CYA. Cover yer ass. There's lots of psychopaths in yer neighborhood.

Top of the morning gents,

Here at the computer, late at night, I was wondering at what point we have to honor the self-destructive behaviors of the best friends we ever had. I was laughing at Marto and his witty retardo-phobic slurs as he described morons simply as "dudes." No name, no IQ, no noticeable descriptors, just plain boring fuckheads. If they were really dumb and unremarkable, he'd refer to them as "dude man dudes." Dull blandness personified.

Marto had a knack for spotting white trash. A term that has much more to do with pathology than socioeconomic status. Poor motherfuckers, uneducated with the distorted physiques of people who ate the wrong foods and had the wrong habits. The homeliest masses of people whose faces were torn and creased, teeth decayed or missing, eyes discolored and diminished by injuries and diseases that were never treated. Marto's funny descriptions of 'tard-clusters of men so empty of brains or personality they could easily be described prenatally as slow moving poop loaves. The recipients of Marto's jocular dialogue weren't even rural Alaskans.

Marto was famous for making additions to humorous cliches. One joke that he told Pierre Lonewolf at KOTZ 720 am in Kotzebue, "I hate both flavors, country AND western." Marto double-tapped Pierre with the oft quoted joke, "When you play country music backwards, you get yer wife back and yer dog comes home." Marto then added, "And the biker pulls his dick out yer ass." Pierre exclaimed, "I love this guy!" The tasteless inbred clincher was, "Pa, I cain't marry that girl." When his father asked him why not, his explanation was, "Shit pa, she's a virgin. If she ain't good enough fer her family, she ain't good enough fer ours." Incest jokes cut both ways, horrid and humorous and this line of humor is tasteless, insensitive and inappropriate in rural Alaska. Or if yer a member of the Mormon Church. I admit, watching slow citizens engaging in sibling buggery is really funny.

Continuing his repertoire, Marto mimicked retarded pickup truck drivers who named their wives, children and dogs "Chevy", loudly jammed cunty music, packed their cheeks with giant globs of Red Man Chewing Tobacco or Wintergreen Mint Chew (for a more pleasant fecal scent), swallowing everything without hacking loochers in a drool cup and wipers on the insides of their windshields to clear brown slobber, goobers and spittle. Marto created the slogan, "White man, big truck, Confederate flag, tiny girlie dicks." Or, "Us cowboys never need condoms, nicotine prevents erections, I jizz out my soft little pecker. Come here honey, grab yer tweezers, give me a hand." Okay, with his phony awful southern drawl Marto oughta be on stage. We all love developmentally delayed redneck humor.

Marto is a supremely funny drunk and has been trashing etiquette thwarting normal behaviors stringing feces through my mortuary and crack house for decades. He also firmly believes the whole world is the OK Corral and perfectly normal to kill folks we don't like and haul them to Tyrell's Dog Foods. It's not just Marto, it's us too. We forgot who we were and we remained silent while brutal strangers took up residence inside our skin as leagues of cruel fellows perished becoming canine and feline nourishment. Or a dozen pounds of ash. By happily enjoying Marto's rectal comic outbursts, we failed to protect and honor our sensibilities proving a fool sees not the same tree that a wise man sees. Looking back, I can't believe we're the same fuckers.

Whenever Callahan came over, Marto would see him pull up and tell us "Uh-oh, scary, it's Simpahan." Upon entering my crack house, Marto would announce, "shit dude if I was a 4-year old boy, I'd totally fear you." Callahan was oblivious to the line of humor he'd walked into and ask, "what the fuck are you squacking yer lips about?" That's when we all busted up and Marto would continue his chide stating, "shit dude, if I was a naked 4-year old boy, I'd shit myself in terror seeing you." Slowly catching the line of humor, Callahan responded, "fuck you Marty, that's not funny. Weren't you the champion Muff Diver fer Team Faggot in the '69 Gay Olympics." See? Despite my spastic pals suffering cocaine seizures, alcoholic palsy and marijuana induced drain-bramage, they were perty fucking funny. Any attempt to correct our foul behavior you'd have better luck arguing with a vacant parking lot. Our parents' were inbreeds and blighted with plagues upon their marriage hearses delivering us farm fuckers best described as cream-filled intestinal wraps.

Now I'm gonna transition from inept killers, witty pukers and funny motherfuckers, leaning towards discussion of real sociopaths and real psychopaths. Unpopular with the female species, ugly dudes found good pussy at the back end of little boys. This I learned sitting in the day room, crowded amongst inmates while on duty at KPD. My singular gift was the ability to listen to every word people say to me. I opened my blue eyes wide, charged them with counterfeit energy and goodwill and curiosity all in a way not feigned and assimilated other people's experience and knowledge like a continuing epistemoligical osmosis. These interactions have lasting effects. After all these years, I may not know the identity of the man who now lives inside me. Keep reading.

Percy Sheldon and his brothers Bernard, Carl and Tommy were a crew of fuckups, but I only chatted with Percy, the infamous child rapist and baby strangler. Percy's brother Carl Sheldon was murdered down at South Tent City (Little Kivilina) the day he fetched all his booze. John Evans Jr. drove him to the airport to pick up his liquor with his 4-wheeler, then down to Carl's humble impoverished abode. All the booze vanished, Carl's pockets were turned out and his head chopped to sections by an ax. John Evans Jr. was nowhere to be found and any incriminating evidence was frosted solid in -30 below temps dusted with snow sneaking through wind blown tent flaps. No mystery there.

I knew Percy Sheldon fairly well. I'd sat in the day room at the Kotzebue Jail and watched DTV (dumb television) with him and the inmates on many occasions. I shared cigarettes and better grades of coffee and escaped my intolerable coworkers gorging on shitty foods scaring me with their nightmarish loud gastric expansion discomfort and over-stressed noisy digestion gaining weight. Percy Sheldon was frequently present, in the jail, due to his addiction strangling little boys forcibly wrapping their bodily orifices around his wooden dick.

My intention wasn't to ingratiate myself with the prison tenants, it was to put the notion in their minds that they'd never survive an ambush jumping me and trying to kill me before any support staff arrived. Support staff being fat-ass fart-hammers Barney (Roto) Rooter, Tom Evans and ugly wife beater Lorin Downing in the other building. Some days I'm in a bad fucking mood and needed to kill a whole bunch of ice niggers and to soothe these inclinations I'd test the convicts' resolution to put up a fight and their enthusiasm getting torn apart limb from limb. Even tonight, to quote William Blake, "I will not cease from mental fight, nor shall my sword sleep in my hand."

I had two-fold intentions too. There are instances when the exigencies of my life or profession require I get close and personal with people who make me uncomfortable. Not because of what they are but because I fear their approval and the possibility I am more like these diseased creatures than I am willing to accept. Mind you, I may be linked and associated with far more assaults and homicides than any collection of KPD convicts and my most dangerous adversary wasn't a bunch of scummy native buttfuckers, but the adversary that lived in my own breast.

As far as sitting and smoking amidst dimpy micro-primates, I stupidly thought some of these inmates weren't all that bad but when I thought I was correct and redemption worked incrementally in all of them, I found I set myself up for a major fucking disappointment. Looking around the day room at these loud recidivist fanged sub-hominids whose lives are a testimony to institutional failure, I have to accept the fact that jailhouse tenants like these people and their situations that brought them here, there are no solutions.

Any cop employed at AST or KPD will confide with you that in all probability criminals incarcerated in Alaska's Prison System committed crimes far worse in nature than those for which they are being detained and punished. Criminals are more like cancer and they aren't held together by the same glue as the rest of us. Sitting nearby, Oscar Henry announced that he "need to slam no gram to be what I am." I'd insult Mr. Henry and tell him he's pretty smart fer a midget. I advised the whole room that KPD got a new pygmy wing and y'all can test drive it to see if ye want to stay around fer a while. Forget yer sex partners here, after we do the transfer paperwork, them negroid dwarfs next door won't take the time to piss in yer mouth nor shit yer crib (bunk).

Oscar encouraged his girlfriends, also alcoholic crack queens to eat shitty fatty foods so their extra weight signaled to his NANA Regional pals and OTZ village neighbors they were AIDS-free. While incarcerated Oscar Henry admitted he liked to fuck new inmates up the ass, cuz they wanted it and if he needed a blow job, lots of prison boys will chug yer pug fer a pack of mogeys. Patrick Stone chided Oscar Henry stating that "after we play basketball in the gym, I fart water and wet my bed."

Both Stone and Henry were merely repeating the common jargon boastfully and a nigger's myth spoken loudly to keep challenges to an inmate's masculinity at bay, like faggot repellent. My charges inside KPD jail were connected to a larger culture of welfare and a prison system that cycled miscreants in and out with the curative effectiveness of a broken turnstile. Arrestees usually left a trailing cloud of tobacco and 90-proof odious farts derivative of bad foods, rectal injury and lived one drink away from the Big Exit up at Boot Hill across from Devil's Lake past second bridge.

I know you coppers get pissed and burned out at the constant influx of native inmates, and it's probably fair to say that welfare dependency, alcoholism, gasoline huffing, infant mortality, the highest suicide rate among any other ethnic group, recidivism, xenophobia, and a general aversion to capitalistic monetary concepts are but a few of the problems Native Alaskans carry with them in their possibles bags. The list goes on. Unfortunately, their troubles are of a kind most white people don't want to dwell on, primarily, I suspect, because Native Alaskans were a productive people before their encounter with massive waves of asshole white folks overwhelming them. Like me.

The irony is, except for a few political opportunists, Native Alaskans seldom if ever make a claim on victim-hood. Individually they're reticent about their hardships, do their time in village jails, regional lockups and state prisons without complaint, and systematically go about dismantling their lives and inflicting pain on themselves in ways elderly conservative white southern cotton and tobacco plantation owners would never dream of.

I'm still of the opinion that post-ANSCA Alaska is still better than post-Civil War Confederate South. After the Emancipation Proclamation Act of 1864 slave owners watched their fortunes spiral down the shit hole. Most Antebellum millionaires struck back and joined terrorist groups like the Ku Klux Klan, the White League or the Knights of the White Camelia. The plantations of the South were nearly eliminated in a blink of an eye as President Lincoln signed them out of existence with one stroke of his pen. In retaliation, the Confederate States created the "Lend-Lease Program."

Every newly freed black person (man, woman and child) was arrested en-mass, rounded up like muddy cattle, at will and packed into concentration camps. These convicts were then lent or leased to big agriculture, namely family monopoly tobacco and cotton plantations until the 1950's. This became the prototype throughout the secessionist states resulting in deaths of hundreds of thousands of black inmates who died due from malnutrition, disease, physical abuse and torture. One point of interest was that small black children were assigned to pick the lower, softer, sweeter tobacco leaves for the premium products. These children lasted only one harvest due to fatal nicotine toxicity deaths. Handling tonnage of fresh leaf flooded the bloodstreams with poisonous levels of nicotine directly through the skin. Fuck, that must've been one sick ass chew buzz. I'm gonna barf.

Two years after the defeat of the South, in 1867, Seward arranged the purchase of Alaska. Russia sorely needed the funds to fight Crimea and Ukraine. As they do today. A century later, with our entrance in uniform to this state and introducing public safety, we played a significant part in developing the new economies and cultures of civil participation statewide. Alaska Natives got it easy, us public safety grunts married in the deep north of rural Alaska, we had it hard.

We need no more evidence most Alaska Native members of the Felony Convict Long-Timers Club were more similar to downloaded piles of dog shit they decorated their home-village everywhere they squat. Sort of like a Leonardo da Vinci work of art, but in reverse turning their hometowns and villages into emblematic masterpieces of rural Alaska decay. In my old age, I'm of the opinion that Alaska Natives over-populating our prisons are walking regirgitant, tundra niggers and oughta use a better form of birth control. No form of public safety or criminal justice will render any benefit more effective than handing out an aspirin as a curative for pancreatic cancer. Shit, take a walk through any IHS battered women's shelter or pediatric trauma wing of a native hospital and see exactly how successful our system works.

Maybe I'm wrong. Serial killers abound in Alaska and they often kill scores of people for a span of decades before they are caught, if they ever are. Most of their victims are the great uprooted villagers, faceless populations that drift via village to Alaskan slums, trailer courts, battered women's shelters, Salvation Army Missions, homeless encampments littering the streets of Anchorage and Fairbanks that have the impersonality of war zones. The vagueness of the term "homeless" is unintentionally appropriate for the many whom are mentally ill or just poor.

Some are fugitives. In the 1980's, after President Reagan's Executive Order canceled funding for loony bins and insane asylums, hundreds of thousands were dumped on the streets and refused re-admission to the closed federal psychiatric hospitals nationwide. These folks are meltdowns and bypassed toilet training and shoe tying, but they're experts on voter fraud, brain surgery, COVD vaccines, grand government conspiracies and running the White House.

The medicant culture they've established is still with us, although my problem of conscience regarding their welfare has faded to nonexistence. Watching our prison clients transition from village life, to prison life, then onward to the vacuity of homelessness makes a lot of rural Alaskan cops want to dig a hole in the earth and bury their badges and scrub their skin with peroxide or paint thinner. It's no wonder most interracially married cops die from liver failure. The contention I learned in Alcoholics Anonymous is that drinking is a symptom of illness. Those afflicted souls who quit drinking but do nothing else to change their way of life become what are called "dry drunks." We often champion absurd causes or focus our bitterness and anger into the lives of others.

Drunks that rotate in and out of treatment are fully aware of the 3 outcomes they face: death, poverty or recovery. The relapsing drunk upon whom a premature death sentence has been imposed will use every medical procedure he can afford to repurchase his life. He will be brave and humble and for a while will even pretend that willpower and prayer and holistic medicine will give him back another sunlit morning he took for granted while suffering crippling hangovers covered in vomit sleeping next to an ungodly toilet. Eventually a shadowy figure will soon step in front of their eyesight and their faces will forever be darkened by that final experience.

Look at the alcoholic cops you worked with. They sought control over everyone around them and accomplished this with the most insidious means possible. Fear, guilt and low-esteem are the traits of those families and girlfriends unfortunate to be in their sway. When alcoholic cops quit drinking, they develop obsessions that work as a substitute for booze. That's why they attend or facilitate AA meetings, or attend lunatic churches. No matter how crazy their ideas are they stay high as a kite on them so they don't have to drink again. The most obvious examples are Beuler and Salazaar. When I was a kid setting up my mortuary in Mountlake Terrace, Don Beuler was my court-ordered sponsor and signed off on the Alcoholics Anonymous meetings I attended. Carlos Salazaar was a convicted felon, violent alcoholic and addict, went sober and worked his ass off at Manilaq's Alcohol Program. Don Beuler's obsession supervising drunks like myself brought him to KPD serving as chief, followed by a stroke, then death. 2 cops that were dry drunks with a mission to repair the world. If I was a betting man, I'd put money on the world, not those two.

Another startling reality that sunk my hopes of a better life for rural Alaskans and obliterated any dreams of safer native communities happened on Visitors Day at the KPD jail. The parents and spouses of convicts pressed the button, rang the bell at the front door of the jail and were escorted into their side of the bullet proof glass partition to chat and catch up with the prisoners on the opposite side. The native moms that flew a hunnert miles to visit their blessed sons all seemed to come from the same ugly cookie-cutter a baker would use to mass produce fat hunch-backed gorilla biscuits. The mothers and grandmothers were not only afflicted by emphysema and abysmal dental health, but obesity by their sheer size and kidney dialysis as evidenced by so many yellow eyes. Their lives had been one of privation and hardship and loss, to the degree that they all seemed to think of suffering as the natural state of humankind.

With the KPD jail packed with psychopaths, rapists, baby rapists and wife beaters, the one bright prospect in the visiting mothers' lives had been taken from them. I never agreed with the institution of capital punishment because in Alaska its application was arbitrary and selective. I'm speaking code, the State of Alaska kilt a hunnert niggers and natives fer every one scum bag white dude sentenced to be executed. Whenever I sit with the Chief, Lt. or the Sarge and review crime scene photos I had to concede that the killers, rapists, wife and baby beaters belonged in a special category, one that can cause a person to wonder if their humanity was misplaced. Another beneficial aspect of life in prison is age never purchases a convict's freedom from their fear of death.

During my tenure at KPD I befriended the Sheldon twins, Kevin and Alfred. Not for a second would I allow them anywhere near bun and Sara if I wasn't home. Those two chuckle-heads were good dudes and always traded fat sacks of green bud for my smuggled Everclear and never overstayed their welcome when we chatted, toked and did our trades. But in candid conversations with them they'd turn your hair white. They'd snicker and confide when girls passed out at parties those two boys ran all over the unnuk shack and grabbed shit to stuff up the unconscious native girl's ass and pussy. They also packed drunk boys' asses with any available household shit too. The next time you think you misplaced your tool belt or lawnmower, ye best take a hatchet to them Sheldon twins' knees, hands and feet and ask them nicely where yer shit is. Of course if yer wives awake hungover and stand up to find machinery falling out their cooters and pooters, spare no mercy on them Sheldon shits. They might be sick fucking psychopaths, but killing them sounds intriguing. Oops, both Alfred and Kevin already killed themselves. Shucks.

What's noteworthy about those twin psychopaths is that they believed the world won't carry on without them and what they did to unconscious comatose native girls was actually doing them a favor. A few years ago, numerous cell phone videos surfaced with images of Home High School's Football Team drinking, pulling monster bong rips, yelling loudly and cheering each other's chugging beers. The video focused on a freshman team mate that'd passed out and the rest of the football team were psyched for debauchery.

On the cell phone videos members of his team pulled down the freshman's pants and shoved a beer bottle up his ass. The team hooted and hollered and continued partying. The police department and school board all reviewed the graphic recordings from numerous devices and concluded that besides underage alcohol consumption and illegal dope smoking, a sexual assault occurred. The primary offenders were charged and convicted and the entire team was permanently removed from playing football. Not just a temporary suspension or a permanent suspension for the rest of the season. This went even further to ban the entire team from playing anywhere in Alaska for the remainder of their high school attendance.

No scholarships to colleges, no references as to character and academic achievement forcing numerous families to move away, including the victim of the beer bottle up the ass stunt. Dozens of families are now completing their sons' years of high school in the lower 48 and nobody will try out for Homer High School's Football Team. Psychosis is infectious and the fallout is a shame for everybody. This tragedy hurt the school, the legal community and the entire school district. Alcohol fueled rapists and little boy buttfuckers truly believe they were helping and improving their victims, and not responsible for the wreckage they left in their wake.

In Barrow a good friend of mine was drinking with ASRC CEO Jacob Adams' son, Jacob Adams Junior. Percy Pikok was my pal and in their normally heavy drinking they were arguing and fighting as they shared jugs of shitty R&R whiskey. Percy and Jacob Jr. even went so far as to punch and pound on each other over stupid alcoholic arguments. Then Percy's memory is blank. He awoke super hungover, on the floor of his unnuk shack, sick, sore and hurting all over. When he climbed on all fours and stood up to take a piss, he discovered half the kitchen and garage was falling out his ass. Percy was hospitalized at Samuel Simmons Memorial Hospital, then spent a stretch at ANMC repairing his guts and bowels. Stupid Percy Pikok drank himself to death upon his return to Barrow after his recovery and amazing 3 months of sobriety in the hospitals. Myself, I still retain a degree of sobriety when I'm drinking with motherfuckers here in Alaska. You never know.

Drinking with Nay, Jewell, Blanchard and Westlake after graveyard shift, the conversations drifted from police cases towards women and sex. I stopped talking at this juncture. My sex was animal and mutually attractive, not coercive. And with rather pretty white girls. My exposure to dark meat, red bush hadn't even started. After some of the stories Dean Westlake uncorked we all got quiet and uncomfortable, awaiting a new topic. Dean's tales of forcible rape were upsetting and daunting. Liquor loosens lips on pork-barrel faggots, and with Dean, ya couldn't shut him up.

What's worse, is all the cops at KPD and AST already knew about Westlake's criminal exploits fucking pre-teen girls and killing the Davidovics brothers before they could reveal Dean's father's identity and his pedophile and bisexual preferences. Edith Melton, Kathy Elam, Diane Henry and Effie Nelson explained to me that Dean Westlake's biological father was Frank Davidovics and his mom Christine Kagoona, (Gladys Kagoona's sister), was a loose tramp, a chronic inebriate and hopped beds and boners like an eager beaver. She should've let Dean run down her leg and drip into a honey bucket but instead handed him off to her parents, George and Helen Kagoona. I would've insisted my mother-in-law deliver a midwife's hatchet to his head, then the Eskimo Abortion Hole of Doom.

During his brief abbreviated time here on Earth, a period far longer than he deserved, it's doubtful he enjoyed affection, romance and lust with a really pretty girl. I'm betting not one single time. Without cruelty and terror, Westlake couldn't get it up and his greatest fear is that he's little more than a fat impotent half-breed, greatly under-hung, sporting insignificant sexual prowess and will never be remembered as a legendary wonderful lover. Instead, Alaska history will remember Dean Westlake as little more than a blood clot floating in a slop bucket of prostitutes' wipings and washings, dumped out back of a whorehouse.

Kathy Ward's last words I chiseled on Westlake's tombstone: "What a fucking douche bag. Now he's dead rancid blubber, rotting dog-meat roadkill" Give his son Talon a fucking medal, but keep him forever in prison. After all, he's a fucking Westlake. Mental illness such as psychopathology and sociopathology, alcoholism and suicide run in families and Talon's DNA will reflect his lineage as a son of a diseased whore. Despite bad food and bad sex, prison may likely be too good for Talon. Keep an eye on his sister Autumn, she may be the perfect material in a crime novel about a serial killer suffering multiple personality disorder.

Psychopaths and sociopaths never matured beyond being the center of attention at infancy. Recalling suicides we cut down or cleaned and mopped, and the Sheldon twin's killing themselves by hanging and shotgun to the abdomen in the low-IQ apartments the message was clear that humanity should suffer their departure and Kevin and Alfred are hovering nearby enjoying our great grief. Shit, like that will ever happen. I celebrate suicides in similar fashion I celebrate the deaths of alcoholics. I smiled hearing Octuck's and Erlich's deaths from liver failure due to the annoyance and irritation we suffered and endured from their awful drinking spells, which now have ceased and desisted forever and Arctic Alaska is now a beautiful place again. The 907 area code is much prettier, more scenic and peaceful and our lives and emotions harmonize beautifully in the absence of best friends, coworkers and shit heads I've detailed thus far. Keep reading.

Another father-son pair of winners is Billy Howarth Senior and Junior. Billy Howarth Sr. murdered, then raped (postmortem) Mary Olana up the ass and in the pussy. I sat in the day room at the KPD jail and in addition to all the inmates, chatted with Billy Howarth Senior. He was upset and worried, but didn't or couldn't put a finger on any single issue that caused his distraught. I knew about the facts of the crime but kept mum and just listened to Billy's prattled reasoning why he was arrested and charged. He remembered waking up, rolling over Mary for a quick cold one, blacking out, then wrapping her in a sleeping bag and stuffing her in a cupboard in the kunnichuk (storm porch). I didn't mention to him that Mary Olana was frozen solid, head smashed in and her face chopped up from a pair of scissors.

Because of the Chief's ghoulish joke, I never liked MC Hammer's shitty song, "Hammer Time" after what happened to that girl, Mary Olana's face and head were smashed misshapen horribly. What's weird is Billy Howarth's public defender saw me frequently chatting with the inmates out in the day room and requested I be deposed. I immediately phoned the Chief and the trooper's office and advised them of the dilemma I faced. Their advice is to keep mum around Billy's public defense attorney, but be prepared for interviews with the DA and possibly a summons to testify at trial.

My intent wasn't to query Mr. Howarth about his case. My justification for being in the inmate's day room was to listen to complaints of the food, heating, TV channel debates, personal hygiene products and ordering shit from commissary. The National Sheriff's Correction Officers Manual specified great value interacting with inmates. Intel is a bonus. Of course I sat and discussed all important and pertinent details with the DA's desk affirming evidence already filed and available for discovery (shared with defense council).

Billy Howarth's discussions were redundant, but damning and good material for a song. The defense never wanted me to testify what I'd heard surrounded by a dozen inmates, in court. That same time period, my pal Scott Wade flew to Kotz and helped me with remodeling work and hearing so much gossip and neighborhood chatter about the hammer-kill, chill and anal seed spill, he wrote a grim guitar themed song called, "Billy Howarth is gonna fry."

At a native bar in downtown Anchorage, Darlene Snyder, years later confided with bun and I that she'd taken a pair of scissors and "chopped up that bitch's face for fucking my boyfriend." In the NANA Region psychopaths may grow on trees or arise from under tundra nigger-heads. If you saw Darlene Snyder homeless in Anchorage, staggering in the roads, dressed in soggy shitty rags, stinking up the entire universe, you'll acknowledge the existence of a righteous and just God. Homelessness and soiled clothing is a wonderful final destination for all drunken natives from the NANA Region. Not just authentic psychopaths.

Now here's another pair of sick fucks. Billy Howarth has a son named Junior and he was charged and convicted for the stabbing death and robbery of another native man in Mountain View in Anchorage. His partner in crime, Dirty Boy (no name available) was a frequent visitor with Sam Barr Jr. visiting Gladys Kagoona, his mother and Dean's aunt in that decrepit neighborhood. Dirty Boy is now serving a many decades long stretch in jail for his help in stabbing, killing and robbing a citizen alongside Billy Howarth Junior. Sam Barr Jr. is still an HIV-positive leaking colostomy bag and in arrears for many years of child support non-payment. Total pussy dragging AIDS seeping lips on his worn out anus. The teeth in his bottom fell out long ago.

I'm not challenged specifying sociopaths, or psychopaths we all know from the NANA Region. As with all sociopaths, the factual language used to describe their crimes say little if anything about their backgrounds or the influences that made them permanent members of an underclass that has one agenda-namely to scratch their names on a wall in a way the rest of us will never forget. Maybe they grew up in shit holes. Maybe their fathers were violent drunks that raped them or their mothers wanted them aborted or taken to the dog pound to have their loose stools repacked, then euthanized. Maybe they were FAS monsters or crack babies or they were born ugly or poor or stupid or were poorly educated and denied access to a better life. But when you have seen the handiwork of their kind of sickness up close and personal, none of the aforementioned seems to offer an adequate explanation for their vicious, cruel behavior.

What's worse is some psychopaths and sociopaths end up getting hired as policemen. We need to look no further than the troopers that got arrested for fucking underage girls. One trooper was cuffed here in Soldotna, another was snagged in Homer and even in your own backyard, Trooper Karl Main, my supervisor on the Barrow Narc Job working to arrest Robert Logan flying weed, booze and meth over the Brooks Range. Trooper Main was videotaped stealing seized monies out of the impound room and Augie Nelson senior and junior both served prison time for fucking underage chicks in their police custody. KPD no-dick bacon-bit Lorin Downing and numerous other Alaska piglets beat the shit outa their wives and daughters for decades and Dean Westlake resigned from the Alaska Legislature after revelations and discovery of his numerous sexual harassment and assaults and impregnating a 12 year old Kotzebue girl from the Stein clan. As far as their lifetime recidivism, every single one of them are repeat offenders. Jailing them is an end to itself and if you examine their criminal records, in or out of police uniform, they don't break out of jails, they break into them.

I know you coppers are laughing at my exceptional stupidity, but when I gazed over the jail filled with such violent little fuckers, I may appear as an ignorant and stupid person does when they're amused by handicapped, retarded or deformed minority persons. Cuz I was amused. Upon my initial arrival in Alaska I enjoyed watching puking, retarded wastrels shitting themselves and climbing through mud puddles and piss. I was dumbfounded at natives in Dutch, Cold Bay and Dillingham, but at that time I thought natives were all like this. I may have a skewed perspective in Alaskan human nature. I knew the innocent suffer, bootlegging and drug wars and pestilence seem to be our lot and brutal evil men prosper and go unpunished while the poor and downtrodden are crushed with poverty, disease and oppression. In the subsequent decades I've amended my narrow views. Greatly.

On a particularly scary narc job, my coaches, troopers Tyler, Bleicher and Bowman knew I was really afraid and had no one to confess my fear. I was sure I was gonna fuck up with the names I memorized next to the faces in pictures I studied and absorbed, then shot clear outa my boots. I was terrified I was gonna die on this police funded fishing expedition. Tyler was ex-military and told me something I carried with me forever. "Don't think about it before it starts and don't think about it when it's over. If you have nightmares, there's always an all-night bar open someplace. We'll cover the tab. If you see guns pointed at you, say the code word and lay low. We're cut that house in half." I relaxed and was fully prepared to survive a typical trooper shootout with casualties piling around me.

The larger lesson I retained from Tyler's statement was the implication about the arbitrary and accidental nature of my birth and death. I had no control of the day I was shit out and no control over the hour of my death. None of it is my choosing nor the circumstances surrounding it. Letting this sink in I felt a little better and took the roll of hundreds, double-checked my half-watt transmitter and marched right up to the front door, knocked and hit it out of the ballpark. One of the best undercover drug buy-bust ops I ever took part in. After numerous follow-up visits we cleared a shit load of meth and cocaine players. We filled Mat-Su Pretrial beyond capacity and clogged the courthouse with sweet righteous felony cases. Hunnert percent convictions and all the players are in a better place now. My supervisors received commendations and promotions. I got promoted to VPSO. Yay.

In the many decades suffering my shitty resume doing potentially deadly narc jobs and grinding public safety I might have learned something. I learned I was wrong on so many levels. Build water and sewer infrastructure, new schools, hospitals and airports, then build clean safe jails. The rest will take care of itself. You coppers brought the end to the Wild West days of Alaska acting as bodyguards to ANSCA and Sherpas to civil rights in rural native communities.

Speaking of Civil Rights Legislation, native voter turnout has skyrocketed since President Nixon's signing of ANSCA in 1971 and the native population in Alaska is the fastest growing demographic sector. Adding the "motor-voter" legislation renewing voter registration with every updated state identification and Alaska Drivers' License renewal and the voter identification refreshment with every single PFD application our voter registration rolls are kept current with our physical address, mailing address, Social Security number and date of birth and every citizen has a freshly minted voter ID card mailed to them. Another bonus is flushing our Department of Vital Statistics at the Juneau level clearing out dead people, adding recently born and citizens leaving the state. Of course all this super valuable data is also furnished to the IRS. Receiving a PFD is a cheap payment for providing Alaska and the IRS so much important personal, contact and tax identification info, so don't be thinking yer living off the grid if you receive a PFD check. Ain't happening.

Regarding public safety, local folks won't call the troopers if they suspect the bad guys will return to torment them. When a city or village cop is nearby, elders know all is quiet on the Western Front. Since legal proceedings are common knowledge and state statutes are easily quoted by any rural kid, we may have succeeded in taking the worst serial killers off the board, the most violent child rapists and wife beaters are incarcerated every time they fuck up and misdemeanor DUI retards know the consequences of driving wasted. Shit even plowed sloppy or comatose drunk drivers know the progressive jail sentences they face and wife beaters regret their actions only because they can no longer purchase firearms legally.

Besides deranged psycho-killers and rapists, we also enjoyed clearing a fuck-load of bootleggers and drug dealing motherfuckers out of the vastness of Arctic Alaska. Some escaped prison, but we sure as shit clipped their wings, severed their contraband routes, choked their channels and pinched their illicit product pipelines shut. The sick sex fuckers now smile for the camera on the sex offender registry website. Smile nigger.

It's getting late, I think I'm done typing these messy conflicted late night thoughts and going back to bed knowing some things have improved. Like, a lot.

I'm gonna shoot over yer literary heads and pull another quote from William Blake, "For the sword outwears its sheath, the soul wears out the breast." I sure hope I'm making sense.

In summation, we're the same rusty killers and that keeps awake at nights.

Karl.