it around like Babe Ruth, his boss yelled at Nush to fire upon him. The dude sucked a handful of 40 cal bullets and died in seconds.

In godforsaken regions of Alaska where our job description implies we mistreat criminal contacts in ungodly ways, we're absolved. Just repeat this counsel and hopefully assuage your wracked guilt and wrecked stomachs. Guilt surfaces like heartburn and despair from our most cruel and unusual crimes against custodial charges and pretrial suspects and jerk us awake mid-slumber. Plus, they're impossibly hard to wash away without drowning in Willie Nelson's Whiskey River where some of us discovered we couldn't swim. I don't think Nush ever got over killing a man twice his height and weight, inhumanly combative, immune to concentrated pepper and extremely high voltage, ultimately dying from AST gunfire.

On some assignments, we needed to forgive ourselves in advance for the criminals and sick fucks we engaged and truly needed killing. Some losers were simply gone and we omitted their names and our crimes on our AST applications, cleverly withholding this critical information from our minders, control agents and supervisors. Our unforgivable behavior happened long before the DA suspected we scrubbed and sterilized our links to dead cretins no longer breathing. If it's not in your operational debriefs, logbooks or police reports, it never happened. Appearing decades later in a silly blog don't mean shit.

Stop cursing yourselves, in these arctic lands unholy, death simply absolves any and all legal or moral concerns. Feel better? I don't. To atone for my sins I need to perform something extraordinary or a feat so strong it serves to balance the scales of justice like putting my thumb on one side. Or my dick. My theory is that by revealing past sins and past kind deeds and wonderful werks undisclosed, putting them in this am cop talk format, all I need to do is compose them forthrightly. You fuckers simply need to read them. Not all cops are injured, sinfully dirty and violent, but this cadre sure as shit is.

You see, I've seen each of you strike a person. The impacts were devastating, humiliating and not pretty. I've seen inmates, arrestees and problematic coworkers get slugged or punched by you coppers and at the time, I completely agreed with your actions. Fuck, I cheered yer shit onward and I'm guilty of the same. Up north by the towers at the end of Caribou street, we were separating an unruly cloister of drunks that were fighting and trashing the place. The 4-plex owner, Craig Eldred phoned KPD dispatch to restore the peace at apartment 894-D and being copilot to Agent Octuck driving me home after shift, we diverted and entered to see Sarge and Garoutte already cuffing and separating a pair of severely angry intoxicated combatants. They were riled up at the slug-fest occurring prior to our arrival and even more hacked at being restrained with cuffs and armed cops.

A couple of wasted characters were still tangled up wrestling and looking to settle their hash before newly arriving KPD agents pulled them apart. Octuck grabbed one of the yelling inebriate Inuits so I snatched the arm of the other. Upon gaining purchase of the suspect's limb, I sought anchorage with both feet, pulled my dancing partner closely against my hip, leaned forward, rolled him forward and flipped the flailing punching suspect airborne and landed him on the floor on his back, breathless and stunned. The impact a proven recipe and suffice to take the fight out of him.

Later I was reprimanded that Kevin Washington didn't require farmyard judo, nor big non-native hands pressed against his throat to quiet and detain him peacefully in similar fashion as George Floyd 4 decades later. Unaware that autopilot and muscle memory is faster'n public safety training nearly cost me my low-pay, unappreciated back-breaking shit-ass job. One of many, many stupid infractions in a lousy career of miserable crap work. Most conflicts resulted in injuries far worse for me than my charges. Tossing Kevin Washington on his back and stopping his breathing happened in a flash, blink of eye and a blur of stupidity. At that moment, I was back in my crack house quieting mobs of drunken wasted pugilists wrecking my place, not serving in Alaska's (and America's) most violent community.

Just a few years later another mob fight broke out at that same apartment building and one of the arrestees kicked out the window of a KPD patrol car and fled. Vern Richards III escaped Downing and Squish and it took a case of Excedrin Pain Relief, Rolaids and Tums before he was re-apprehended and booked back into custody. The headaches and heartburn arise from the legality that once arrested, coppers are responsible for anything that happens to the fleeing suspect until he's captured again. In a similar case, an arrestee in trooper custody and cuffs broke out of a patrol car and fled through a boggy swamp. He drowned and his family sued and collected a sizable sum. I'm thinking a breathtaking flip and high impact floor smash with hands upon his larynx might've been simpler. Shit, a shotgun blast removing his legs from under him and flipping him would've kept him complacent too. What the fuck, just like Vern the Turd Richards all these other custodial charges are dead now anyway. Am I dumb?

Yes, I'm dumb. I write in a disjointed manner that strongly indicates years of alcoholism and I speak in a loopy cadence that suggests a long history of smoking weed. The head injuries, meth and cocaine had zero net effect on me. Shit, my holed memory echoes suspects missing and targets deceased that were actually killed so violently that our murdering them also killed their ancestral niggers back in time multiple generations all the way to turd vapors of Christmas's past from their grandfathers ugly short and grandmothers diseased gnarled and putrid.

Hurrying a motherfucker to die also alleviates the planet of their future grandsons unborn. Hell, I say kill all their pets too. After pouring cans of gasoline, old tires and disengaging natural gas lines, bullets lodged in skulls and rotting meat melt and disappear at the same instant their cats, dogs, goats, fleas and bedbugs ignite and flare. All that's needed is for you to strike a single match and toss it. Ye cain't let any one else see those horrors you left in yer wake. Only you coppers retain those lasting images ye just can't seem to drink off yer mind and are the baying hell hounds on your tails.

As public safety grunts, we were all taught enough information to know that arson is often used to cover up other crimes, destroy evidence and hide the identity of the victims we've only theoretically killed. We also know that arsonists delight in reporting their own fires and enjoy being involved in the fire fighting. Hence the photo werk documenting the faces in the crowds and hopefully putting culpability on a frequent flier fire bug or lunatic torch, not us coppers whom actually tossed the disappearing match leaving extreme heat and evidence incineration to erase clues most relevant and facts surrounding our crime scene masterpiece. Nothing to see here.

We're all on a first name basis with most of the permanent and volunteer fire crews and we also know that none of 'em have statutory powers to investigate the causes of fires. Firefighters are first responders with a mandate to save lives and those jokers are like a herd of cattle trampling upon valuable evidence in their attempts to rescue trapped living victims. But back to our own criminal detriment, fire hydrants pump only cold water which may doom our efforts to completely burn off our gasoline, paint thinners and alcohols. Cold water douched all over the fucking place actually preserves evidence. Alcohol and paint thinner have proved to be substandard arsonist's tools due to the fact that they burn at quite low temperatures: roughly 488 degrees Fahrenheit. So stick with gasoline.

What's humorous is you coppers are later contacted to investigate your own torch jobs working closely with crime scene officers and it's their fucking job to produce a crooked report for the coroner. A humorous aspect of fire crime scene investigation is the determination of corpse hair color. On a lot of dead burned bodies we'll see weird hair colors. Brown hair turns red at high temps and sometimes gray hair turns blond. Do you see the giant gaps and distortions possible in hiding the truths of our torch jobs? If we dump or launder our uniforms after our handiwork, we can eliminate trace shit on ourselves too. Fucking A dudes, that's a Grand Canyon of wiggle room to play within. I say get busy.

I remember fire training and the photos were fucking gruesome. It was easy to see fire damage greatest and charring deepest where accelerants pooled prior to ignition. Since heat rises, fires move upwards and the odds are that most fires start at the lowest point and show the worst degrees of burning. To torch a crime scene a smart arsonist starts his fires beneath his target utilizing all three requirements of flame. Accelerants, lots of fresh air and a spark. Simple math and an easy recipe for even the dumbest VPSO to follow. Like me.

Most Fire Marshalls have equipment such as sniffers, hydrocarbon detectors, and most accelerants are easily documented in material not completely burned. The leftover soot and ash put in a gas chromatograph will inevitably indicate any remaining accelerants. Investigators put fire debris in large canisters, heat them and syphon off the head space, meaning the gases given off, then inject them into a gas chromatograph. To destroy your splash patterns investigators call streamers, disperse yer fuels fucking everywhere to insure you burn off all yer gasoline, paint thinners and alcohols. As extra insurance, open lots of windows. Any fireman will attest that simply opening the front door to a fully engulfed building will cause an explosive massive flash of ignition. To further your fire success, send first responders to dead end bogus crimes to impede response times. To us murderous motherfuckers, fresh air and the ticking clock are your very best friends.

As far as faking a fire fatality, remember that arson victims usually fall on their backs when overcome with flames or smoke inhalation. If you coppers recall those gory photos of fire victims you saw fists and knees raised in what investigators call the "pugilist's attitude." The extremity muscles contract from the sudden heat of the blaze, fists clench and the arms fold inward appearing fixin' to fight and the knees come up in a sort of guarded pose. On rare occasions some victims were too drunk or drugged they spilt normal household accelerants on themselves setting fire to their own dumb asses. Smoke inhalation, panic and disorientation can cause fatal confusion and some victims look as if they ran into the flames rather than away. Keep that in mind.

Some victims are found in their beds after a fire and their bodies will be surprisingly well preserved. Most bedding is made or treated with fire-resistant materials and greatly slow or prevent complete incineration. So on the next arson job you pull, keep the blankies in the closet or on the floor. Another gross bit of evidence that indicates a victim was alive at the moment of ignition is blistering. A lot of drunken fire fatalities display blisters on lower extremities, so kill the motherfucker before torching their ghetto nigger grovel, white trash crack house or indigenous public housing mortuary.

Take note you fire bugs. It takes an hour to an hour and a half at temperatures between sixteen and eighteen hundred degrees Fahrenheit to cremate a human body. If you remember your elementary fire training schooling you should recall that ordinary house fires rarely exceed twelve hundred degrees which is why Fire Marshalls and Crime Scene Investigators have so much material left afterwards to work with. You also recall that all the meat puppet smoking monkey remnants in low temp house fires are X-rayed for any sign of gunshot wounds and broken bones from blunt force trauma. A body also will appear more black and charred because the body continues burning after the fire is extinguished. The subcutaneous fat keeps burning long after the fire has been put out. Sort of like a candle burning it's own blubber. That aspect of fire investigations grosses my shit out.

Some injuries look like fractures due to pre-mortem felonious assaults but most are a caused by heat. Heat contracts the skin and causes splits that can be misinterpreted as cuts inflicted during life. Heat can also cause fractures in the long bones of the arms and legs, making them so brittle they crumble and break from simply bagging and loading the bodies onto a gurney wheeling them to the meat wagon. Another stumping bit of evidence is skull fractures caused by extreme pressure. The brain and blood in the skull boils and steam blows out bone separations that radiate along our prenatal suture seam lines. The weakest points in the skull's surface splinter and are driven outwards, not inwards like blunt force impacts.

On the coroner's table and under more complicated dead body analysis, fire damage to their mouth and nose occasionally doesn't tell us much. Deposits of soot on the tongue, nostrils: the oropharynx and the nasopharynx can indicate breathing was occurring at the time of the fire, but traces of soot below the larynx more clearly indicate the victim was alive at the start of the fire. To further verify functioning breathing lungs at the onset of a fire we need to see exaggerated redness of the blood which indicates the presence of carbon monoxide. A CO level of 40-50% will cause impaired judgment, unconsciousness and death. The general medical and clinically accepted fatal level of carbon monoxide in the blood are readings in excess of the big Five O.

As far as a copper's proven reasons for arson, aside from disappearing an entire crime scene, the motives of non-professionals tend to be common spite or revenge. Humans and matches prove that malice and rage raises it's ugly head directed at each other. Fires tend to be started at night and generally involve commonly available combustibles or flammable liquids on site. Commercial arson tends to be insurance frauds or eliminating one's competition and hired arsonists don't linger behind. Commercial arsonists use time delay devices and are long gone by the time the fire department is phoned and arrives. Professional arsonists never get a thrill from watching their work or that of fire fighters.

Here's the technical shit you coppers need to know. Modern forensics have improved to where we can differentiate different fuels used as accelerants. Chevron, Shell and Tesoro fuels can be identified by their proprietary additives I mentioned a few compositions back. Spectral analysis of fuel residue can now determine which brand of fuel was used. It gets worse, each gas station has a unique signature of microscopic contaminants from their storage tanks. Furthermore, from fuel tank linings, gasket materials and hoses we can determine which automobile was used to siphon the fuel from and used to start your fires. Keep that in mind on yer next arson job and kype gasoline from yer asshole boss's POS junker ride.

Back to your former duties, aside from our own crimes we did for money, there ain't no ceremony to relieve you coppers of sins on duty. There's counseling fer returning vets to lessen the burdens of friendly fire episodes and civilian casualties, but a big zero event for retiring public safety grunts that feel pretty fucking awful about needless shootings, burnings, maimings and unnecessary hospitalizations heaped upon hopped-up 10-80 passengers in the backseat of your patrol cars that fell down and hurt themselves like Tykee Lloyd Hall, Tilmer Black, Jim Ginley or Bobby and Vern Richards. All by themselves with no explanation how they received mysterious injuries they incurred between arrest and dragged into the booking room. It's a complete mystery. Now it's not so funny. In the next life, we might be allowed to take back all those impulse kicks and punches, bullets and matches we hurled, unleashed in anger and poor judgement.

Except Jim Ginley, a drunk tank sliding door slammed on his hand with incredible force and it looked like it hurt. Darn, his hand broke all by accident. The overhead video only captured him fighting an unseen dumb ass Finn while Ginley was trying real hard to get out the tank. The crushed hand I've no clue how it happened. I'm lying. Some inmates were so worked up, piped and hacked they required a punched collection of sensory organs on the front of their skulls, high impact sinus injuries with irritating medications such as a side order of pepper mace eye wash and dental rinse. I knew it was gonna be an exciting shift whenever I clocked in to start my graveyard workday and the entire jail was cloudy and toxic from 10 million horsepower aerosolized airborne taco sauce. It's the smell of victory and it gave me serious wood.

On most days I don't condone shooting infants, but killing our very worst suspects and criminal business partners by letting them walk into an ambush of armed troopers proved extraordinarily satisfying. Especially bikers I tangled with in the Mat-Su, fixing to blow away cops and had previously voiced their intentions on my recorded conversations and drug buys stating that killing fucking cops is option #1. When they died, so did all of their future spawn. Most fatalities happen as a result of inserting high velocity bullets through and throughout their sickly bodies which ironically kills all their unborn children too. Death by supersonic hyper-velocity ammunition is like the hand of God faintly touching them, leaving briefly, then touching them again upon their exit wounds after the sound of His presence is felt on their last breath and their last pulse of blood. Their phantoms beyond seeing and unheard leaving silence wondrous and bodies stilled merely dripping onto a cleaner world. Tell yerself that according to John Mack, you just had a moment of prayer with a suspect or in broader terms, you witnessed a mighty righteous biblical moment. Beauty eh?

As the God of your own counsel pulls the worst of our wretched races and criminal classes back home for reconditioning, I follow the advice from a long dead trooper, "Avoid looking into an open grave, you may see yourself there." Funny, his advice was months prior to his descending into his own excavated sub-dirt patrol station on Boot Hill in Noorvik. This advice applies to deceased parents, grandparents, spouses and siblings too. Close the lid, depart the cemetery and let the workers pitch dirt. Don't hang. If you stand still for just one moment you'll never get yer feet to walk out, they won't listen. It won't be very pretty if I gotta push, shove and kick yer ass all the way home in yer best black suit and tie. Just remind yourself that back at my place I laid out a nice spread of old European medications distilled, chilled, uncorked and decanted flammable vints.

We've watched in rapt worry, fretting and agonizing concerns as our own family members and pals smoked, drank and drugged themselves into an earthen pit or ceramic urn. Ain't nothing we could do to divert this slow boat to the bone yard exclusively for the dying. Or better put, the pleasure cruise that's actually a tundra nap, drinking coda that progressed post haste. I don't know if any of you have living brothers or sisters but I hate witnessing their destructive stunts that drag the rest of us into suffering their alcoholic romances, abusive breeding patterns and ultimately, god-sent abortions. Life sometimes concludes before it even starts with the preconceived goal of squatting on butt sucker shop vacs loosening and discharging sick little high speed fetal bullets down a vacuum snorkel chute, spattered to bits inside a canister of dirt, mouse droppings, butt crack cobwebs and chunky ass lint.

I can hear you coppers questioning my logic and wondering why I don't speak up for the empty shelves at your local organ bank. Well, you may be correct, but I just can't see harvesting deformed meat blobs possessing caustic pre-congenital drugs and alcohol on top of defective DNA identical to mine. Imagine receiving a kidney, eyeball or liver from a nigger crack whore cooter discharge and finding yourself needing a replacement within months. Hillbilly white inbred farm girls, sucking up diseased confused sperm and hatching sickly barnyard retards is problematic at best, but harvesting future trailer tenant's fetal organs and placing them in our own bodies may prove disastrous. Kill it before it grows.

Yes, I'm aware of the crime of killing babies. But they're inevitably destined to be neglected, poor, abused serial killers and rapists sitting in gas chambers, dangling at the end of a hangman's rope or convulsing from a cocktail of poisons via lethal injection. Cut out the middle man and similar to diet junk food, simply tear open the package, chop them up and dump the nigger in the toilet. Pulling the flush lever will happily let 'er rip drowning in a septic tank teaming with probiotics digesting paper, grease, hair, turds forcing my ugly fetal blobs to swim, drown and dissolve in a sea of sewage soup full of microscopic piranhas yielding vapors that smell like pee. Or the village of Noatak.

Speaking of septic tanks, I dredged up an old Canadian case from the Alberta RCMP (Royal Canadian Mounted Police) cold case-unsolved files. It seems a serial killer snatched children and women, fucked them, chopped them to bits to fit in his chipper/shredder he bought at Costco. The chipper had a down spout snorkel secured to the vent (fart tube) above his septic tank and he'd fire up that outdoor free standing dead meat disposal unit and feed mondo corpse chunks through the machine directly into his 5,000 gallon septic tank.

Afterwards, he'd hose down his chipper/shredder machine wide open full throttle with a garden hose, then this deranged serial killer would go inside and pour a box of Rid-Ex septic tank probiotics in his toilet and flush all that hyperactive goodness down the hooch and let the microbes snack away leaving sludge that was months later pumped out by a septic pumping service. These services vacuum empty yer septic tank and dump the sludge into the nearby sewer treatment facility, public cesspool or Mike and Lance Kramer (unnuk) lake. I'm of the opinion that feeding a hunnert dead humans to a yard of pigs or a mushing dog lot would've been easier. But a chipper/shredder and septic tank works pretty darn good. Damn cool.

Septic tanks are a funny piece of equipment. They're usually a steel tank many thousands of gallons in size (1K-10,000 gals) with an incoming downspout shit chute directly under your house feeding the tank all yer household sewer water. At the far end they have an overflow outlet that spills "gray water" into a pool sized field of round rock. The rock field is called a drain field or sometimes a leech field, but the function is the same, to disperse all of our shower, laundry, kitchen and toilet water to get absorbed in the soils underneath your backyard. The rock field is covered with a heavy canvas similar to Tyvek, a product called Typar which keeps the dirt and grass out of yer rock field and prevents plugging up the draining and absorption of your poo, pee, suds and spit water.

Septic tanks are exactly what their title means: septic. On the verso, we gargle with antiseptic mouthwash or wipe our scrubbed faces with antiseptic alcohol towelettes or irrigate injuries you coppers incurred on duty with antiseptic disinfectants. Septic activity is deadly on a human body but really wonderful down in yer shit tank under yer backyard lawn. Septic activity is like a beer wort that biologically breaks down yer toilet paper, tampons, giant high fiber turds, millions of gallons of potty, food products churned through your kitchen sink disposals and of course all the other waste water we send down the hooch.

To accelerate septic activity speeding the breakdown of yer piles of soggy waste we purchase products such as Rid-Ex that fuels an explosion of biological brewing that quite literally digests yer flushed shit. I've heard other wives' tale remedies from red neck hill folk in the Mat-Su Valley of Trash such as cutting up ripe stinky chicken and dumping it down the fart vent tube directly into your septic tank. I've also heard that a coffee can full of dry dog food every few weeks can accelerate your shit brew action and even chopped up ripe rotten road kill or dead animal bits laying about yer ignorant mud farm property. Despite cheap alternatives, Rid-Ex and other products like Septic Rx will do the job quicker and faster.

At our Willow house, we had gurgling sink drains and a slow flushing toilet. We phoned Hamilton Excavation and he inspected our system. His diagnosis was troubling. Since most homes produce 300 gallon of sewer every day, he asked us how many females resided at our house, then he departed. He returned the next day with a tractor, a truck with a brand new giant septic tank and a dump truck filled to the brim with round rock the size of potatoes. He invited us to stand nearby and watch him work and when he broke the surface with his bucket loader, he hoisted up out of the ground an old Dodge van that was gushing shit, paper and thousands of gallons of douche poopy, pissy water. The owners that sold us the place simply put a 8-inch PVC pipe through a broken window of a rusty old van and then buried their stupid toilet shit. The spectacle of thousands of gallons of watery shit was abhorrent. The smell worse. Fuck I gagged.

Hamilton hauled the old Dodge van away, groomed the remaining hole, dropped in the brand new septic tank, attached a feeder down-spout to it, then dug out a much larger hole at the far end for the dump truck filled with round potato-sized drain rock. He backed the truck to the edge, tipped the rock in, covered the rock pit with a breathable drain-able canvas tarp, connected all the PVC tubes in and out of the tank, then covered everything with dirt. Did, done, deal. He was gondo in half a day and only charged me $6,000 dollars. Our receipt now had the SOA DEC Seal of Approval, but fuck.

Before departing with a large chunk of my savings, Hamilton explained that the number of girls or women living in the house determines the size of the septic tank. He calculated 500 gallons per bitch to digest all their potty wipe toilet paper and another 500 gallons for all the remaining dudes. We just piss freestanding and don't wad a handful of toilet paper to wipe our dicks. Makes sense. Our tank was a rather large 1500 gallon tank and a drain field of rock accordingly. I asked about dudes taking big dumps and he stated that hefty turds actually help in the breakdown of paper, hair, grease and kitchen food bits. Gag-a-maggot business huh. He left of with a case of product similar to Septic Rx that releases a trillion fucking microbes that digest our shit. It's like the over the counter Rid-Ex stuff. Flush one box a month down the toilet.

There's hillbilly cheats, redneck hacks, folk wisdom and home style alternatives to paying money for boxed poop brewing products. Our caretaker dude named Robert Anderson (RA) used to gather up piles of squirrels he shot, ripened stinky, then dropped them into the septic tank out back our house. He'd also collect stupid chickens (Spruce Hens) he picked off from tree limbs overhead and when they became stinky, dropped them whole down the fart vent tubes. He laughed and told me that a neighbor a mile down the road lost his 2 pit bull dogs and they were never seen or heard from again. They arrived at our Willow house chasing RA's cats and and wild rabbits. As a cure-all RA sighted his rifle at one, smoked it, then the other and after they froze solid, smashed them to bits with his wood splitting mall and poured the piles of pit bull chips down into our septic tank.

On the muzzle of the rifle Robert Anderson used to shoot the pit bulls, he'd fashioned a VW Bug muffler (those narrow tubes) to the end of his 223 AR-15 rifle barrel like a suppressor emitting only a loud clap. You can guess the final destination of his flat faced filed tip bullets with near wad cutter fascia. I asked him why he didn't use a quieted 22 rifle and he smiled and declared he did but the stray dogs and pit bull mutts didn't die quickly enough, limping and dying at the end of our driveway or in the middle of the road. Every day after his dishes, laundry, piss and shit, hot shower and shave, RA would do a septic doodoo dance and give praise for the squirrels, birds and shattered frozen dogs' contribution towards digesting a tank full of toilet paper, shit turds, shaving whiskers, soapy shower sludge and a hunnert gallons of laundry and piss. Say bye-bye to the pit bull chips. And the road kill and dead birds swimming in bubbling shit and Campbell's fece soup.

Dead meat works remarkably well in digesting yer paper butt wipe, discharged miscarriages and even chemical abortions shot out yer cunt after snarfing down piles of cocaine or packing yer green bud with high octane meth. Every fall, upon phoning a septic pumping company, zero cartilage and bone byproducts will ever be evidenced in the sludge dumped into our rivers and waterfronts. You can tell my expertise in disappearing undesirable scrote bag humans is old hat. Shit I even taught my dogs to fetch dead babies, rotting animals and rusty bloody tampons around the yard and neighborhood, improving their skills as dead hooker cadaver dogs and feeding the septic system. To train them, we first used brown soggy diapers and threw them across my yard but the splashed juice and chunks in our hair and face pissed me off.

You can puke now. Statewide and nationwide our sewage is ultimately dumped into a million fucking rivers and lakes. Don't forget that after a brewing period in Mike and Lance Kramer Lake, the smelling brown waters gush into Kotzebue Sound and flavor yer nasty fish you numb nut mongoloids eat frozen (uncooked) Eskimo style. When we lived in Soldotna the sewage treatment plant discharged roughly 300,000 gallons of delicious waste douche every day into the Kenai River. The raw sewage was strained to remove the solids and then the liquids were treated with bags of bleaching chemicals and released into the Kenai River. The solids were collected in a giant conex sized truck bin and spread evenly across the landfill in layers every week to promote biological breakdown of our massive city dump and promote methane (natural gas) production for heat during upcoming decades and centuries.

The effluence, theoretically has been killed with the bags of bleaching chemicals but medicine and detergents end up in the river and greatly affect fish health and population numbers. The taste too. I hear you thinking, maybe leaving our piss and shit under our yards and lawns is a better idea than destroying salmon fisheries migrating upriver to spawn. All sewage treatment plants discharge their product into waterways and lakes nearby. If you thought different, you likely wore a drool cup, a misshapen sped-helmet and rode a real short bus to a special needs school for future mini-limbers, wheelchair wetters, indignant welfare niggers and are products of Alaska's public school system. You didn't know you were so retarded and naive to the final destination of yer piss and shit soup did ye?

Of course my pals Dennis and Marto employed at Lem's mortuary had better ideas than waiting for slowly dissolving bodies in septic tanks. We all worked part time with another unsavory character named John Granberg at Tyrell's Pet Foods in Ballard, Washington, the processing plant for all your major brands of cat and dog food nationwide and they shipped pet food to thousands of stores across America. Our job was to heft shovels and pitch forks tossing thousands of tons of pig, sheep, goat and cow butcher shop by-products onto a conveyor belt. This ripe slop was carried into mile high stainless steel hoppers, ground and blended with moldy rice, corn, wheat, oats and waste grain meal unfit for human consumption.

The ripe meats and sour grains are churned and extruded into dog and cat food cans, sealed and heated to 180 degrees to the cook the shit, then labeled and shipped to a store near you. Cats and dogs love this foul ass gorp and so do a million old ladies across America. The flavor is better than canned meats like Spam and half the fucking price. Visiting a lot of old native ladies that fled Kotzebue after the bars closed, bun and I found a shit load of canned pet foods in their cupboards but nary a cat or dog in sight. I say again, soft pet foods are 'lish, no teeth required so try it. Pet foods in yer grandma's farts make a dog horny. Makes wreetodded niffs horny too. To verify this absurd claim, ponder the number of pooch screwers you've arrested. Besides Cecil Hawley, there's a shit load. Eskimos are bad ass dog fuckers.

Marto and Dennis were of the opinion that after killing rival cocaine parlor operators and crack house pirates, they oughta toss our victim's corpses onto the conveyor belt and feed America's dogs and cats. In the cocaine trade Marto and Dennis were tasked with disposing innumerable numbers of dead niggers, bikers, thieving hookers and strippers and stoner rip-offs: so they were bagged, triped, processed, canned and cooked. I'm intentionally typing these details of their nigger hooker and crack addict disposal techniques because we agreed that some secrets are best kept until death. Well, the last of my partners in crime, law enforcement team mates are now sucking dirt, so I can spill the beans. Or guts, butts and flavorful gravy drippings.

Wake up fucks. In off-seasons we needed work. When our wholesaler dudes were in hiding, on a bender or in jail, me, Marto, Dennis and John Granberg started our shifts at midnight and were provided keys to the canned pet food factory, our place of employment. The totes we shoveled were heaped with shredded tripe, hooves, heads and waste butcher shop shit and mixing sick ass croaked bad guys, dead whores and bikers into the ceiling high steel hoppers made sense. They spun circles with sour meats in industrial choppers and blended with rank-ass grains, then canned and cooked and labeled. This shit was a no-brainer. The reason I'm finally free to discuss this scheme is cuz Dennis and John Granberg past away a few years ago and Marto just joined my crew of mystical apparitions I see in my slumber. Whenever I diminish my own culpability, you know I'm lying, so now is my time, as the sole survivor of a criminal gang of white trash Edmonds killers to point the blame and let y'all know how awful your coworker at KPD really was. Trust me, they did all the dirty work, not me.

You see, cocaine is a fungible asset, meaning it's all the same commodity and if we got stuck with garbage blow or fuel tainted powder, we fronted the shit out to a hunnert niggers, strippers and hookers. They'd all happily promised to snort, smoke or shoot the crap now: pay later. Some were slow to pay. Some other really sick addicts never paid. Those were the cunts that got bagged dead, "triped" and joined waste meat slop and rotten grain by-products, canned and cooked. Eventually eaten and shit out by a million fucking dogs and cats (and yer grandmas) leaving turds that looking back, were works of criminal art. Plus, it's much easier and more convenient than lugging a heap of niggers north, torching their shit at 1600 degrees and dumping the crumbling skeletons and skull waste ash down onto a thousand gallons of sloppy outhouse poopy goodness. Way too much work.

Growing up in Washinton, women were a surplus inventory of busted loose cunts and piggy titty floppers and after their product shelf life neared uselessness, they became pains in the ass liabilities. Some hookers would run up large books (debts) with a number of outlets like Marto and Dennis: associate wholesale distributors at my mortuary and crack house. It was a well known secret that these fucking whores would drop a dime, phone the bacon bits informing the piglets of illegal drug operations that needed busting. Some strippers would even perform undercover buys from some outfits, jail the operators, negating their debts and walk away Scot-free.

If you examine how much a hooker can make a day ($500) and extrapolate when they reached the point of non-viability yet continuing to run up their cocaine debts far beyond insurmountable, you can easily determine a dollar number figure where they were more conveniently bagged, "triped" and converted to dog food. If you timed it just perfect you'd put a plastic bag over their head, dumped them in a meat tote to make delicious and nutritious Friskies or Alpo dinners. And canned food for old toothless Kotzebue drunks that fled town after closing down the bars back home. Think Trudy Kenworthy naked, Linda Kramer in an anal porn movie or that skull fucker Carol Wilson rolling on a conveyor belt, diving into ripe smelly meat waste byproducts and grains unfit for human consumption. Niggers, crack whores, bikers and crusty old native women all taste the same in pet foods. They taste just like chicken.

We've received phone calls from raspy street walkers and rasty dancers stating they had all our money asking if they could they pop in to settle accounts. We'd tell them we were just down the block at Franky's house, happily agree to the sit-down and visit, take all their money, clear the books, but offer zero additional product. That would be a bust. You see, with annoying music playing and dudes yakking stupid shit, audio recordings are useless. Also, denying additional product after settling financial affairs down the road at Franky's, them fucking cunts got nothing to trot out to the narc squad and incriminate us ugly fuckers. If the coast was clear and John was on duty and in operation, he'd pick 'em up and take them on a tour of Tyrell's Pet Food Factory.

You should see their faces when we take all their fucking money, meaning OUR fucking money and tell them that there ain't no product on premises and to come back later when we re-up. The stupid music and stupid party dudes were usually so loud we could barely hear them whores think. We also could barely hear them scheme, talk up bogus non-existent business and try to suck, fuck and strip product outa the pockets of the morons in my employ. Any criminal operator or crack house publican propositioned by worn out ugly whores can easily see (and smell) their show has long past folded, stage curtains drawn and their names will soon appear on the list of ingredients on cans of dog food destined to become cat litter box lumps and butt nuggets in dog kennels.

Being at the executive level of operations, I avoided working nights when extra totes of bagged, triped and limp bitches, niggers and bikers were pitched and emptied into giant vats of sour waste oats and meat byproducts. Our mortuary and crack house associate and fellow Tyrell's pet food employee, John Granberg happily volunteered to perform our extracurricular dog food duties. He was pleased to be part of a team like ours and for a fat packet of blow, lugged corpses out of our hair and kept quiet freeing me, Marto and Dennis to continue our duties, working fulltime at Lem's Mortuary and Crack House moving product and taking money.

John Granberg was a strange character. He was funny, witty, hyper and had zero qualms about bagging, gagging hookers, strippers, bikers and business competitors adding their bodies to the meat totes at work. I'm thinking that if he hadn't died, he'd still operate as a serial killer for hire at a crack house near you in the greater Pacific Northwest. It's rather convenient and opportune to have the company and friendship with a dude enjoys killing people and feeding household pets. John Granberg loved cats and dogs, he hated crack whores, niggers and dead bikers. My advice, don't let yer daughters and sons get involved in the drug trade up north of Seattle. You see, I might be a sick hombre, but there's plenty worse. Relax, I ain't so bad now, working with you coppers made me all better.

In a rational scientific perspective, burning niggers, sinking hookers in septic tanks, feeding pigs dead strippers or shoving sexed out children into a Canadian chipper and shredder sounds like WAY too much work. If you put on your copper thinking cap and calculate the risks of detection and prosecution, the inherent chances of getting caught doing the aforementioned disposal techniques are way too fucking high. Outsourcing the bagging, triping, toting, conveyor belt loading, canning and cooking this fine collection of citizens to a talented man such as John Granberg was a stroke of genius. He'd work on a commission basis and for a percentage of the unpaid bill, happily survey last known addresses, pay visits to our debtors and in a single evening settle numerous accounts, clear books and simultaneously put in hours of work at Tyrell's Pet Foods on time, on budget and improve nutrition for yer stupid pets nationwide.

Mr. Granberg was a fearless motherfucker and happily entered nigger crack joints, shot everybody there, loaded up his truck or van and pulled a midnight mish at the mutt and kitty cafeteria. And you boys thought I'd run out of criminal material to retrieve and share with ye. I'm just getting warmed up. I've no tales of bath tubs filled with acid and no tales of cannibals eating our bad debtors. That's fag shit for Hollywood. The movies starring Anthony Hopkins are derivations of Washington State's serial killers. Silence of the Lambs and Hannibal the Cannibal were complete fabrications and in no way related to the Canadian Pig Farmer, Chipper/Shredder, Green River KIller, Ted Bundy nor Wesley Allen Dodd. Those characters were tame and boring in comparison and little dramatic value for movies that scare our kids shitless watching them. In reality Mr. Ridgeway of the Green River fame simply choked 40+ hookers from Auto Row (Sea-Tac Strip), dumped them in the woods, laid them in weird poses and snuggled with them after they died and ripened.

Ted Bundy liked to fuck comatose patients on his night shift nurse rotations. His bashing in the heads of nursing students at the UW medical school dorms was an attention getting scheme. His escape from King County Pre-trial jumping 2 stories to the pavement broke his leg and made driving to Florida excruciatingly painful. Florida being where he was executed after granting useless interviews with the King County Sheriffs. His information had zero effect assisting the arrest of the Green River corpse fondler, diddler and snuggler. Wesley Allen Dodd was simply a sick baby fucker and killer and none of these characters were any value to horror movies based on any historical facts surrounding Washington serial killers. Now John Granberg might've been a theater filler if given half a chance. Imagine the movie headline, "Cartman, yo mamma is a crack ho' and now canned food for pooch's poops and kitty piss." I'd watch that movie if I could insure my name wasn't listed on cans of pet food ingredients or in the closing credits.

Needless to say, when I closed down the mortuary and flew up to Kotz to work fish guts and NWASD inventory, I was also fleeing the real possibility I'd end up in John Granberg's trunk, meat slop tote and feeding your stupid fucking dog. You see, when our cocaine trade came to a skidding halt, all the drug movement, money movement and corpse movement also screeched to a stop.

Marto and Dennis sought work elsewhere and inevitably failed, flopping around Washington unemployable while yer author on drugs found back-breaking work mopping puke at yer local jail, marching all over the NANA Region in a brown uniform, buying drugs and consuming truckloads of the shit on the AST and narc squad's dime.

Karma is a bitch and paybacks suck all the way to the senior center. I think I'll pay a visit to my neighbor and snack at the pet food buffet. I'll inspect the labels on the dog and cat chow and scan to insure there's no ingredients such as crack house whole grain meal, nigger whore meat byproducts nor biker corpse nutritional supplements.

Karl.