Explosives, Hearing loss and dead comedians.
Top of the morning gents,
I'm supposed to be a good communicator. I'm more likely a moron. I try to compose stupid shit so that when you coppers read it, you'll recreate images in yer vastly superior minds and follow my drivel hopping back and forth in time, across centuries and continents. Hopefully.
You see, speech, originally started more than a million years ago whence we shed our fur allowing us to stay cool on the African Savannah. Hominids then started making sounds with their foul mouths, instead of panting like dogs. Human speech now is the device whereby low-pay public safety grunts learned imperfectly, to transmit our retarded thoughts and emotions from our minds, to other very stupid men. If you don't follow me, take a moment to remember proof-reading the moronic garbage some cops typed in their criminal complaints. Stupefying simian language, fit fer monkeys, likely pissed you off and is possibly giving you fucking migraines right now. Supervising well-trained, poorly educated fuck-heads requires tremendous patience and codeine pills from a dumb ass narc on your payroll whom still communicates poorly, despite minimal brain dysfunction, and a million years practice.
We set up arbitrary sounds and combinations of noises to represent certain mental nuances, such as orders to, "Come out with yer hands up!"or "Pull yer fist outa that dead bitch!" and in the case of Clan Kramer, "Pull yer dick outa that little boy, he ain't a fuck puppet!" In summation, we've developed loud shit as a method to communicate to other motherfuckers. The result is a rather clumsy, thick-thumbed and inadequately degenerated racket that fails to transmit any delicacy of mind and more closely sounds like gross and guttural signaling. And I ain't talking Inupiaq.
You may remember me getting written up for broadcasting over police band radio waves,"Officers Westlake and Downing, 10-65 don't mean eating packed fudge in the backseat of the patrol car" or "Could somebody pull Ham-Ham out of his police van? He's passed out and messed himself." To crack up late night shift cops, I steal Dave Chapelle's slogan chiming, "I'm RIck Jones bitch!" The clincher, "Okay, who's the funny nimrod that took a dump in the Jail Explorer?" It turned out to be Gumby, code name for James Rea. He'd stacked thawing, rotting dead dogs in the back of the vehicle. It had less than a thousand miles on it and sure as shit no longer had that new car smell. The brand new city vehicle more closely reeked of the Internet gay porn Gumby was jerking off to in dispatch.
Earlier during a typical shitty shift, Barney (Berend Reuters), Octuck, Ray Blanchard and myself were killing time between calamitous call-outs. Out of nowhere Patrick stated, "Fat fucks suffer poor hygiene. They got short arms, big, fat ass, hemorrhoids, wet butt and real pleasant aroma." Octuck furthered his theory and asked, "Barney, who wipes yer ass? Do you have yer wife do it?" Blanchard and I were stunned. That very second, a 911 emergency call came in reporting Katy Norton was wasted and racing around town, flipped her 4-wheeler and crushed her skull, unconscious, her condition unknown. Dead coworkers made me laugh between heartbreaking service requests that required notifying our supervisors and tone-out the Fire Hall ambulances. Whipsaw emotions, hot and cold, comedy and tragedy. Right at this moment, decades passed, alone in a dark apartment, I still feel that unresolved stress. I'm betting you do too.
I pity you cops but my comic (puke soaked) resume still cracks me up recalling the homosexual breeding magazines I'd surreptitiously strewn about the squad room with Gumby's mailing addresses expertly glued on them. The stunt frying Garoutte's eyes and nose after I sprayed loads of pepper mace in the defroster vents in all the patrol cars was kinda stupid cuz it left David Craig and Roy Fields looking dumbfounded when accused. Spiking Tom Evans' chocolate cake dessert with lethal amounts of Syrup of Ipecac forcing fat ass and mouth to detonate tactical nuclear explosions in the old jail shitter was unprofessional, but funny. Looking back, I'm guilty of indecent humor and felony malicious mischief. Call me a dumb ass.
Looking back, I wouldn't change a thing. We didn't have the right to remain silent, we had the right to grow old and ugly and impotent, we had the right to have syphilis and cancer, the right to eat Eskimo foods and pussy other cultures considered rotten, the right to feel lousy and in constant apprehension of what shit may befall us during our next shift at the police department, the right to get spit on by herpes salivating inmates catching typhoid and Hep B. Finally, we had the right to retain the memory of tortured dark humans suffering unspeakable bowel movements all over our uniforms and traditionally disadvantaged rectal pain forever soiling our narc jobs and village patrols across rural Alaska. If I'm mumbling, turn up yer fucking hearing aid.
Throughout our careers and poorly compensated uniformed positions, the results of our barking and growling, suffering massive illiteracy from our subhuman coworkers and the shittiest clients humanity ever conceived, it's doubtful human mongoloids could ever really understand one another. Even this zero-hour early morning I live in a dark, lonesome choking mist wherein no other fuck-head exists. I'm guessing you're alone in your miserable bitching too. Rarely are dim signals from deep within the shit-strewn cavern I exist can I grope and wrestle crap languages and send typed spewage out to other dip-shits in uniform on the receiving end.
In summation, we really don't know each other, but we sure as shit laugh at our shit-caked work histories, mean-spirited romances and even thicker children we discharged from our cunt-reeking donkey appendages screwing upriver dark maidens with faces and asses the color of chocolate or dog skin, managing to inseminate them while they were messy with over-ripe seal oil reminiscent of Kaktovik pussy. We decided to live in Alaska because on every foot patrol we looked out on to the incarnation of a divine being, when in actuality, we deserved to live in some filthy sty or die in some blind hole in the ground.
When I describe you coppers in my am cop-talk I paint pictures of ill-adjusted men of distinct import, after decades in public safety, taking and delivering punches and kicks, you soldiers can no longer struggle your creaking machinery to the finish line. I laugh at images of you, old invalid cops sitting around smoking expensive cigars, coffees and whiskeys, jolting old gimpy bitches with super hot Tazers, sparking, flipping spastic, leaking fish waste, sending darkened diapers airborne. At our old ages our best health is never more than an ordinary young man's feebleness. Despite canes, wheelchairs and strollers, I heard your footsteps these last many, many years and compared them with mine. I discovered the foot of villainy falls with the same quiet note as the foot of honesty and the most hopelessly stupid man is he who is not aware that he is wise. Look in the mirror dildos.
That understood, how did a total asshole, such as myself, get beyond my fears I've carried since infancy, my terrors and insecurity and ultimately, my greedy, predatory and savage rapacity I carry within myself towards every other wheezing hominid on planet fucking Alaska. For tens of thousands of years, my club-footed languages I inherited has clogged up my mouth and ears with poopy mud suppressing and holding down our busted heads and big brains more fit for planetary travel, beers and bong hits over space music and bro-mances traveling amongst the stars. Put better, if I can find bigger and better words to spew my shit, I can circumvent the prison bars of ordinary speech.
See? With only 3 brains, 1 up top and 2 swinging in the wind, un-muzzled, us retired service men can speak freely. Shit, old men are so cool, but like boomer women, we're real fucking vain. As us men grow old we feel in ourselves the radical sense of weakness, of listlessness, of discomfort, which accompanies the advance of age, feeling thus, imagine ourselves merely sick, lulling our fears with the notion that this distressing condition is due to some particular medical cause from which as from an illness we hope to recover. That sickness is old age and what a fucking horrible disease it is.
As an equalizer and reincarnation technique, I chastise, immortalize and chide every dead cop from our old duty rosters as if they're still here, abusing the living in much more delicate ways. You boys already knew this. As far as abusing Lt. Eunice, I'm at a loss. What can that old geezer do besides yarp up and spit a quart of regurgitated ulcerated tobacco drool all over a retarded indigenous infant's face, "Here's spit in yer eye nigger." The old boy ain't fucking no dead aboriginal biscuit and he'd likely never pull stupid shit like mine. He sure as fuck talks funny though. Southern drawls indicate inbreeding (insufficient heterozygosity) and poor education, so fuck, what's left for me to point foible but his small chin?
In short, watching all you coppers traveling decades from your younger days in fresh crisp uniforms, directly out of selection and intense training, I see something much more deadly. Bear with me, but public safety can be accurately described as a Roach Motel for your comrades and pals and you coppers are the last dwindling survivors. Young men entering careers in public safety serving rural remote Alaska, never back come out. These emails from the ends of our lives enable me to eke out a few scraps of useful information when phone calls would be inappropriate and spoken words too difficult.
If I could do it all over again, I'd spend even more time at the Kotzebue Rec Center with Carlos Salazar, Wilfred Lane and Al Sanders. I'm pretty sure I'd omit alcohol and tobacco and fatty foods from Diane Henry's, Effie Nelson's, Gayle Ralston's and Rodent Rectum Rachel Downing's prison barf cart, but I'm less sure about eliminating my chronic drug consumption. I still miss smoking fat chiefs and getting chinked listening Pink Floyd, Tangerine Dream and dozens of other ambient music titles. That vice was likely the hardest to bid farewell.
We've no control over the injuries we sustained and we probably have little decision-making options regarding our hearing losses from shooting a million fucking rounds and worse, the devastating sonic concussions from detonating my pipe bombs and silly modified fireworks. Late at night, my ears ring and I can't hear myself stink. Would you fuckers speak up?
I take my blood pressure and cholesterol medications and also boost my insulin levels to meet every gram of carbohydrate and sugar molecule I'm sucking down. I lift inhumanly heavy weights one hour every day and with a 3 pronged approach I attack my chronological ailments with diet, exercise and a truckload of medicines. I'm on the cusp of picking out designer hearing aids and I'm tempted to request Viagra in my daily pile of pills, in case I'm attacked, snuggled or molested by a much younger woman. Men are fucking idiots.
Can you tell old pensioners are real fucking vain? The probability a herd of 20-something scantily clad (or completely naked) curvy, busty babes clamoring for our attention is a big fucking zero, but us men dream like morons, which explains the freshly packaged unused condoms we keep in our wallets, glove boxes and in that secret pocket in our suitcases. Our wives are centuries past menopause, but our male-centered minds are still in a college dumpster. Even while you coppers lower my coffin lid or spark a torch to my cremation pyre, my mind is stuck on stupidly big round boobs and pert, tasty vaginal candy scented with strawberry flavored lip balm. Can't an old fucker dream? I better get back to my composition or I'll be forced to take a claw hammer to my Johnson.
Okay, I'm gonna start again, with the same format I've used for fucking centuries and engage you coppers with analogy, metaphor and symbolism based on the platform of gun talk, criminal complaints, mud folk-wisdom and chit-chat decorated with muzzle pressures and explosive cop-speak, writing crudely, decibels louder than our hearing losses.
I was going through some old school notes and stumbled on a lecture that I sat in. I know, I got no class, but when I was on a UAF sponsored trip to Finland, Timo invited me to a lecture he had to attend as part of his military training in disarming explosives. Mr. Timo Aristo nearly dragged me there. I'd shared with him my tales blowing shit up, my great uncle's disfigurement from homemade explosives a hunnert miles directly south, across the Sea of Finland in Estonia during WWI. I'd also confided with Timo my friend Todd Larson blowing up a mailbox and a flat piece of metal fully inserting itself in his swim teammate's face, collapsing the kid to the ground, killing him instantly.
Larson and I kept secret our involvement in that accidental death. To remind you, Todd and his pal put one of my pipe bombs in a neighbor's mail box and when it blew, Larson's pal was peeking around the side of his house and got tagged with piece of mailbox metal slicing skull and cranial unnuk like a super sonic ulu. Larson sneaked out through the backyard and walked all the way home and into old age keeping secret he was on-scene when the detonation occurred. Similar to Larson, we all have heartbreaking events we could never reveal, except here. Rest assured, nobody fucks up as good as me.
Back to the explosives tutorial, it was super fucking interesting and I took detailed notes. For future reference. Like now. The lecturer was British and spoke with a hard Cockney accent similar to Michael Caine with comments like, "There's not a mystery in ten homemade bombs that there is in one game of chess." Who talks like that? He further lectured that he "refused to allow any murder by explosion, to go the way of all the other mysteries, that policemen have made nothing of, a darkness, a little patch of night in criminal history,"
Meaning graveyard shift open-unsolved homicides in the KPD jargon you coppers use. Or maybe we're using the same code words for fat cold pussy now-dead KPD Officers Ken Jewell and John Mack porked out behind the old hospital, left fer dead. This line of humor arises from my tenuous position working in the old jail when the troopers performed daily transports from jail to court hearings. Rudy Hecker and Kim Nay were awaiting assembly of the crew with appointments in front of the judge, drinking my expensive coffee and smoking cigarettes. Kim Nay was telling us about the morgue at the old MMC hospital having troubles staying cold enough to keep corpses cool so MMC staff simply rolled the chest freezers out into the arctic winter weather, out back and let nature keep the dead bodies sufficiently chilled.
My spontaneous, inspired joke that cracked up troopers Nay and Hecker, plus Edith Melton and Kathy Elam was my comment, "K-5 and K-7 (Mack and Jewell) were out at MMC last night for over an hour, they came in here and sure stink uchuk nilluk." Pretty risky line of comedy, I could've gotten fired intimating senior KPD cops were buggering cold poontang and smelling like cunt farts.
Understanding rudimentary, crude Inupiaq, Rudy and Kim coughed their coffees and smokes and laughed hysterically, Edith and Kathy joined in, with Diane Henry and Effie Nelson adding a chorus of heckling, shrieking and laughing. The uproar was so loud, Wallace and Ward came charging downstairs to investigate the ruckus. Even with watering eyes and uncontrollable laughter, neither troopers was in any shape, or brave enough to repeat my stupid quip. I confided with Wallace later. He thought it funny as shit, but risky for the lowest ranking mongoloid, newly hired, on probation.
Eliciting a good chuckle, those 2 troopers and us KPD dorks repeated that silly notation for years. Mack and Jewell didn't think it was funny though. Come on, those old troopers and old gals in dispatch and the jail kitchen (all now dead) needed comic relief. Their jobs were shit and as the lowest life form in the department, my duty was to bring joy to their fucked up lives, jobs and towns they served. It was also mere months before Rudy Hecker found out his wife, Peggy Hecker was boning Dean Westlake. Peggy was subsequently sent back home to West Virginia, packing her Kiana herpes. Don't feel bad, cops marry skanky. Some girls you rent, some you own. Born retarded, I only fucked 2 of 'em (cops' wives).
Reading my text saves you suffering the smells and still enjoy my shitty humor about scarlet pimples cursing micro KPD cookoo nuvuksee (pecker snot). All parties concerned were still alive back then and enjoyed busting a gut at other dickhead cops' expense and poor behavior. This was over 30 years ago and as you can deduce, I'm the sole moron and funny fucker still breathing. Plus, despite half the region getting Kiana blisters, I never contracted Westlake's herpes nor his pubic crabs and lice he grew as a crop. Beat that.
Re-reading my notes about the bomb lecture in Finland, I had a brainstorm and didn't hurt myself. The class was entirely about IED's in the mid-90's. Meaning improvised explosive devices. I can hear you fuckers laughing at me cuz my hobby back a few million years was building pipe bombs and blowing shit up. I told you coppers about blowing up stumps and splitting trees, even a dumb stunt placing one in a gym locker in a failed effort to get even for bullying. My frat-mate and college chum Stuart Frost blasted some rich kid's Camaro or Pontiac Firebird to bits and shattered the front windows of an adjacent sorority, injuring numerous white bitches. I'm of the opinion those sorority girls, adorned with cuts and lacerations are now as pretty as you coppers and returning disfigured war veterans. Scarification, mutilation, beautification. Who needs branding, piercings and tats when yer already ugly like us?
During the religious wars in Ireland called The Troubles, British Special Intelligence Services were trained to deactivate homemade munitions. Reversing this process, the predecessor to the CIA, the Office of Strategic Services (OSS) taught US Commandos to build simple explosives, then place them to bring maximum grief to the Nazis all over Europe. Placing and triggering cobbled together explosives is normal during wartime, but bombing civilian targets is terrorism. In my case, simply brain-damaged.
You recall the Unabomber Ted Kaczynski, from a dry cabin sent numerous mailbombs to the IRS and the FBI and Timothy McVeigh parking a rented Ryder moving van loaded with 6 barrels of mash (fertilizer and diesel fuel) in front of the Federal Building in downtown Oklahoma City. Later this century we faced crude bombs bearing Taliban and Al Qaeda fingerprints, leaving these devilishly deadly devices for US and Allied troops to locate, deactivate or detonate. You've seen testimonials from disfigured servicemen and need no description of their injuries.
Simple, uneducated rag-tag terrorists stole scrap galvanized pipe from buildings and construction sites or even dug up water/sewer PVC plastic tubing and then stuffed them with the guts of fireworks, bottle rockets or even match heads. When triggered, the damage to our troops and intelligence officers is the same: our guys get maimed or disrupted. Meaning their bodies are blown apart by the sheer pressure force of the bomb. Think of an exploding bomb as a shotgun discharge, picking up scrabble, miscellany and garbage, blasting in all directions. With debris picked up in the blast, acting as shrapnel, you got a 360-degree slaughterhouse fuck-fest.
Simple or complicated, placed in public spaces, the brute forces released by any explosion dismembers regular people during their daily activities. Military conflict puts US soldiers in contact with roadside bombs and it ain't pretty. Bomb investigators use a simple way to count the casualties after an explosion, with limbs impossible to untangle and document, they just count skulls. To date, all modern police departments now have bomb squads responding to suspected explosive devices due in part to terrorism, but also gang bangers, cartel shit-heads and retarded redneck domestic terrorists getting in the act leaving these treasures as booby traps. In that context of job descriptions, you fuckers got off easy.
The instructor made an analogy that stuck with me. He compared explosives to sleeping pit bulls and if a bomb tech approached the scene carefully and made the right decisions and the right moves, everything would be fine. If the technician blundered in his analysis, like startling the dog, the fucking thing would rip him apart. That description reminded me of when the Chief, after getting my hand bit and crushed by my own dog, took a shotgun to me and Harly's pit bull. Nicely done. After smuggling loads of LSD in their kennels, KPD smoked nearly all my dogs. Cecil Hawley porn.
Timo laughs when I'm sharing my duties walking foot patrol all over fucking Alaska. He frequently made statements that reflected his Finnish education and seemed to incorporate my stupid shit with wisdom. "Karl, I'm fascinated with your fucking stories. They have the weight of history." "You can't seem to escape the fact that the past is never really past. We live our history over and over, the worst of our memories right there alongside us, step for step, our companion to the grave." Sometimes I wanted to slug this wise guy, even tonight.
All of us in explosives class had to get familiar with bomb tech armor. This shit is far more complex than the bullet-proof vests you coppers wore on duty. The armor suits bomb technicians put on weigh almost 90 fucking pounds! This shit is made of Kevlar plates and dense heavy Nomex batting and covers every part of our body, except the hands. The hands are left bare because the crazy officers responding to suspicious bombs and suspected explosive device emergencies need their hands absolutely free with their unencumbered fingers for dexterity. Look at yer hands and consider the possibilities. Shit! That's my thinking.
The lecturer was one somber son of a bitch. He'd responded to 71 suspicious packages in the 8 years he served his country's armed forces, only 23 were actual explosive devices. He held up his hands and wiggled all 10 of his fingers, lifting his shirt he showed zero burn scars too. Timo got my attention by quietly tapping his pencil on his notes. He'd scribbled, "I don't believe your bullshit." He's claiming my tales from Kotzebue are unbelievable.
During our morning fag break (British cigarette and coffee break) I'd told him about Lulu Wright losing her wedding finger when it was caught in a car door. She and Dan Yenni were out partying, totally wasted at the Lyon's Club dance and Bird Carter dropped them off in front of the 29-unit apartment building they were managing. Exiting Bird's car the passenger door slammed shut on Lulu's finger, severing it completely off. Lulu staggered into their apartment and passed out on their sofa, waking in the morning to find a big patch of dried blood.
Upon waking to find forensic evidence of a crude single digit surgical amputation and her ring finger not present and accounted for, she told us, "I sure toopuk!" "Adii, I puckuk everywhere and never find my finger. Dan told me to shut up and let him sleep." She ran around the apartment looking for what was missing beyond the first knuckle, leaving her a one inch stub. Tossing the apartment and screaming like an angry Inupiat she didn't find her finger and Dan Yenni was suffering a miserable hangover aggravated by Lulu's loud ass howling, shrieking and crying. I felt more sorry for Dan than Lulu.
She frantically called everybody they partied with and nobody saw her finger laying about. It wasn't until later that afternoon she woke up Bird Carter and asked her if she knew what happened to the third finger on her left hand. Bird was clueless until she was loading her FAS genius children in her car out front of Hanson's and she saw a dried brown finger in the door jam, smashed flat, right next to the hinges. The door cut the finger clean off and in an alcoholic stupor, Lulu didn't realize she was leaving body parts in her wake.
Dan Yenni's comment was if Lulu gave you the finger, could you please give it back? Me and bun didn't laugh in their faces, but sure cackled convulsively walking home. That was the absolutely true story Timo thought I'd made up. Equally true were my stories I shared with him about Chris Madison missing his thumb after Alvin Werneke dropped an oil tank on it and Dennis Jennings' son missing half his hand after playing in the KIC equipment lot. I got lots of those episodes from Kotzebue and shared them with pals in uniform serving arctic countries on the other side of the Earth.
Okay, back to the IED lecture. The bomb instructor concluded by explaining that only a few bombs he disarmed, all the rest were detonated in a manner he controlled. Meaning intentionally triggering the explosive by remote control or the bomb squad simply placed charges around it and blasted the confounded thing to fucking bits.
The lecturer put some awful painful photos up on the overhead projector and let us absorb images of explosions, some with bomb techs eating smoke while disarming them. As we watched the dumbfounded images, the teacher explained the details of each explosion. When a low-tech, simple bomb detonates it explodes at a rate of twenty thousand (20,000) feet per second. That's 22 times faster than a 900 fps (feet per second) 9-millimeter bullet leaving the barrel of your department issue duty firearm. You coppers can relate to that action, ya must've shot a million fucking rounds in yer careers and now wear hearing aids. Or should.
The heat of an explosion flashes outward in a burst of white light hot enough to melt iron. The air pressure spikes from a normal fifteen pounds per square inch to twenty two hundred (2200) pounds shattering the bomb containment materials, usually steel pipe, into jagged shrapnel that punches through the technician's Kevlar suits faster than any bullet known to mankind. The shock wave that slams into the bodies of bomb technicians has an over-pressure of three hundred thousand (300,000) pounds, crushing the chests, rupturing livers, spleens and lungs, separating the unprotected hands from the technicians' wrists. On the last graphic overhead video we saw a British bomb tech rise fourteen (14) feet into the air and get tossed thirty-eight (38) feet. Dead. Thinking of you coppers dying in that explosion, I might've cried a teensy bit.
Most bomb techs could possibly survive homemade shitty bombs like the ones I made, but in the last many decades, bombs are made from scavenged military munitions like Claymores and landmines which contain 1-2 pounds of RDX, a high explosive that has shifted bomb tech duties towards using remote control robots to examine and detonate them. No more redneck retarded hillbilly pipe bombs like mine anymore. Now we got IRA shit from Ireland and bombs from sand niggers, dune coons and rag heads. The signature of a true terrorist bombing is the use of secondary explosives that are detonated when emergency personnel arrive to treat the injured. Sick fucks. Those first responders would be Trox, Chamblee, Munson and you coppers. If your transformations from criminals to cops hadn't been complete, you'd be the ones placing those explosives. Oh, me too.
In the Troubles of Ireland, a battle between churches, bombers used a blended explosive called Modex Hybrid. The material is removed from artillery warheads used in air-to-air combat missiles. This material has a burn-rate of twenty eight thousand (28,000) feet per second, 8,000 feet faster than the old fashioned simple RDX bombs I mentioned before. Burn rate is a measure of how fast an explosive consumes itself and releases it's energy. The more powerful the explosive, the faster the burn rate. TNT, mining ordinance, the most common explosive burns at a rate of twenty thousand (20,000) feet per second, which ain't too fucking shabby. All explosives, by law, are intentionally laced with unique materials to trace the residue back to the manufacturer. Even C-4, manufactured in Czechoslovakia, now Czech Republic, has signature markers embedded, detailing batch numbers and dates of distribution. Similar to the Austrian Glock Pistol factory "fingerprinting" every firearm manufactured, retaining a single spent bullet and brass cartridge shell. Can I borrow one of your guns?
The problem with newer terrorists' explosives in Ireland and Middle East is the use of Modex Hybrid, the faster burning 28K missile shit. It's called a trinary explosive used as a bursting charge in air-to-air missiles that are extremely hot, fast and real fucking dangerous. It disrupts air and blasts aircraft apart, meaning it doesn't require shrapnel to destroy it targets. The sonic sound pressure waves blow aircraft into pieces and combat jets into smoking tailspins. Trinary means that it's a mixture of three compounds to form a composite far more powerful and stable than the 3 standing alone. The ingredients are RDX (from Claymores), TNT (tri-nitro-toluene) and ammonium picrate. To enhance its power bombers add powdered aluminum with wax, calcium chloride as neutral stabilizers and caking agents, like plastic blocks for easier transport and installation.
This Modex Hybrid has been making more frequent appearances worldwide and can flip American tanks, disassemble Humvees and vaporize US troops. Bomb makers using simple low-yield explosives are usually missing fingers, bomb techs killed with Modex are missing hands and their limbs are scattered to the four winds. Like estimating firepower in after-action reports of officer fatalities killed wearing vests, missing fingers, missing hands and dismemberment indicate ingredients, burn rates and forces in explosives.
The after-the-fact investigation is pretty much routine. The investigators walk every inch of the detonation debris field and search for pieces of the device spread everywhere within a hundred yard radius, combing nearby rooftops, faces of houses, apartments and buildings, parked cars, even dumpsters bagging and tagging every microscopic bit of evidence that might help the lab techs reconstruct the bomb and possibly give bomb investigators a clue to its origin.
The reason a 100-yard perimeter is marked off and analyzed is due to the fact that exploding shrapnel flies much like shotgun pellets lacking any rifling. Most matter flying in 360-degrees after detonation doesn't travel nearly as far as a highly rifled bullet such as high-powered, deep-grooved barrels used in sniper weaponry. First point is the explosion in bombs is way too fast, there's zero barrel to accelerate inside and shrapnel is random metal. You coppers know that putting large amounts of much, much slower burning gun powder behind finely engineered bullets, spinning them super fast is what gives a projectile its accuracy and long range. The longest lethal sniper shot is from a Barrett Lite 50 (caliber) shot at over a mile and successfully killing its human target: a rag head dune coon. Bomb shrapnel simply flies about, rapidly loses velocity and falls quickly. The cone of destruction inside that 100-yard perimeter is the crucial area to inspect.
Another important aspect of spent explosives are the toxic dangers of the residue. Any fragment of the bomb found as well as the blast crater and the dead bomb technicians' protective armor the lab specialists place in mass spectrometers and chromotographs to derive the ingredients of the bomb. Besides keeping fingerprints from hampering the investigation, the residue from explosions is usually full of heavy metals and corrosive byproducts that are toxic or liver accumulative to investigators. And the shit burns skin.
What's more informative is the type of triggering device used. Some are reused timers out of washing machines, recycled remote garage door openers, cell phones, toy car remote control components and the bubble balancing switches in yer furnace thermostat called a tip-and-blow, meaning when a bomb tech moves a suspicious device, it blows up. Some explosives are triggered by everyday wind-up kitchen timers used to cook a fucking turkey. All of these triggering devices place the bomber near the explosion with only the cell phone actuated triggers capable of setting off their bombs, usually strapped to semi-retarded suicide bombers, from anywhere. Religious lunatics and dullard hillbilly domestic terrorist bombers, like amateur arsonists love to watch their work and cops know to execute covert 360-degree video coverage of all explosions they respond to and like fires, they occasionally spot their culprits in the crowds of onlookers.
You boys are aware of flash-bangs used in hostage situations and the use of grenades as antipersonnel devices, but IED's are so much more dangerous that very few bomb techs ever approach suspected devices without using ROV's, remotely operated vehicles, to examine or detonate. These vehicles come equipped with sniffers, cameras and cannons to blast a suspected bomb to bits rendering them harmless. Of course after any controlled detonation, all first responders are tasked with picking up the pieces and measuring blast radius debris and re-assembly of the device and chemical analysis of the residues. I could totally dig on owning one of those ROV's. I'd send them into asshole's homes and aim the cannon at fuckers that got payback coming. Sort of my own personal toy and comeuppance.
Basque Separatists, The Red Brigade and other European terrorists including Carlos the Jackal have largely been put out of business. The ingredients for really deadly explosives are highly regulated and tightly inventoried, leaving stone-age moron bombs like the ones I made as a kid, made out of simple kitchen and garage materials. Not sexy. Our allies and NATO members all exercise extreme controls on their weaponry and all component explosives have chemical tags blended in them allowing investigators to follow chain of possession: simple. No upstanding, highly compensated military contractor would ever lose any goodies and fuck up like that. That would spell financial doom and be the kiss of death for future fat military weapons contracts.
When you hear about killer armaments stolen from National Guard Armories, well that's just silly. DOD, meaning the Department of Defense places highly secure bar codes, computerized inventories, 2-man visual verification and frequent ordinance inspections, weights and balances to note any contents surreptitiously removed or replaced. From the factory to the battle field, all ordinance has tamper-proof assemblies similar to your food products. To me it sounds like the Tylenol murders before cellophane and tamper-proof containers were industry-wide and commonplace. The only dumb fuckers that lose military grade weapons is the ATF (Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms). And they'll regret that fuck-up for eternity (Operation Fast and Furious).
Of course we have old Soviet era made ordinance floating around, but that shit was tricky and pre-detonation prone even new. Thirty years after the collapse of the Rusky runt yard, the old munitions is crap, highly unstable and any bomb maker worth his salt would take a pass on that shit. That is if he wants to keep his fingers and his dick. We've watched crime dramas and spy thriller movies where radioactive materials are stolen and assembled to make dirty bombs, but those aren't nuclear bombs, they're just crappy black powder or low-yield match-head bombs like mine, wrapped in spent nuclear material and blasted near a Friends Church whore house, Church of God child porn theater, Muslim pork slaughterhouse mosque, Catholic Synagogue or Baptist paper-free outhouse, or simply in the air vents of a retarded institute for the religiously insane. That's stupid TV land bullshit. I've had worse nightmares jerking off perusing pictures of Buckland's waste-water treatment plant's discharged outflows. Keep up with me, there's no such thing. The frozen buckets of poop are the sewer treatment plants and decorate aboriginal landscapes. Neutron shit everywhere, kills babies, leaves unnuk shacks standing.
Every airport and shipping port in America has super-sensitive radiation detectors and chemical sniffers up the fucking ass and we have thousands of dogs that can detect micro-traces on any dumb ass that was in the same zip code as an explosive. Good luck making up a line of bull how terrorists are gonna put a pussy dirty bomb in your backyard. They're tiny and almost zero threat to any Americans. Ain't happening.
If a sovereign country shoots a nuclear missile at any American property, that missile is so easily detected and neutralized, it'd be embarrassing. There is no country in the world that can launch a bottle rocket in our direction without a hunnert satellites seeing it and knocking it down before a chink or Rusky butt fucker gets it's fuse lit. I ain't shitting, no country in the world is that dumb. All their missiles will immediately get blinded and crushed like a Japanese beer can and our retaliatory response would be fucking awful.
Get this, Russia has just been caught red-handed purchasing retarded faggot rockets from North Korea. Russia's old military junk is simply bluff and poser-dude fag shit and they got worse troubles cleaning up over 100,000 abandoned leaking, spent nuclear submarines, battle ships, destroyers and giant parking lots of obsolete vehicles rusting, glowing and sinking into the Arctic Ocean. After President Reagan and America's cultural and economic imperialism bankrupted the Soviet Union, they just parked their entire military and walked away. Come on, who recycles used shit like that?
I was shown overhead satellite photos of miles and miles of ancient Soviet Navy, Army and Air Force equipment, atomic miracles 50 years ago, tethered and dumped as far as the eye can see. Actually much farther, like thousands of miles of coastline. Russia has wrecked their entire northern coast with an EPA Super Fund Cleanup Site they can never afford to dismantle and dispose of and will leach toxic shit into the world's waterways for a hunnert centuries. Get this, all that rusting nuclear waste is just across from Kotzebue. I swear my lips and face glowed after going down on a muffin. Radioactive poon-snatch all looks the same.
Radioactivity and lead poisoning attributes to vastly lower IQ's, over-capacity jails and emergency rooms. On our last visit to Krotchebue we saw Madeline Stalker with bandages across her forehead like a pile of Kotex pads taped in rows and stacks. When bun asked Madeline how on Earth she got those injuries, she said, "we sure get drunk." Not sufficient an answer bun repeated her inquiry and Madeline stated that Charles Stalker, her husband got wasted, super mad and tried to kill her with a screw driver. He'd stabbed her over and over in the head and the tip never broke through her hard Pt. Hope skull. The tip just skipped back and forth under the skin and gouged her forehead and eyebrows like a star burst graphic. Who needs aboriginal tattoos. The scars were way cooler.
Blame it on depleting Soviet stockpiles leeching into the water across the pond and so much lead naturally occurring before it was all mined out at Red Dog. Uranium and plutonium decay into lead, meaning all the millions of tons of lead we mined out of Red Dog were originally highly radioactive, deadly isotopes and ancient history proves NW Alaska absolutely uninhabitable. All the social ills plagueing rural Alaska may be from obtuse, clashed cultures misaligned and chronic alcoholism, but lead and radioactive exposure suspect. I see yer stunned.
That's a sad state of affairs for Russia, whose US-imposed economic sanctions have crippled their business sectors and their currency to shit. Besides Alaska and Hawaii each of our lower 48 states now have larger economies than Russia. California now possesses the fourth largest economy in the entire world! Despite having a confused geezer in the White House, our DOW 30 blue chip industrial stock market index just reached record highs and the Russell 2000 and the S&P 500 set all-time historic highs just this week. Whoever is pulling the puppet strings on President Bidusky sure as shit hit a home run with our economy. China is in decline from its over-leveraged real estate market and they better order the John Holmes Vacuum Pump Penis Enlarger. Fucking gooks, "they got tiny ricey dicks" (Eddie Murphy).
Any enemy of America thinking they sprouted gonads big enough to attack the United States better pack a lunch, and bring their mommas, cuz we'll fuck them too. Hyper-warfare is over before snack time, immediately after nap time. With flick of switch America disables every spy satellite worldwide and shuts down the world cell phone nets, computer links, Greenwich Time (turning off international time kills computers) and GPS satellite tracking networks. If some pussy country gets spunky, we may never even hear about it, unless worthless blind and disabled junk munitions fall on Hawaii or Samoa-niggerville. In any air, sea or land war, nobody is stupid enough to pull a brainless stunt and attack America. Fuck, maybe it'd be fun to watch though. Between commercials during news at dinner time, details at eleven.
All of America's threats are internal. Namely far right-wing nut jobs trying to make America white again or install their own religious orator in the White House. Rednecks are funny folks, they deny scientific advancement using public education as a lightening rod refusing to accept all things academic and what science implies that is counter to their narrow white trash worldview and their backwards ways of life. It's these ignorant white folks that have shown a harebrained ingenuity in finding ways to refute anything towards America's development in programs such as NASA and the Hubble Space telescope.
You're all familiar with church bombings in the south, but those are racist and reactionary attacks to bring about a Confederate or antebellum uprising, not religious conflict. As we educate and assimilate colored folks with our intellectual elites and professional guilds, the new immigrants flooding Texas are gonna get a wake-up call and painful IRS bill every April 15th. You'll see America unify around smarter federal spending and elimination of public assistance to the lower castes. I didn't say 'darker castes' cuz there's disproportionately more white folks on welfare than any other race. Put that in yer pipe and smoke it. Wipe the pipe off when ye pass it. Nobody likes slobbered nigger-lipped pipe tokes or spit-soggy bomber joints.
As far as securing our southern border and controlling immigration, I say give every wetback a social security card, a job and a time sheet. Enlightened self-interest will fix that welfare mentality in a New York minute. Expecting America to hand out EBT (food stamp) debit cards, housing vouchers, Medicaid and free cell phones to every miserable shit-skin arriving with their hands out will be sadly mistaken. Give 'em a fucking job and let 'em contrib to the national debt, Social Security and Medicare, not get jiggy wit it. We can always post signs all over the Rio Grand River stating, "No Welfare Beaners Allowed." Get a job fucker. Even shit-jobs like ours.
Looking at my late night compositions, I'd say the jury is still out deliberating my literacy. My ears are ringing and I'm going deaf retrieving these tales from KPD a million years ago and late at night.
In closing, as your good imbecile, I'm surrounded by funny fucking ghosts.
Karl.
I'm supposed to be a good communicator. I'm more likely a moron. I try to compose stupid shit so that when you coppers read it, you'll recreate images in yer vastly superior minds and follow my drivel hopping back and forth in time, across centuries and continents. Hopefully.
You see, speech, originally started more than a million years ago whence we shed our fur allowing us to stay cool on the African Savannah. Hominids then started making sounds with their foul mouths, instead of panting like dogs. Human speech now is the device whereby low-pay public safety grunts learned imperfectly, to transmit our retarded thoughts and emotions from our minds, to other very stupid men. If you don't follow me, take a moment to remember proof-reading the moronic garbage some cops typed in their criminal complaints. Stupefying simian language, fit fer monkeys, likely pissed you off and is possibly giving you fucking migraines right now. Supervising well-trained, poorly educated fuck-heads requires tremendous patience and codeine pills from a dumb ass narc on your payroll whom still communicates poorly, despite minimal brain dysfunction, and a million years practice.
We set up arbitrary sounds and combinations of noises to represent certain mental nuances, such as orders to, "Come out with yer hands up!"or "Pull yer fist outa that dead bitch!" and in the case of Clan Kramer, "Pull yer dick outa that little boy, he ain't a fuck puppet!" In summation, we've developed loud shit as a method to communicate to other motherfuckers. The result is a rather clumsy, thick-thumbed and inadequately degenerated racket that fails to transmit any delicacy of mind and more closely sounds like gross and guttural signaling. And I ain't talking Inupiaq.
You may remember me getting written up for broadcasting over police band radio waves,"Officers Westlake and Downing, 10-65 don't mean eating packed fudge in the backseat of the patrol car" or "Could somebody pull Ham-Ham out of his police van? He's passed out and messed himself." To crack up late night shift cops, I steal Dave Chapelle's slogan chiming, "I'm RIck Jones bitch!" The clincher, "Okay, who's the funny nimrod that took a dump in the Jail Explorer?" It turned out to be Gumby, code name for James Rea. He'd stacked thawing, rotting dead dogs in the back of the vehicle. It had less than a thousand miles on it and sure as shit no longer had that new car smell. The brand new city vehicle more closely reeked of the Internet gay porn Gumby was jerking off to in dispatch.
Earlier during a typical shitty shift, Barney (Berend Reuters), Octuck, Ray Blanchard and myself were killing time between calamitous call-outs. Out of nowhere Patrick stated, "Fat fucks suffer poor hygiene. They got short arms, big, fat ass, hemorrhoids, wet butt and real pleasant aroma." Octuck furthered his theory and asked, "Barney, who wipes yer ass? Do you have yer wife do it?" Blanchard and I were stunned. That very second, a 911 emergency call came in reporting Katy Norton was wasted and racing around town, flipped her 4-wheeler and crushed her skull, unconscious, her condition unknown. Dead coworkers made me laugh between heartbreaking service requests that required notifying our supervisors and tone-out the Fire Hall ambulances. Whipsaw emotions, hot and cold, comedy and tragedy. Right at this moment, decades passed, alone in a dark apartment, I still feel that unresolved stress. I'm betting you do too.
I pity you cops but my comic (puke soaked) resume still cracks me up recalling the homosexual breeding magazines I'd surreptitiously strewn about the squad room with Gumby's mailing addresses expertly glued on them. The stunt frying Garoutte's eyes and nose after I sprayed loads of pepper mace in the defroster vents in all the patrol cars was kinda stupid cuz it left David Craig and Roy Fields looking dumbfounded when accused. Spiking Tom Evans' chocolate cake dessert with lethal amounts of Syrup of Ipecac forcing fat ass and mouth to detonate tactical nuclear explosions in the old jail shitter was unprofessional, but funny. Looking back, I'm guilty of indecent humor and felony malicious mischief. Call me a dumb ass.
Looking back, I wouldn't change a thing. We didn't have the right to remain silent, we had the right to grow old and ugly and impotent, we had the right to have syphilis and cancer, the right to eat Eskimo foods and pussy other cultures considered rotten, the right to feel lousy and in constant apprehension of what shit may befall us during our next shift at the police department, the right to get spit on by herpes salivating inmates catching typhoid and Hep B. Finally, we had the right to retain the memory of tortured dark humans suffering unspeakable bowel movements all over our uniforms and traditionally disadvantaged rectal pain forever soiling our narc jobs and village patrols across rural Alaska. If I'm mumbling, turn up yer fucking hearing aid.
Throughout our careers and poorly compensated uniformed positions, the results of our barking and growling, suffering massive illiteracy from our subhuman coworkers and the shittiest clients humanity ever conceived, it's doubtful human mongoloids could ever really understand one another. Even this zero-hour early morning I live in a dark, lonesome choking mist wherein no other fuck-head exists. I'm guessing you're alone in your miserable bitching too. Rarely are dim signals from deep within the shit-strewn cavern I exist can I grope and wrestle crap languages and send typed spewage out to other dip-shits in uniform on the receiving end.
In summation, we really don't know each other, but we sure as shit laugh at our shit-caked work histories, mean-spirited romances and even thicker children we discharged from our cunt-reeking donkey appendages screwing upriver dark maidens with faces and asses the color of chocolate or dog skin, managing to inseminate them while they were messy with over-ripe seal oil reminiscent of Kaktovik pussy. We decided to live in Alaska because on every foot patrol we looked out on to the incarnation of a divine being, when in actuality, we deserved to live in some filthy sty or die in some blind hole in the ground.
When I describe you coppers in my am cop-talk I paint pictures of ill-adjusted men of distinct import, after decades in public safety, taking and delivering punches and kicks, you soldiers can no longer struggle your creaking machinery to the finish line. I laugh at images of you, old invalid cops sitting around smoking expensive cigars, coffees and whiskeys, jolting old gimpy bitches with super hot Tazers, sparking, flipping spastic, leaking fish waste, sending darkened diapers airborne. At our old ages our best health is never more than an ordinary young man's feebleness. Despite canes, wheelchairs and strollers, I heard your footsteps these last many, many years and compared them with mine. I discovered the foot of villainy falls with the same quiet note as the foot of honesty and the most hopelessly stupid man is he who is not aware that he is wise. Look in the mirror dildos.
That understood, how did a total asshole, such as myself, get beyond my fears I've carried since infancy, my terrors and insecurity and ultimately, my greedy, predatory and savage rapacity I carry within myself towards every other wheezing hominid on planet fucking Alaska. For tens of thousands of years, my club-footed languages I inherited has clogged up my mouth and ears with poopy mud suppressing and holding down our busted heads and big brains more fit for planetary travel, beers and bong hits over space music and bro-mances traveling amongst the stars. Put better, if I can find bigger and better words to spew my shit, I can circumvent the prison bars of ordinary speech.
See? With only 3 brains, 1 up top and 2 swinging in the wind, un-muzzled, us retired service men can speak freely. Shit, old men are so cool, but like boomer women, we're real fucking vain. As us men grow old we feel in ourselves the radical sense of weakness, of listlessness, of discomfort, which accompanies the advance of age, feeling thus, imagine ourselves merely sick, lulling our fears with the notion that this distressing condition is due to some particular medical cause from which as from an illness we hope to recover. That sickness is old age and what a fucking horrible disease it is.
As an equalizer and reincarnation technique, I chastise, immortalize and chide every dead cop from our old duty rosters as if they're still here, abusing the living in much more delicate ways. You boys already knew this. As far as abusing Lt. Eunice, I'm at a loss. What can that old geezer do besides yarp up and spit a quart of regurgitated ulcerated tobacco drool all over a retarded indigenous infant's face, "Here's spit in yer eye nigger." The old boy ain't fucking no dead aboriginal biscuit and he'd likely never pull stupid shit like mine. He sure as fuck talks funny though. Southern drawls indicate inbreeding (insufficient heterozygosity) and poor education, so fuck, what's left for me to point foible but his small chin?
In short, watching all you coppers traveling decades from your younger days in fresh crisp uniforms, directly out of selection and intense training, I see something much more deadly. Bear with me, but public safety can be accurately described as a Roach Motel for your comrades and pals and you coppers are the last dwindling survivors. Young men entering careers in public safety serving rural remote Alaska, never back come out. These emails from the ends of our lives enable me to eke out a few scraps of useful information when phone calls would be inappropriate and spoken words too difficult.
If I could do it all over again, I'd spend even more time at the Kotzebue Rec Center with Carlos Salazar, Wilfred Lane and Al Sanders. I'm pretty sure I'd omit alcohol and tobacco and fatty foods from Diane Henry's, Effie Nelson's, Gayle Ralston's and Rodent Rectum Rachel Downing's prison barf cart, but I'm less sure about eliminating my chronic drug consumption. I still miss smoking fat chiefs and getting chinked listening Pink Floyd, Tangerine Dream and dozens of other ambient music titles. That vice was likely the hardest to bid farewell.
We've no control over the injuries we sustained and we probably have little decision-making options regarding our hearing losses from shooting a million fucking rounds and worse, the devastating sonic concussions from detonating my pipe bombs and silly modified fireworks. Late at night, my ears ring and I can't hear myself stink. Would you fuckers speak up?
I take my blood pressure and cholesterol medications and also boost my insulin levels to meet every gram of carbohydrate and sugar molecule I'm sucking down. I lift inhumanly heavy weights one hour every day and with a 3 pronged approach I attack my chronological ailments with diet, exercise and a truckload of medicines. I'm on the cusp of picking out designer hearing aids and I'm tempted to request Viagra in my daily pile of pills, in case I'm attacked, snuggled or molested by a much younger woman. Men are fucking idiots.
Can you tell old pensioners are real fucking vain? The probability a herd of 20-something scantily clad (or completely naked) curvy, busty babes clamoring for our attention is a big fucking zero, but us men dream like morons, which explains the freshly packaged unused condoms we keep in our wallets, glove boxes and in that secret pocket in our suitcases. Our wives are centuries past menopause, but our male-centered minds are still in a college dumpster. Even while you coppers lower my coffin lid or spark a torch to my cremation pyre, my mind is stuck on stupidly big round boobs and pert, tasty vaginal candy scented with strawberry flavored lip balm. Can't an old fucker dream? I better get back to my composition or I'll be forced to take a claw hammer to my Johnson.
Okay, I'm gonna start again, with the same format I've used for fucking centuries and engage you coppers with analogy, metaphor and symbolism based on the platform of gun talk, criminal complaints, mud folk-wisdom and chit-chat decorated with muzzle pressures and explosive cop-speak, writing crudely, decibels louder than our hearing losses.
I was going through some old school notes and stumbled on a lecture that I sat in. I know, I got no class, but when I was on a UAF sponsored trip to Finland, Timo invited me to a lecture he had to attend as part of his military training in disarming explosives. Mr. Timo Aristo nearly dragged me there. I'd shared with him my tales blowing shit up, my great uncle's disfigurement from homemade explosives a hunnert miles directly south, across the Sea of Finland in Estonia during WWI. I'd also confided with Timo my friend Todd Larson blowing up a mailbox and a flat piece of metal fully inserting itself in his swim teammate's face, collapsing the kid to the ground, killing him instantly.
Larson and I kept secret our involvement in that accidental death. To remind you, Todd and his pal put one of my pipe bombs in a neighbor's mail box and when it blew, Larson's pal was peeking around the side of his house and got tagged with piece of mailbox metal slicing skull and cranial unnuk like a super sonic ulu. Larson sneaked out through the backyard and walked all the way home and into old age keeping secret he was on-scene when the detonation occurred. Similar to Larson, we all have heartbreaking events we could never reveal, except here. Rest assured, nobody fucks up as good as me.
Back to the explosives tutorial, it was super fucking interesting and I took detailed notes. For future reference. Like now. The lecturer was British and spoke with a hard Cockney accent similar to Michael Caine with comments like, "There's not a mystery in ten homemade bombs that there is in one game of chess." Who talks like that? He further lectured that he "refused to allow any murder by explosion, to go the way of all the other mysteries, that policemen have made nothing of, a darkness, a little patch of night in criminal history,"
Meaning graveyard shift open-unsolved homicides in the KPD jargon you coppers use. Or maybe we're using the same code words for fat cold pussy now-dead KPD Officers Ken Jewell and John Mack porked out behind the old hospital, left fer dead. This line of humor arises from my tenuous position working in the old jail when the troopers performed daily transports from jail to court hearings. Rudy Hecker and Kim Nay were awaiting assembly of the crew with appointments in front of the judge, drinking my expensive coffee and smoking cigarettes. Kim Nay was telling us about the morgue at the old MMC hospital having troubles staying cold enough to keep corpses cool so MMC staff simply rolled the chest freezers out into the arctic winter weather, out back and let nature keep the dead bodies sufficiently chilled.
My spontaneous, inspired joke that cracked up troopers Nay and Hecker, plus Edith Melton and Kathy Elam was my comment, "K-5 and K-7 (Mack and Jewell) were out at MMC last night for over an hour, they came in here and sure stink uchuk nilluk." Pretty risky line of comedy, I could've gotten fired intimating senior KPD cops were buggering cold poontang and smelling like cunt farts.
Understanding rudimentary, crude Inupiaq, Rudy and Kim coughed their coffees and smokes and laughed hysterically, Edith and Kathy joined in, with Diane Henry and Effie Nelson adding a chorus of heckling, shrieking and laughing. The uproar was so loud, Wallace and Ward came charging downstairs to investigate the ruckus. Even with watering eyes and uncontrollable laughter, neither troopers was in any shape, or brave enough to repeat my stupid quip. I confided with Wallace later. He thought it funny as shit, but risky for the lowest ranking mongoloid, newly hired, on probation.
Eliciting a good chuckle, those 2 troopers and us KPD dorks repeated that silly notation for years. Mack and Jewell didn't think it was funny though. Come on, those old troopers and old gals in dispatch and the jail kitchen (all now dead) needed comic relief. Their jobs were shit and as the lowest life form in the department, my duty was to bring joy to their fucked up lives, jobs and towns they served. It was also mere months before Rudy Hecker found out his wife, Peggy Hecker was boning Dean Westlake. Peggy was subsequently sent back home to West Virginia, packing her Kiana herpes. Don't feel bad, cops marry skanky. Some girls you rent, some you own. Born retarded, I only fucked 2 of 'em (cops' wives).
Reading my text saves you suffering the smells and still enjoy my shitty humor about scarlet pimples cursing micro KPD cookoo nuvuksee (pecker snot). All parties concerned were still alive back then and enjoyed busting a gut at other dickhead cops' expense and poor behavior. This was over 30 years ago and as you can deduce, I'm the sole moron and funny fucker still breathing. Plus, despite half the region getting Kiana blisters, I never contracted Westlake's herpes nor his pubic crabs and lice he grew as a crop. Beat that.
Re-reading my notes about the bomb lecture in Finland, I had a brainstorm and didn't hurt myself. The class was entirely about IED's in the mid-90's. Meaning improvised explosive devices. I can hear you fuckers laughing at me cuz my hobby back a few million years was building pipe bombs and blowing shit up. I told you coppers about blowing up stumps and splitting trees, even a dumb stunt placing one in a gym locker in a failed effort to get even for bullying. My frat-mate and college chum Stuart Frost blasted some rich kid's Camaro or Pontiac Firebird to bits and shattered the front windows of an adjacent sorority, injuring numerous white bitches. I'm of the opinion those sorority girls, adorned with cuts and lacerations are now as pretty as you coppers and returning disfigured war veterans. Scarification, mutilation, beautification. Who needs branding, piercings and tats when yer already ugly like us?
During the religious wars in Ireland called The Troubles, British Special Intelligence Services were trained to deactivate homemade munitions. Reversing this process, the predecessor to the CIA, the Office of Strategic Services (OSS) taught US Commandos to build simple explosives, then place them to bring maximum grief to the Nazis all over Europe. Placing and triggering cobbled together explosives is normal during wartime, but bombing civilian targets is terrorism. In my case, simply brain-damaged.
You recall the Unabomber Ted Kaczynski, from a dry cabin sent numerous mailbombs to the IRS and the FBI and Timothy McVeigh parking a rented Ryder moving van loaded with 6 barrels of mash (fertilizer and diesel fuel) in front of the Federal Building in downtown Oklahoma City. Later this century we faced crude bombs bearing Taliban and Al Qaeda fingerprints, leaving these devilishly deadly devices for US and Allied troops to locate, deactivate or detonate. You've seen testimonials from disfigured servicemen and need no description of their injuries.
Simple, uneducated rag-tag terrorists stole scrap galvanized pipe from buildings and construction sites or even dug up water/sewer PVC plastic tubing and then stuffed them with the guts of fireworks, bottle rockets or even match heads. When triggered, the damage to our troops and intelligence officers is the same: our guys get maimed or disrupted. Meaning their bodies are blown apart by the sheer pressure force of the bomb. Think of an exploding bomb as a shotgun discharge, picking up scrabble, miscellany and garbage, blasting in all directions. With debris picked up in the blast, acting as shrapnel, you got a 360-degree slaughterhouse fuck-fest.
Simple or complicated, placed in public spaces, the brute forces released by any explosion dismembers regular people during their daily activities. Military conflict puts US soldiers in contact with roadside bombs and it ain't pretty. Bomb investigators use a simple way to count the casualties after an explosion, with limbs impossible to untangle and document, they just count skulls. To date, all modern police departments now have bomb squads responding to suspected explosive devices due in part to terrorism, but also gang bangers, cartel shit-heads and retarded redneck domestic terrorists getting in the act leaving these treasures as booby traps. In that context of job descriptions, you fuckers got off easy.
The instructor made an analogy that stuck with me. He compared explosives to sleeping pit bulls and if a bomb tech approached the scene carefully and made the right decisions and the right moves, everything would be fine. If the technician blundered in his analysis, like startling the dog, the fucking thing would rip him apart. That description reminded me of when the Chief, after getting my hand bit and crushed by my own dog, took a shotgun to me and Harly's pit bull. Nicely done. After smuggling loads of LSD in their kennels, KPD smoked nearly all my dogs. Cecil Hawley porn.
Timo laughs when I'm sharing my duties walking foot patrol all over fucking Alaska. He frequently made statements that reflected his Finnish education and seemed to incorporate my stupid shit with wisdom. "Karl, I'm fascinated with your fucking stories. They have the weight of history." "You can't seem to escape the fact that the past is never really past. We live our history over and over, the worst of our memories right there alongside us, step for step, our companion to the grave." Sometimes I wanted to slug this wise guy, even tonight.
All of us in explosives class had to get familiar with bomb tech armor. This shit is far more complex than the bullet-proof vests you coppers wore on duty. The armor suits bomb technicians put on weigh almost 90 fucking pounds! This shit is made of Kevlar plates and dense heavy Nomex batting and covers every part of our body, except the hands. The hands are left bare because the crazy officers responding to suspicious bombs and suspected explosive device emergencies need their hands absolutely free with their unencumbered fingers for dexterity. Look at yer hands and consider the possibilities. Shit! That's my thinking.
The lecturer was one somber son of a bitch. He'd responded to 71 suspicious packages in the 8 years he served his country's armed forces, only 23 were actual explosive devices. He held up his hands and wiggled all 10 of his fingers, lifting his shirt he showed zero burn scars too. Timo got my attention by quietly tapping his pencil on his notes. He'd scribbled, "I don't believe your bullshit." He's claiming my tales from Kotzebue are unbelievable.
During our morning fag break (British cigarette and coffee break) I'd told him about Lulu Wright losing her wedding finger when it was caught in a car door. She and Dan Yenni were out partying, totally wasted at the Lyon's Club dance and Bird Carter dropped them off in front of the 29-unit apartment building they were managing. Exiting Bird's car the passenger door slammed shut on Lulu's finger, severing it completely off. Lulu staggered into their apartment and passed out on their sofa, waking in the morning to find a big patch of dried blood.
Upon waking to find forensic evidence of a crude single digit surgical amputation and her ring finger not present and accounted for, she told us, "I sure toopuk!" "Adii, I puckuk everywhere and never find my finger. Dan told me to shut up and let him sleep." She ran around the apartment looking for what was missing beyond the first knuckle, leaving her a one inch stub. Tossing the apartment and screaming like an angry Inupiat she didn't find her finger and Dan Yenni was suffering a miserable hangover aggravated by Lulu's loud ass howling, shrieking and crying. I felt more sorry for Dan than Lulu.
She frantically called everybody they partied with and nobody saw her finger laying about. It wasn't until later that afternoon she woke up Bird Carter and asked her if she knew what happened to the third finger on her left hand. Bird was clueless until she was loading her FAS genius children in her car out front of Hanson's and she saw a dried brown finger in the door jam, smashed flat, right next to the hinges. The door cut the finger clean off and in an alcoholic stupor, Lulu didn't realize she was leaving body parts in her wake.
Dan Yenni's comment was if Lulu gave you the finger, could you please give it back? Me and bun didn't laugh in their faces, but sure cackled convulsively walking home. That was the absolutely true story Timo thought I'd made up. Equally true were my stories I shared with him about Chris Madison missing his thumb after Alvin Werneke dropped an oil tank on it and Dennis Jennings' son missing half his hand after playing in the KIC equipment lot. I got lots of those episodes from Kotzebue and shared them with pals in uniform serving arctic countries on the other side of the Earth.
Okay, back to the IED lecture. The bomb instructor concluded by explaining that only a few bombs he disarmed, all the rest were detonated in a manner he controlled. Meaning intentionally triggering the explosive by remote control or the bomb squad simply placed charges around it and blasted the confounded thing to fucking bits.
The lecturer put some awful painful photos up on the overhead projector and let us absorb images of explosions, some with bomb techs eating smoke while disarming them. As we watched the dumbfounded images, the teacher explained the details of each explosion. When a low-tech, simple bomb detonates it explodes at a rate of twenty thousand (20,000) feet per second. That's 22 times faster than a 900 fps (feet per second) 9-millimeter bullet leaving the barrel of your department issue duty firearm. You coppers can relate to that action, ya must've shot a million fucking rounds in yer careers and now wear hearing aids. Or should.
The heat of an explosion flashes outward in a burst of white light hot enough to melt iron. The air pressure spikes from a normal fifteen pounds per square inch to twenty two hundred (2200) pounds shattering the bomb containment materials, usually steel pipe, into jagged shrapnel that punches through the technician's Kevlar suits faster than any bullet known to mankind. The shock wave that slams into the bodies of bomb technicians has an over-pressure of three hundred thousand (300,000) pounds, crushing the chests, rupturing livers, spleens and lungs, separating the unprotected hands from the technicians' wrists. On the last graphic overhead video we saw a British bomb tech rise fourteen (14) feet into the air and get tossed thirty-eight (38) feet. Dead. Thinking of you coppers dying in that explosion, I might've cried a teensy bit.
Most bomb techs could possibly survive homemade shitty bombs like the ones I made, but in the last many decades, bombs are made from scavenged military munitions like Claymores and landmines which contain 1-2 pounds of RDX, a high explosive that has shifted bomb tech duties towards using remote control robots to examine and detonate them. No more redneck retarded hillbilly pipe bombs like mine anymore. Now we got IRA shit from Ireland and bombs from sand niggers, dune coons and rag heads. The signature of a true terrorist bombing is the use of secondary explosives that are detonated when emergency personnel arrive to treat the injured. Sick fucks. Those first responders would be Trox, Chamblee, Munson and you coppers. If your transformations from criminals to cops hadn't been complete, you'd be the ones placing those explosives. Oh, me too.
In the Troubles of Ireland, a battle between churches, bombers used a blended explosive called Modex Hybrid. The material is removed from artillery warheads used in air-to-air combat missiles. This material has a burn-rate of twenty eight thousand (28,000) feet per second, 8,000 feet faster than the old fashioned simple RDX bombs I mentioned before. Burn rate is a measure of how fast an explosive consumes itself and releases it's energy. The more powerful the explosive, the faster the burn rate. TNT, mining ordinance, the most common explosive burns at a rate of twenty thousand (20,000) feet per second, which ain't too fucking shabby. All explosives, by law, are intentionally laced with unique materials to trace the residue back to the manufacturer. Even C-4, manufactured in Czechoslovakia, now Czech Republic, has signature markers embedded, detailing batch numbers and dates of distribution. Similar to the Austrian Glock Pistol factory "fingerprinting" every firearm manufactured, retaining a single spent bullet and brass cartridge shell. Can I borrow one of your guns?
The problem with newer terrorists' explosives in Ireland and Middle East is the use of Modex Hybrid, the faster burning 28K missile shit. It's called a trinary explosive used as a bursting charge in air-to-air missiles that are extremely hot, fast and real fucking dangerous. It disrupts air and blasts aircraft apart, meaning it doesn't require shrapnel to destroy it targets. The sonic sound pressure waves blow aircraft into pieces and combat jets into smoking tailspins. Trinary means that it's a mixture of three compounds to form a composite far more powerful and stable than the 3 standing alone. The ingredients are RDX (from Claymores), TNT (tri-nitro-toluene) and ammonium picrate. To enhance its power bombers add powdered aluminum with wax, calcium chloride as neutral stabilizers and caking agents, like plastic blocks for easier transport and installation.
This Modex Hybrid has been making more frequent appearances worldwide and can flip American tanks, disassemble Humvees and vaporize US troops. Bomb makers using simple low-yield explosives are usually missing fingers, bomb techs killed with Modex are missing hands and their limbs are scattered to the four winds. Like estimating firepower in after-action reports of officer fatalities killed wearing vests, missing fingers, missing hands and dismemberment indicate ingredients, burn rates and forces in explosives.
The after-the-fact investigation is pretty much routine. The investigators walk every inch of the detonation debris field and search for pieces of the device spread everywhere within a hundred yard radius, combing nearby rooftops, faces of houses, apartments and buildings, parked cars, even dumpsters bagging and tagging every microscopic bit of evidence that might help the lab techs reconstruct the bomb and possibly give bomb investigators a clue to its origin.
The reason a 100-yard perimeter is marked off and analyzed is due to the fact that exploding shrapnel flies much like shotgun pellets lacking any rifling. Most matter flying in 360-degrees after detonation doesn't travel nearly as far as a highly rifled bullet such as high-powered, deep-grooved barrels used in sniper weaponry. First point is the explosion in bombs is way too fast, there's zero barrel to accelerate inside and shrapnel is random metal. You coppers know that putting large amounts of much, much slower burning gun powder behind finely engineered bullets, spinning them super fast is what gives a projectile its accuracy and long range. The longest lethal sniper shot is from a Barrett Lite 50 (caliber) shot at over a mile and successfully killing its human target: a rag head dune coon. Bomb shrapnel simply flies about, rapidly loses velocity and falls quickly. The cone of destruction inside that 100-yard perimeter is the crucial area to inspect.
Another important aspect of spent explosives are the toxic dangers of the residue. Any fragment of the bomb found as well as the blast crater and the dead bomb technicians' protective armor the lab specialists place in mass spectrometers and chromotographs to derive the ingredients of the bomb. Besides keeping fingerprints from hampering the investigation, the residue from explosions is usually full of heavy metals and corrosive byproducts that are toxic or liver accumulative to investigators. And the shit burns skin.
What's more informative is the type of triggering device used. Some are reused timers out of washing machines, recycled remote garage door openers, cell phones, toy car remote control components and the bubble balancing switches in yer furnace thermostat called a tip-and-blow, meaning when a bomb tech moves a suspicious device, it blows up. Some explosives are triggered by everyday wind-up kitchen timers used to cook a fucking turkey. All of these triggering devices place the bomber near the explosion with only the cell phone actuated triggers capable of setting off their bombs, usually strapped to semi-retarded suicide bombers, from anywhere. Religious lunatics and dullard hillbilly domestic terrorist bombers, like amateur arsonists love to watch their work and cops know to execute covert 360-degree video coverage of all explosions they respond to and like fires, they occasionally spot their culprits in the crowds of onlookers.
You boys are aware of flash-bangs used in hostage situations and the use of grenades as antipersonnel devices, but IED's are so much more dangerous that very few bomb techs ever approach suspected devices without using ROV's, remotely operated vehicles, to examine or detonate. These vehicles come equipped with sniffers, cameras and cannons to blast a suspected bomb to bits rendering them harmless. Of course after any controlled detonation, all first responders are tasked with picking up the pieces and measuring blast radius debris and re-assembly of the device and chemical analysis of the residues. I could totally dig on owning one of those ROV's. I'd send them into asshole's homes and aim the cannon at fuckers that got payback coming. Sort of my own personal toy and comeuppance.
Basque Separatists, The Red Brigade and other European terrorists including Carlos the Jackal have largely been put out of business. The ingredients for really deadly explosives are highly regulated and tightly inventoried, leaving stone-age moron bombs like the ones I made as a kid, made out of simple kitchen and garage materials. Not sexy. Our allies and NATO members all exercise extreme controls on their weaponry and all component explosives have chemical tags blended in them allowing investigators to follow chain of possession: simple. No upstanding, highly compensated military contractor would ever lose any goodies and fuck up like that. That would spell financial doom and be the kiss of death for future fat military weapons contracts.
When you hear about killer armaments stolen from National Guard Armories, well that's just silly. DOD, meaning the Department of Defense places highly secure bar codes, computerized inventories, 2-man visual verification and frequent ordinance inspections, weights and balances to note any contents surreptitiously removed or replaced. From the factory to the battle field, all ordinance has tamper-proof assemblies similar to your food products. To me it sounds like the Tylenol murders before cellophane and tamper-proof containers were industry-wide and commonplace. The only dumb fuckers that lose military grade weapons is the ATF (Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms). And they'll regret that fuck-up for eternity (Operation Fast and Furious).
Of course we have old Soviet era made ordinance floating around, but that shit was tricky and pre-detonation prone even new. Thirty years after the collapse of the Rusky runt yard, the old munitions is crap, highly unstable and any bomb maker worth his salt would take a pass on that shit. That is if he wants to keep his fingers and his dick. We've watched crime dramas and spy thriller movies where radioactive materials are stolen and assembled to make dirty bombs, but those aren't nuclear bombs, they're just crappy black powder or low-yield match-head bombs like mine, wrapped in spent nuclear material and blasted near a Friends Church whore house, Church of God child porn theater, Muslim pork slaughterhouse mosque, Catholic Synagogue or Baptist paper-free outhouse, or simply in the air vents of a retarded institute for the religiously insane. That's stupid TV land bullshit. I've had worse nightmares jerking off perusing pictures of Buckland's waste-water treatment plant's discharged outflows. Keep up with me, there's no such thing. The frozen buckets of poop are the sewer treatment plants and decorate aboriginal landscapes. Neutron shit everywhere, kills babies, leaves unnuk shacks standing.
Every airport and shipping port in America has super-sensitive radiation detectors and chemical sniffers up the fucking ass and we have thousands of dogs that can detect micro-traces on any dumb ass that was in the same zip code as an explosive. Good luck making up a line of bull how terrorists are gonna put a pussy dirty bomb in your backyard. They're tiny and almost zero threat to any Americans. Ain't happening.
If a sovereign country shoots a nuclear missile at any American property, that missile is so easily detected and neutralized, it'd be embarrassing. There is no country in the world that can launch a bottle rocket in our direction without a hunnert satellites seeing it and knocking it down before a chink or Rusky butt fucker gets it's fuse lit. I ain't shitting, no country in the world is that dumb. All their missiles will immediately get blinded and crushed like a Japanese beer can and our retaliatory response would be fucking awful.
Get this, Russia has just been caught red-handed purchasing retarded faggot rockets from North Korea. Russia's old military junk is simply bluff and poser-dude fag shit and they got worse troubles cleaning up over 100,000 abandoned leaking, spent nuclear submarines, battle ships, destroyers and giant parking lots of obsolete vehicles rusting, glowing and sinking into the Arctic Ocean. After President Reagan and America's cultural and economic imperialism bankrupted the Soviet Union, they just parked their entire military and walked away. Come on, who recycles used shit like that?
I was shown overhead satellite photos of miles and miles of ancient Soviet Navy, Army and Air Force equipment, atomic miracles 50 years ago, tethered and dumped as far as the eye can see. Actually much farther, like thousands of miles of coastline. Russia has wrecked their entire northern coast with an EPA Super Fund Cleanup Site they can never afford to dismantle and dispose of and will leach toxic shit into the world's waterways for a hunnert centuries. Get this, all that rusting nuclear waste is just across from Kotzebue. I swear my lips and face glowed after going down on a muffin. Radioactive poon-snatch all looks the same.
Radioactivity and lead poisoning attributes to vastly lower IQ's, over-capacity jails and emergency rooms. On our last visit to Krotchebue we saw Madeline Stalker with bandages across her forehead like a pile of Kotex pads taped in rows and stacks. When bun asked Madeline how on Earth she got those injuries, she said, "we sure get drunk." Not sufficient an answer bun repeated her inquiry and Madeline stated that Charles Stalker, her husband got wasted, super mad and tried to kill her with a screw driver. He'd stabbed her over and over in the head and the tip never broke through her hard Pt. Hope skull. The tip just skipped back and forth under the skin and gouged her forehead and eyebrows like a star burst graphic. Who needs aboriginal tattoos. The scars were way cooler.
Blame it on depleting Soviet stockpiles leeching into the water across the pond and so much lead naturally occurring before it was all mined out at Red Dog. Uranium and plutonium decay into lead, meaning all the millions of tons of lead we mined out of Red Dog were originally highly radioactive, deadly isotopes and ancient history proves NW Alaska absolutely uninhabitable. All the social ills plagueing rural Alaska may be from obtuse, clashed cultures misaligned and chronic alcoholism, but lead and radioactive exposure suspect. I see yer stunned.
That's a sad state of affairs for Russia, whose US-imposed economic sanctions have crippled their business sectors and their currency to shit. Besides Alaska and Hawaii each of our lower 48 states now have larger economies than Russia. California now possesses the fourth largest economy in the entire world! Despite having a confused geezer in the White House, our DOW 30 blue chip industrial stock market index just reached record highs and the Russell 2000 and the S&P 500 set all-time historic highs just this week. Whoever is pulling the puppet strings on President Bidusky sure as shit hit a home run with our economy. China is in decline from its over-leveraged real estate market and they better order the John Holmes Vacuum Pump Penis Enlarger. Fucking gooks, "they got tiny ricey dicks" (Eddie Murphy).
Any enemy of America thinking they sprouted gonads big enough to attack the United States better pack a lunch, and bring their mommas, cuz we'll fuck them too. Hyper-warfare is over before snack time, immediately after nap time. With flick of switch America disables every spy satellite worldwide and shuts down the world cell phone nets, computer links, Greenwich Time (turning off international time kills computers) and GPS satellite tracking networks. If some pussy country gets spunky, we may never even hear about it, unless worthless blind and disabled junk munitions fall on Hawaii or Samoa-niggerville. In any air, sea or land war, nobody is stupid enough to pull a brainless stunt and attack America. Fuck, maybe it'd be fun to watch though. Between commercials during news at dinner time, details at eleven.
All of America's threats are internal. Namely far right-wing nut jobs trying to make America white again or install their own religious orator in the White House. Rednecks are funny folks, they deny scientific advancement using public education as a lightening rod refusing to accept all things academic and what science implies that is counter to their narrow white trash worldview and their backwards ways of life. It's these ignorant white folks that have shown a harebrained ingenuity in finding ways to refute anything towards America's development in programs such as NASA and the Hubble Space telescope.
You're all familiar with church bombings in the south, but those are racist and reactionary attacks to bring about a Confederate or antebellum uprising, not religious conflict. As we educate and assimilate colored folks with our intellectual elites and professional guilds, the new immigrants flooding Texas are gonna get a wake-up call and painful IRS bill every April 15th. You'll see America unify around smarter federal spending and elimination of public assistance to the lower castes. I didn't say 'darker castes' cuz there's disproportionately more white folks on welfare than any other race. Put that in yer pipe and smoke it. Wipe the pipe off when ye pass it. Nobody likes slobbered nigger-lipped pipe tokes or spit-soggy bomber joints.
As far as securing our southern border and controlling immigration, I say give every wetback a social security card, a job and a time sheet. Enlightened self-interest will fix that welfare mentality in a New York minute. Expecting America to hand out EBT (food stamp) debit cards, housing vouchers, Medicaid and free cell phones to every miserable shit-skin arriving with their hands out will be sadly mistaken. Give 'em a fucking job and let 'em contrib to the national debt, Social Security and Medicare, not get jiggy wit it. We can always post signs all over the Rio Grand River stating, "No Welfare Beaners Allowed." Get a job fucker. Even shit-jobs like ours.
Looking at my late night compositions, I'd say the jury is still out deliberating my literacy. My ears are ringing and I'm going deaf retrieving these tales from KPD a million years ago and late at night.
In closing, as your good imbecile, I'm surrounded by funny fucking ghosts.
Karl.
posted by Alaska: Local And State News. at 1:14 PM
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