Hookers, strippers, whores and cops.

Top of the morning gents,

I was going down on a hooker. As I was snacking on her bush I found bits of food in my mouth. First I spit out a piece of carrot, then I spit out a kernel of corn. I asked the hooker if she was sick or something. She replied, "No sweetie. My last customer was."

It's been reported that prostitution begins at home and in rural Alaska the first time a little girl has an orgasm she'll yell, "fuck dad, get off me, yer crushing my smokes." Additionally, young girls run away from home, fleeing sexual assaults from their fathers, uncles and brothers combined with their family's alcoholism and drug addictions. It takes a village to rape a child. The sexual assaults are a tragedy that becomes a self-fulfilling disaster, no traumatized girl will ever bond with an honorable man to make a family. Ain't happening. Unless you live in Kiana where boys get erections from their mothers.

The alcoholism and drug addictions are inherited traits. We all drink like our lineage and we all suffer genetically pre-disposed levels of addictive potential. Don't believe me? Look at yer own family. I'm an ugly drunk just like my sibs and folks. Now look at yer in-laws drinking problems and the drug habits of yer spouse's siblings, parents, cousins, aunts and uncles. Marriage and family planning almost requires genetic testing, personality screening and exhaustive criminal background checks on everybody related to the quiff yer snacking. If you don't know the difference between Jello and the old dead native gal you're slobbering on, Jello wiggles when you eat it.

Operating a profitable drug house, I remember the most problematic customers. They were women employed as strippers, hookers and whores. Having them come to my place to make their purchases were never clean and easy, so I opted to make deliveries to their workplaces. Mistake. We know dudes show up asking for credit and are politely removed from the premises. Sometimes not so politely. I've watched Mike Callahan and Big Dumb Dale Campbell bounce beggars and debtors off fenders and hoods leaving dents in their cars that match the owner's face. Deranged girls in the sex trades are infamous for every scam and lunatic proposition known to mankind. It's cuz us men are absolute retards when staring at busty cleavage miles long and poon-snatch freshly washed and de-clawed. Regardless of mileage and road wear. Or smell that'll curl yer hair.

Take note, a hooker's gotta suck and fuck half a nut ($500) a day to meet their drug, alcohol, stripper pole rental, outfits, makeup and trailer expenses. I'm not sure on the details of a prostitute's costs of living but that sounds like a busy morning every workday. I know the prices of cocaine cuz I sold it to them. The best price I could find was $10,000 for 2.2 pounds (one kilo) of top shelf cocaine. Heroin cost exactly double that and the culture of H, smack and horse seemed alien to me. Party animals in my midst preferred coke, not weird shit like Black Tar, Mexican Brown or China White, so I stuck with selling tasty flake cocaine. Hookers in the greater Seattle area smoked their cocaine in the form of crack, or in white dude nomenclature, free base. A few injected it and died quickly like my deceased pal Gary Los.

To convert high-proof cocaine into crack or free-base, the strippers took a small drinks glass, poured all their blow into it, added an equal measure of baking soda, topped it with water, then microwaved the concoction till it simmered a tiny bit. As this liquid mixture cooled it was slowly stirred with a metal spoon and the waxy pure coke paste clung to their choice of silverware they stirred with. Then this clot of wax was carefully scraped onto a mirror and chopped to small pieces. Each piece was scooped onto steel wool inside a glass pipe bowl, then with a small butane or propane torch, smoked. Regular Bic lighters worked, but left soot all over their pipes, hence the slang term, smoking nigger dick. In Alaska I've heard, "way to go dick smoker."

Fucking A dudes, that waxy paste sure made plumes of smoke. I watched in amazement as addicts prepared their desserts, loaded their glass pipes, sparked their torches and took healthy pulls creating giant clouds of medicine smelling plumage. Then I watched in horror as they closed their eyes, started to tremble as their party mates gingerly took possession of the glass pipe and the toker slid outa their chair landing on the floor twitching and flailing around like a fucking spastic. The seizures were terrifying but orgasmic to the addicts. My drug buddies would comment with approval, "Wow, monster toke dude. They're doing the fish." In the debate over who makes more money, a drug dealer or a whore, I believe a hooker makes more because she can wash her crack and reuse it. Stupid humor aside, regardless of ingestion method, folks died smoking their cocaine. Not my idea of a party. So I stayed with my tried and true method of snorting lines of blow as seen on TV, frat parties and gay cop bars in Palmer.

Okay, back to curing visits from whores. To prevent bullshit requests for credit and trades fer pussy, I'd hop in one of my older model cars and motor straight south from Mountlake Terrace down to Lake City Way, pull into the strip club parking lot and walk inside. With my grandpa's overcoat and hat I looked just like the old perverts that patronized these dumps. I'd already have the agreed upon weights of coke in tow, do my exchange and leave the building. Fucking strip clubs are funny places, they have neon signs advertising Live Girls All Nude. I've yet to see a strip club that announced Dead Girls All Nude. One smell of the workers and the pervasive locker room stench inside, they should. Think armpits, bad feet and tangy poon-farts like the OB/Gyn clinic at Manilaq.

You coppers that've occasioned strip clubs know how cheap these buildings are. They're fucking fire traps. At night with neon and strobe lights aimed at really large breasts and super loud music rattling the buttons and zipper in yer trousers downwards, you'd never hear the moaning and groaning down the hallway or out back from the trailers and campers. During the day, when the sticky floors were silent you'd see the buildings were little more than post-WWII architecture built shoddy with walls you could detect a fart through, even if you were deaf. I never specified what kind of fart.

Lake City Way was near a mixed race ghetto, pawnshops, second hand stores and was an eyesore neighborhood trying to save itself through urban renewal. Urban renewal had long passed Lake City Way by leaving strip clubs, drunk niggers, poor white bums and homeless shits of color. I stopped making deliveries to the strip clubs, whore shacks, prostitute trailers and campers after a twisted insane nigger threw beer bottles at my car as I passed. One bottle crashed on my rear quarter panel, so I turned around to cut him up, stomp his shit, then shoot him. Upon walking up to the screaming coon-turd I noticed the dead black dog laying on the sidewalk next to him was actually his sole hooker, a black girl sprawled out, covered in puke and blowing chunks out her ass. Or in the general neighborhood of her shitter. Could've been cunt. Hell I didn't know. I've seen dying humans shit piss, but not piss shit.

Strippers, hookers and whores oughta wear uniform garments like a single string and tag on their toe and I should've killed more skanky broads. Whenever the gals pulled into my driveway, Franky would announce, "Oh great, we got lunch meat." His implication was my money-for-cunt customers were future bags in a fridge or cans of dog food. On days when Marto whined like a dead baby shit in his Cream of Wheat, he'd chime, "Fuck Karl, when are we gonna quit selling to toe-taggers? We oughta let John Granberg turn them into cans of Friskies!" My response was, "Marto, quit yer fucking whining, we never refuse money from whores or run them over with our tricycle cuz it might wreck your only toy." You coppers all rented whores and owned tricycles during yer careers at KPD or AST. Or so I told folks.

My employees and party mates were scared shitless of sporting women or in a cop's nomenclature, working women. Druggy bitches and narco-cunts carried lots of cash-money, were seldom attached to police squads, yet brought lots of complicated trouble. Being a retard I avoided emotional complications mistaking human beings fer nothing more than soon to be naked stiffs or dead bodies with a snapping turtle protruding from beneath a torn skirt presenting expertly trimmed hair pies. Bearded clam is like a sleazy apartment, it can be rented repeatedly, like a time share. A baby can be killed only once, but pussy, even if it's big enough to accommodate four monkeys on mopeds and the Soap Box Derby can be auctioned numerous times, every day.

Marto once sat and chatted with a stripper, staring at her tits and calculated the risks and benefits of launching wood into her snatch. I made a joke about 80% of the workers in the sex trades were HIV positive and a girl's twat can be viewed as a dumpster, the cheapest and most easily disguised fortress I dubbed a Trojan horse fer bugs, a beehive, a hornet's nest and AIDS dispenser. I saw Marto's face contort as if someone had sewn a string through his scalp and was tugging hard in poorly timed jerks.

Franky kidded Marto he could join the niggers in the fridge downtown and party in the cooler with nothing but a string around his big toe. Marto was terrified of dead hookers and breathing niggers and to the trained eye and professional drug dealer Marto's dick was seen detaching, scampering out from the leg of his trousers and booking under the sofa vacating premises fleeing its owner. For cops that take freebies from hookers and later receive upsetting medical diagnoses from their urologist, their final day or end-of-watch resulting from dipping their wick in tainted walrus flavored poon-tang, it's much more honorable to look his .38 in the eye and smoke it.

Most of my pals were single and greatly deprived of sex. In a world of sex, drugs and rock and roll, too much of last two, greatly diminished the first and Marto, drooling over a pair of clown-painted whores was hungry enough to gnaw wood. Or tough chewey silicone. Sometimes merely mentioning the address of Lake City Way strip clubs, otherwise known as Rotten Snatch Row my horny coworkers at the mortuary were smart enough to understand that diseased stink uchuk nilluk was GU. Meaning geographically undesirable. Franky and Marto, once they had their heads screwed on correctly would take money, deliver drugs and as the parade of life support systems fer slime leaving slug tracks as they departed Lem's Mortuary on their way to their cars, those two comedians would cheer a chorus "Heave Ho!" "Fuck Karl, open a window or feed beans to yer dogs!" The implication being dog farts tasted better than hooker cunt-spray.

Seeing that parade of whores departing in sequins, boas, spike heels and goofy hats of every description, I've thought that supplying the sex trade with cocaine should come with product promotional props including rubber snakes, dildos, saddles and stuffed animals and perfume my crack house with smells of cigarettes and sour skin concentrated like fermented pussy you'd sniff opening a Tupperware container filled with spoiled fish kept too long in the refrigerator. Imagine yer former KPD Chief of Police Don Beuler arriving at my parties hosted by scantily clad or naked girls, selling pussy, dances and my products. He would've died of a stroke and never made it to Kotz, only to die of a stroke shortly after going 10-100 supervising you mukes.

My lectures to my crack house pals working late shift selling blow was that it's better to walk around with perpetual wood than to suffer HDB. Any healthy drug dealer knows I'm talking about Hooker Death Bed, meaning blisters, pocks and sores all over yer body big enough for Evil Knievel to pop wheelies in and patchy hair from HIV or AIDS. To make matters worse would be for my deceased brother Cully in his smart Care Medical uniform servicing yer foul soggy hospital bed, scribbling yer home address off yer clip board allowing me to rob yer house during yer brief dead meat decline surrounded by friends and family gagging at the sight of ye, smelling yer dick.

There's a reason phrases persist. One states prostitution is the world's oldest profession. Another states "ye can't turn a whore into a housewife" and from personal experience, too many cops failed to make this distinction and comprehend that basic concept and notion. Seeing my coworkers at KPD, VPSO or AST offices battle to keep food on their shelves and struggle to pay rents and yutes, I'd think to myself, never stating out loud, "Dope or diapers dude." I'm sure you rusty killers understand my assertion that with all the overtime, money seems to mysteriously vanish towards the bingo parlors and liquor stores with the only clues we're left with is ugly mongrel kids that don't look like us. Even with pussies big enough for a bobsled race and Lawrence Welk's entire orchestra, women are mankind's eternal curse and challenge. Pussy ain't a bodily organ, it's a destination.

My mantra is "treat a whore like a whore." Anything else is a mistaken identity they're human beings. If men valued their dicks they'd avoid holes that looked inviting, even on a bitch's face. I've written slang jargon such as hair pie holes, penis holsters and crotch pockets, but with DNA forcing men to inseminate everything in sight, even my farm animals, we simplify the playing field by killing faggots and cross-dressers. You know, to prevent any guilt-ridden mistakes and messy beds. Since Day 1 we've been trying to get back up into pussy. Occasionally we mistook our birth canal for ass and at our old age, we pray it was ass on a girl. We all got ridden by girls that surreptitiously jumped taint, cleverly leaping oyster or clam and we never knew we climaxed humping and spooging dumpers. I may be wrong and simply channeling my VPSO coworkers. Or Colonel Godfrey and Trooper Henry Kozlof.

Back to my statistic of 80%. That figure arises from medical testing of Seattle's working girls and I'm not merely speaking about AIDS/HIV. I'm also reminding you coppers of the more common long list of venereal diseases, historically called social diseases. In the early 15th and 16th centuries, merchant marines and seafaring ship-men returned home with infections euphemistically called the French Flu. As Europe expanded its reach worldwide, men being men fucked everything aboriginal, hence the untreatable STD's. I say untreatable due to penicillin being discovered and administered in the 1930's. Prior to that all sexually transmitted diseases ran their course resulting in crippling illness, blindness and death. KPD Officer Ken Jewell once told me an awful joke. How do you know when a hooker in the trunk of your patrol car is dead? She smells better.

Numerous famous historical figures suffered untreated STD's starting with Ben Franklin, Adolf Hitler and Al Capone. Since most venereal diseases have zero symptoms, climbing aboard a wench for a poke, a toss or a quickie resulted in permanent smegma drainage out yer sole favorite play toy. I received advice from a fat black woman telling me to "just bite a lemon and spit on it." Some seafarers bit into a lemon or a lime then spit citrus and saliva in and around an inflamed radiating snatch to see if the poor girl leaped out the bed screaming with her biscuits and grits on fire. I know, silly procedure. I tried it and my girlfriend thought I puked carrots and corn on her shit.

Another precaution to sell the idea yer brothel breeding stock is disease-free is to specialize in keeping a stable of really young girls. And boys. On the east coast whore houses advertised "only clean, young fillies for the discerning tastes." What a weird product claim, but the theory being younger child prostitutes, newer to the profession had lower risks of passing deadly infections to patrons. I guess there's some logic there. Shit, it's a safe precaution in Buckland.

In the life-cycle of product life-spans it's safer to fuck a child prostitute than an old hag nearing the end of her shelf life wearing a dog food label on her face. This is the impetus for my great-grandfather bidding and purchasing children from orphanages throughout the Pacific Northwest and shipping them to pimps operating whore houses servicing the Klondike and Nome Gold Rushes. Soapy Smith was a ruthless brothel keeper in Skagway and Ketchikan as was Wyatt Earp in Nome. They both were immune to showing any feelings of an almost human nature and eventually all their brothel employees died with assholes big enough for a snow machine to turn around in. If a man only pays for and fucks children, he reduces the risks of venereal diseases and can proudly declare he paid premium fees fer young pussy. My grandfather called child prostitutes in Alaska, "brothel sprouts." Another joke he told me was a whore knows she has enough money to pay the rent when her stomach is full and her nose is running.

Inn keeps, bar keeps and brothel keeps tended to be the richest men operating throughout the American West and Alaska during gold rushes, land rushes and oil booms. By sheer brute force these men maintained monopolies in running hotels, saloons and whore houses. History mentions Soapy Smith as a cut-throat business man and numerous folk songs detail his demise. Wyatt Earp paid bribes to keep his homicides out of the Nome Nugget Newspaper but both legendary pimps averaged 5-6 unsolved murders every week. Crossing either of these men cost you dearly. Mind yer own business, keep yer gold secret, use straw men as cut-outs selling yer nuggets at the assay office and don't ever dare to start yer own comfort shack. Another criminal side-gig these two historically brutal pimps operated was stealing newly discovered rich veins of gold and murdering the owner (claims jumping) or selling useless mines salted with shotgun blasts from shells loaded with gold nuggets to suckers.

My grandfather laughed at the prostitution business declaring "Alaska ain't nothing but whores and miners" and questioned my public service to America's most corrupt state. My great-grandfather would fill steamships with Shanghaied women (drugged and kidnapped) with the larger inventory being children destined to get fucked a dozen times a day in Alaskan brothels. Keenly understanding the real wealth is in mining the miners, Earp and Smith made the most lucrative all-cash offers to my great-grandparents, meaning top dollar for the crowds of women and children, victims of sex trafficking aboard my family's fleet of steamships emblazoned with Archer Ewing Inc. Look it up.

For the entirety of human history sex is the number one money-maker and independent prostitutes operating their own businesses made the most money. If a woman survived long enough they can achieve bordello queen status running their own houses of ill-repute. Treating a whore like a whore explains how men try hard not to fall in love with a girl they pay to have sex with. And I'm not referring to child support due to a mistake fucking a deformed FAS gimp in Noorvik we've seen flailing and gimping about on gay reality TV. Of course I might believe you coppers only jizzed on a gimpy disabled bitch's mukluks and blame the insemination on flies doing the heavy lifting.

Running a profitable drug house I was exposed to the shenanigans of hookers' and strippers' business practices. Untold numbers of over-painted broads would offer any sex act in trade for product. That shit got stale real quick. Some of my pals offering weed to my prostitute cocaine customers got taken advantage with promises strippers would pay later. Baird Alderson was a friend of mine and fronted a couple bags of weed to a hooker I'd just sold blow to. She was broke but swore on a stack of bibles she'd pay Baird on her next visit to my place, Lem's Mortuary and Crack House. The best way to get rid of a whore is to front her product. We never saw her again.

Baird was relentless to collect this bill, cruising strip clubs and pestering ladies of the night strolling sidewalks all over Seattle. Eventually he found the whore in question and demanded payment. She got pissed at Baird for crashing her turf up the street from the Union Gospel Mission, north of Pike Place Market in Seattle. She threatened to have her pimp cut his dick off if he didn't scram but Baird being stupid kept badgering her for his money for the weed. She screamed at him stating she delivered the money to "that guy" up north, meaning me. The only time a prostitute is lying is when their lips are moving. And leaking. That claim was totally bogus.

Baird actually believed her and demanded payment from me. I shook my head and told him I haven't seen the bitch since the day he fronted her bags of good green bud. So Baird started stealing beers and crumbs from my place earning him a place on the Homo List, persona non grata, go away fucker, bye-bye nigger. I bounced him from the premises and he's been sulking for decades.

Just a few months ago I learned Mr. Alderson still feels gypped and is a tiny cocoon of a cripple, half his original weight suffering advanced lung cancer, tubes up his nose and ass, probably the same tubes, a whining gimp bed-bound dying from his poor man's, home-rolled cigarettes. Stupid fuck-up should've never let a bitch in his business. Or demanded cash on the barrel, or a poke in her anus. Being an abused child and believing a safe hole free of herpes, Baird preferred the chocolate tunnel, I mean the Hershey Highway. He fucked himself.

History places a real value on pussy and ass. If you examine old issues of the Nome Nugget circa 1889, a 'visit' to a woman of leisure cost you $10.00 a hump. In the late 1800's a new pistol cost $4-$5 per firearm and if you extrapolate to today, 2024, a new handgun costs you $400-$500. Simple, a multiplier of 100:1. Using reverse devaluation, a $10.00 fuck in Nome or Skagway one hundred and fifty years ago would cost a dumb ass today the equivalent of a grand. Let me be clear, that's a thousand dollars. Alaska and America's servicemen, miners and frontiersmen paid serious dineros fer pussy. Looking at yer girlfriends and innumerable zeroed paychecks, you'll agree, it's cheaper to get married. Some girls you rent, some you own.

Take note, heterosexual women are far more promiscuous that any man. Mitochondrial DNA, meaning maternal genetics require massive diversity of zigotes. In short, lots of dicks and lots of jizz and heterozygosity insures maximum genetic diversity of a woman's babies. Women never seem to make up their minds about big arms, big legs or big brains, so they fuck all of 'em. Scatter-brained indecision in breeding actually insured our survival over the last 2 million years of hominid humping. You smell something? It ain't yer ball cheese. It's someone else's.

Come on, look at the stupid shit I did. I fucked a cop's wife before I worked at KPD and fucked another cop's wife after I worked at KPD (at UAF). I thought myself a champion lover with more heavy equipment than needed and I was an extremely patient partner crossing the finish line with a rash all over my face, my womb broom, flavor saver and vaginal Velcro, meaning my beard. I was also painted with gallons of gonad curds all over my groin. After catching my breath and my busty married girlfriends dozed I thought I'd leave love letters to their husbands. I grabbed a permanent black marker and on their bodacious round ass cheeks I wrote "Chuck Norris Did This."

Close by the senior center where I live is a cemetery. I use it as a rendezvous for younger plastic and silicone surgery wives looking for a serious womb stretch. Just last week I had a double-header. I sneaked out and had a delicious fuck sesh with a pretty woman hefting extra large double D breasts, tummy tuck and labiaplasty procedures. This broad looked and felt 20 years younger than her 56 years. We fucked like animals and after we unloaded each other's DSB (deadly sperm build-up) we caught our breath. She picked up her discarded panties, wiped all my jizz off her groin patch, then handed it to me saying, "Thank you, that tool of yours touched my heart. Here's a souvenir."

Later that same evening I met with her best friend, another busty broad that underwent the same plastic and silicone procedures and expected me to fuck the shit outa her too. So that's what I did. We jack-hammered each other like breeding brood mares in rut till we made a dandy mess. Instead of wiping her sperm-painted pussy and ass with her panties, she grabbed a bouquet of flowers from a nearby tombstone and wiped her goodies clean and tossed it to me saying "Jesus, you pushed my cervix all the way to my tonsils."

That following morning, me and bun were having coffee in the lunch room and at the table next to us were two old men griping about the news, sports and their wives. "I swear my wife is getting fucked by someone here at the senior center. Last night she came home with rosy ass cheeks but without her panties." His buddy commented, "Shit that ain't nothing. Last night my wife came home with a card super-glued to her ass saying 'We'll all miss you dearly'."

Men manufacture millions of sperm on each hump whereas women are born with all the eggs they'll ever hatch. If a woman fails to get pregnant, the egg will die, descend and depart. That's a nice way of describing a visit to the Eskimo Bleeding Hut. It also explains why women flail, weep and mourn that dead egg upon menstrual bleeding, a physical funeral for a dying egg and an emotional disaster. Butch Lincoln told me that he's no different than a hooker, except a basketball player takes a shower after 4 periods

I've described hookers and strippers that ended up in the meat wagon. Coroners are tasked with determining cause of death in cases where there are so many, it's easier to determine what didn't kill the bitch. Washington is famous for serial killers butchering working girls and it was our favorite pastime to joke, cackle and speculate various schemes how a monster like Ted Bundy or Ridgeway (Green River Killer) exterminated sporting ladies, boosting numbers of lunch meat cunt sandwiches in the coolers, morgues and coroner's fridges statewide.

I told you my friend John Granberg worked at Tyrell's Dog Foods in Ballard, Washington disposing dozens of maimed and butchered carcasses of former human beings. Gun shots, knife wounds, baseball bat impacts, strangulation and sidewalk diving were common COD's, meaning causes of death. John Granberg declined to scrape up prostitutes that took swan dives, against their will, out high-rise buildings, head first into parked cars and pavement. John was a tough cookie and used to tell us, "Shit Karl, it ain't an onion. Nobody cries chopping up hookers." I know that's gross and a little beyond the purview explaining a mad man loading conveyor belts with human remains feeding grinders, blenders, canning machines, cookers, labeling machines packaging pet foods for cats and dogs to make turds out of. I'm gettin' kind of hungry. I suppose a Fancy Feast or Alpo hors d'oeuvres would be tasty.

I'm ambivalent. Feeding America's pets dead junkies, hookers and strippers seems preferable to burial in fancy burial plots adorned with classy shingles bearing titular names such as Forest Lawn Cemetery. I've seen pauper's graveyards and they ain't nothing fancy. Shit, slave burials are classier. A customer of mine was employed by King County and was tasked with undertaker's duties deep-sixing unhappy wretches whose funerals would consist of a few words muttered and soils pitched. His name was Ernie Hanson and he griped the county was screwing him by expecting him to plant indigent stiffs in gaudy boxes hardly resembling a casket for the paltry amount the county was willing to pay to dispose of thousands of druggies, hookers, strippers and gang-banger niggers from families too poor to afford their own funerals and burial plots.

Ernie personally examined each corpse and compared the age, gender, race, hair color and eye color prior to tipping his industrial coffin wheelbarrow over a big dirt hole. I asked him if it was gross opening body bags, coffin lids and eye lids to verify these details as preamble to dirt ditching. Ernie Hanson's joke was that most had dyed hair that never matched their pubes, their cunts stretched big enough for ten midgets to dance a polka in or their skulls had bullet holes in 'em big enough to accommodate a nest of hotel mice. If they still had their eyeballs in their skulls, him and his coworkers got gypped. I must have looked confused cuz he explained that if the eyes were still in the corpse's head, bowling for tombstones was out of the question.

My next question had to do with seminal fluids in assholes, vaginas or mouths. Ernie gagged his beer, choked his bong rip and took pause laughing before leaning over to snort the big pile of cocaine I comped him whenever he arrived for business. Ernie's comment was undertakers NEVER breathed in when the contents of a corpse leaked, even if a dead bitch's guts are making so much noise it'd make the Falklands War sound like dead baby farts. It can kill ye faster'n a cadaver's rectum festival or colon carnival and no amount of licking and sucking would ever tighten their assholes up. You coppers would've loved my hometown friends, they talked real perty like Trox and Wallace.

Ernie Hanson and his coworkers at the King County pauper's cemetery weren't racist, cuz their customers were already dead. During the Carter Administration Ernie griped about the massive influx of newly arriving immigrants piling into his graveyard faster then herpes or tuberculosis. Immigrants, dead boat people, meaning Asians were flooding the west coast by the millions and overpopulating his indigent burial grounds. These Asians Ernie called Chinamen and the Mexicans he buried were all Spics and the Latin Americans (Latrinos) he labeled them all niggers. During his dirt sleep services, he mentioned niggers had assholes roomy enough for two Christmas trees, a phone booth and Oprah Winfrey requiring all the Astro Turf in the Seattle King Dome to wipe those asses clean.

Fuck, I gotta wash my hands. If I drank, I'd be pouring back a dozen doubles right now. There is no prime mover in the universe. No mysterium tremendous or divine intervention saving the souls of niggers and prostitutes and I'm always looking to prove it. In the midst of sick customers, dying arrestees and disgusting coworkers I find a worthy friend perhaps once every ten years. Which sucks, seeing everybody I partied with inhabiting pauper's graves, that just leaves you coppers.

I've been criticized for looking at my coworkers at KPD, AST, VPSO and NSBPSO (North Slope Borough Public Safety Office) like I was examining a booger on my finger. Fucking cops. Ain't none of ye ever smelled like niggers, hookers, whores or strippers. Yet some of ye acted like bratty sex workers. Maybe that's why I got so few friends left in this world.

Every day working with you coppers, I'd look in the mirror and say, "You're an asshole, nobody like you. Let's go to work." I actually looked forward to working long overtime shifts with you guys. I should have my head examined.

Fuck. I left drug dealing for public safety. I made a lot less money, but shit, at least I ain't neighbors with this aforementioned list of characters. In cardboard boxes underground.

It would've likely been my final resting place, with a lime wedge, lemon juice, carrots and corn in my ass or a pet food label on my face.

You smell something?

Karl.

Spay and neuter yer slaves, bad debtors and coworkers.

Top of the morning gents,

I spend lots of time reading, writing and basically doing nothing. To the naked eye, I'm the sole mongoloid at pert near two in the morning shoving stacks of words around. At these ungodly hours you can catch me nightly working on a paper I send out to a bunch of old fucking cops, pissing away life's moments into the early morning hours. To the trained eye, you may detect I'm executing a literary trick by continually looping your attention back to your career origins. Even in our old age, well-traveled, having no latent memories of any one sky or soil, I don't expect you coppers to cease exploring theories of historical criminal investigations. After deductive reasoning, arriving at logical conclusions to your open-unsolved case explorations I suspect you'll arrive where you started, ultimately knowing that place for the first time.

Foul language can be literary symbols that contains within itself a multitude of meanings and can therefore be employed to suggest either a complex of agreeable ideas or a fundamental harmony beneath apparent, ugly or funny contradictions. Beyond this, filled with awful racist quips and crude observations of silly human races, the whole is greater than the sum of its offensive interpretations, each sentence crude, paragraphs enlightening. Wake up fucks, I paint with symbols to evoke several meanings to convey particularly complicated emotional effects, such as sorrow or humor. No other combination of my foul words, sounds and slang, better deliver shitty flavors in yer mouth, fecal scents in yer nose than proper language could ever fully encompass.

My sleeping comes in pieces and since retiring, it occurred to me the problem with doing nothing is not knowing when I'm finished. Instead of scribbling fluffy farts out of thin air or flinging on paper diluted runny shit out my ass, I thought I'd confide with you rusty killers utilizing the most racist, comic, foul language I could beg, borrow and plagiarize. With such shitty ingredients I endeavor to explain how unfinished business is settled once and for all, with criminal heavy lifting done by yours truly.

This is a multi-decade story of righting wrongs, slights and unpaid fronts, credits and deals that went sideways or got cross-threaded. Some deals were made with dead beats (origin: debt beats) that never intended to honor their agreements nor keep their promises. Being a slow learner I now understand that intentionally ignored agreements are commonly known as "Alaskan handshakes." The implication everything Alaskan is criminal or dishonorable. Fucking A dudes, that's what brought most of our neighbors to the arctic north. Being surrounded by indigenous and alien crooks, the issue to debate is how far should a soul go to right a wrong and settle a score that went against you leaving a person feeling shafted, fucked with a board kicked up yer ass by some snickering faggot that thinks he pulled a fast one on you.

Some citizens make promises they never intended on honoring and in that moment I'm thinking upstanding coppers like yourselves would enthusiastically claw back your fair share and bring fairness to a bum deal, trade or bargain that was left lopsided and out of balance. I'm sure you all remember the quip, "if I knew you were gonna fuck me, I would've preferred you kissed me first." I've done a tremendous number of trades with you coppers and they worked beautifully, outside the department we've all been on the receiving end of shitty deals and I'd venture to speculate we'd go to extreme measures to correct them. I think you know where this is going. Keep reading.

I re-read an email I saved and thought I needed to expand on it and explain the gravity and importance of abandoning shitty minority children and stealing their inheritances. The email was from a pal of mine and he asked if I remembered a black girl my brother Cully used to date years ago. I told him yes I remembered her. Her name was Heather McCoy and she was a very pretty African American girl that fell in love with my brother way back in the bad old days. Even in death, I still believe Cully is still connected to Heather by an umbilical cord. Or an illegitimate mongrel papoose.

I lived in a racist white trash neighborhood operating a racist crack house and white trash mortuary filled with customers that likely voted George Wallace for Governor and David Duke for President yet few knew the ghastly number of racially diverse corpses we buried, burned or fed to dogs and cats. The dead motherfuckers we disposed is the entire spectrum of colored humanity, all mixed together, facilitating unintentionally, desegregation of the dead, former citizens of formerly segregationist Washington state.

One of my many chemically preserved girlfriends frequently dropped by fer a quick fuck hump sesh, lines of blow, beers and bong rips, pick up spending money and catch up on gossip where Cully's band was playing or plan major blowout parties at my house. One of her friends was a black girl named Heather, she'd tag along and together they started calling my parties Caspar-Trash Chem-Fests. Caspar being that silly ghost, specifically a white ghost featured in the stupid children's cartoon series. Look up Caspar the Friendly Ghost, it's asinine, naive and except fer the white part, and the dead part, unlike any in my crew of sick, twisted killers.

Heather occasionally popped by alone for packets of product, small stuff, party favors. Eventually she was purchasing minor bulk for her black girl-buds down in the Central District, otherwise known as Georgetown, Jim Town and Niggerville. All by her self, she started her own franchise like DoorStash, UPS, FedEx or DrugHub. She'd stealthily book up north to my place, purchase serious weight, then rally back south to her girlfriends in her own community.

Her delivery service had ripple-effects throughout an already well-entrenched crack-nigger business structure and in the cocaine world, being similar to spaghetti, you pull one piece, you move the whole plate. Her micro-business model was felt throughout Niggerville. A single black mother mysteriously arriving with industrial strength, higher quality product, and similar to Eskimo sewing circles, selling fine-ass nose candy exclusively to black single mothers and girlfriends in her 'hood at half the price and twice the concentration. These things are noticed. Crack nigger drug dealers could not abide.

I preferred her making the deliveries herself from my white garbage town to her black garbage town. As the Seattle segregationist joke goes, a white dude like me arrives in a black community asking for directions to the Seattle Space Needle, after being rudely ignored by the poor blacks shuffling around, I'm supposed to answer my own query with, "or should I just go fuck myself!"

A comment Heather made about white druggies (like me, Marto and Dennis) driving into "the nigga 'hood" is we stood out like postmortem bright scarlet herpes pock-blisters on dead white labia, or something to that nature. Actually, Miss McCoy's description was that "Y'all is the hippest friends I know, but if colored folks see 3 white dudes in a car, they know you're smoking fuckin' drugs." Non-syndrome, non-Seattle dumb fuckers may not understand traditional centuries-old Washington separatist humor, but driving into Niggerville to make deliveries caused me to suffer nervous breakdowns consistently chewing and swallowing chunks coming up in the back of my throat that taste like biting into a shit sandwich. Upon departure, I gotta gargle with lawnmower juice and shower my sorry ass leaving Boontown.

Another historical fact about my hometown that pisses me off is Jimi Hendrix was born in Seattle in 1944 and couldn't get a gig or recording contract anywhere in the Pacific Northwest cuz most radio stations, recording studios and music stores had signs at the entrance stating, "Whites Only." Hendrix was a remarkable guitar player and being black, wasn't even allowed on Seattle Metro Buses. The oft repeated legend is Jimi Hendrix walked everywhere barefoot to avoid scuffing his only pair of shoes and eventually was contacted by Bob Dylan who flew him to London, England.

Once landing upon British soils, Jimi Hendrix's career exploded worldwide. Dylan and Hendrix were strange collaborative bedfellows but historians and musicologists commonly refer to their work together during this period as the "magic years of electric rock guitar" and revolutionary even today. Shit, Eddie Van Halen attributes his sound, technique and inspirations to Jimi Hendrix, plus Jeff Beck and Jimmy Page from the Yardbirds and Led Zeppelin, 3 expert guitar technicians working in the UK.

Eddie Van Halen hailed Hendrix, Beck and Page far ahead of their time and likely no other public school system will ever produce such a wave of creativity as the famous "British Invasion." My humble assertion is the public schools of the Pacific Northwest yielded the Seattle Syndrome of the 90's with ensembles such as Nirvana, Sound Garden, Pearl Jam and Alice in Chains. Until heroin killed 'em off. Seattle, like Memphis, Tennessee was completely segregated and no nigger like Hendrix playing a guitar upside down and left-handed could earn a fucking dime. I'm not too fatalistic in my bigotry, but this was my hometown and may account for my deterministic acculturation. I'm a product of Seattle, Washington and as evidenced by my sentiments and language, it shows.

Back to my brother's black-snatch fish-lip romance. Heather found my brother Cully an irresistible "fine-ass white boy" and that it's every gorilla-bitch's dream to breed with lighter skinned taller monkeys. Heather was greatly swayed in her attraction to Cully watching his performances and thought his bass playing far better'n any jive-ass black soloist or jazz-funk performer she saw at Seattle's hipster--meaning colored bars. Cully was indeed a gifted bass player, far better than myself and played in bands all over the Pacific Northwest, plus a noteworthy composer with his Neuroshima compilations. Cully also had a superior selection of electric bass guitars and performance and recording equipment because he had an older brother that was an incurable crook and collected an inventory of high-dollar instruments. At my crack house I happily took expensive guitars, amplifiers and effects boxes as trade for product. I also kyped major goodies from remote shit holes north of the Arctic Circle.

Cully and Heather hooked up during a party at my house and quickly became an item. In actuality, an item of much contempt on both sides of the Great Racist Divide in the Great Pacific Northwest. At 6 foot 6, Heather claimed Cully to be dynamite in bed and "bigger than a nigger" but both white and black folks absolutely hated interracial fucking. Cully caught hell from my dudes and Heather was ostracized fer boning a tall blue-eyed Finn. Myself, I discovered that being related to my brother stricken with preferential taste in dokbuk uchuk (coon poon) plus a drug addiction ailment and alcoholic illness, the tyranny of brotherly love can be as destructive as that of Cully's disease itself. Whenever my brother drank to excess, I got the hangovers. This continued until just a few years ago, whereupon he died.

My friends and customers absolutely hated niggers and voiced their hatred and anger for Cully's dipping his wick, forcing his sausage inside glazed black boon-tang at any opportunity possible. I shrugged and told them they could suck my ass, stop visiting my premises or shut the fuck up. I could almost feel their ignorant white lips on my anus and footsteps out my door. My pals didn't understand the mental stress of being Cully's older brother and living in a profitable drug house that more than covered its rents and yutes. Folks can't comprehend the stress of not working, not paying for my own alcohol and drug habit, not pursuing a career, not supporting a wife and kids and my never attaining adult maturity. It was almost too much to bear. Someone bitch-slap me, please.

Sucking my ass for expressing racist sentiments, then getting kicked out of a house of ill-repute posed a tough dilemma. They curbed and quelled their logically racist hostilities but behind my back my drug operations echoed loudly with terms like boon, coon, spear chucker, jiggaboo and tree climber. Get this, these terms were universal slurs expressed by white, black and Hispanic motherfuckers whom were predictably born losers and in all probability likely despised in their mothers' wombs and their conceptions were a result of their mothers whoring for alcohol and crack cocaine breeding with intellectually disabled and developmentally stunted lepers.

The reason my old friend sent me an email regarding Heather McCoy was to inform me he noticed her obituary in the Seattle Times and commented that she died the same year as Cully. I wasn't entirely surprised. She was a product of welfare, public housing and raised 3 children as a single mother and my brother was like me: a professional alcoholic and a MAJOR fucking drug smoker. The significance of this is black female children of single parent families are 60 times more likely to get pregnant in high school and suffer life-long existences as unwed mothers. That pesky coefficient of 60 haunts us all.

Heather's future was cast in stone. Meaning being a single black mother with 3 children from different fathers, including a tan caramel child suspected to be Cully's, her 3 children had grim futures. This statistic applies to black male children also, specifically rates of incarceration 60 times the rates of boys raised in 2 parent families of any other color. *Present company excluded. Like me and my brother and pals, all wiggers, we also enjoyed that 60-fold increased rates of incarceration because we were white trash booze hounds that smoked bales of green bud and cocaine consumption no more than a cup a day. The 60 multiplier appears to be a common denominator.

Me and my peers weren't ever part of any survey regarding our prison tenancy to verify the 60 multiplication factor in arrests and incarceration rates. All of us were busted fer minor in possession of weed and alcohol, and retarded driving offenses. Cully was himself arrested for furnishing alcohol to numerous minors at a major mosh-pit party rocker he threw. I shudder at the legal consequences of our sexual abuse of minor party girls, but those little girls (squealers) climbed atop us and did all the fucking and proved the age-old proverb, "the smaller the tit, the more the monkey." Quit smirking, bubble gum, trainer bra, tampon poon isn't completely disagreeable nor dis-pleasurable. Let's be honest, I could use a tasty squealer monkey right now.

My buddy Mike Callahan was arrested for malicious mischief cuz he pitched a beer bottle at a speeding car fleeing my house after spinning their tires deep into my lawn, otherwise known as a 'lawn job' and side-swiping one of my friend's car in their haste to escape. Callahan delivered a picture-perfect all star baseball pitch blasting out the side window, picking off an angry, pinch-faced white bitch in the passenger seat. The beer bottle pitch went clean through the window, hitting her right in the face. Beer bottles from Britain, namely Watney's Red Barrel and Newcastle Brown Ale are way stronger and harder and the fucking thing didn't even break on the passenger side window or the bitch's face. Callahan had an arm on him and he could send supersonic pitches downrange and totally destroy his targets. My crimes? I was booked for assault charges, driving offenses and generally being a retarded pain in the goat ass.

Collectively, Cully, Callahan, myself, Marto and most of my druggy pals sat in the clink on numerous occasions. Despite being white trash, we'd meet or exceed black male crime stats cuz me and my pals were missing brain cells, never graduated potty training or advanced ass wiping and one or both our parents were dead, in jail or mentally deranged alcoholics. Since its founding two hunnert years ago, Seattle has been overrun by retards and crazy motherfuckers who were probably cloned from dog turds and cow pies and Seattle's liberal faggot government ain't ever done shit about it. Except build more jails, filling them with the likes of me and my buddies. Us Seattle motherfuckers, namely me and my brother and pals were raised by such mentally retarded inbreeds, our fathers constantly kept all our sisters pregnant just so we had milk for our cereal every morning. Fuck that's funny.

As a toddler Brian Higman lost his alcoholic mom in a car crash. He ended up on the ceiling of an overturned automobile with broken ribs covered in cuts, bruises and glass and his wasted mom was crushed asphalt dressing dying right in front of Higman's eyes. Mike Callahan's father was a chronic inebriate, spent most of his life in lock-ups for assaults, fighting and domestic violence eventually becoming a homeless drunk found dead on a park bench in Seattle. Troy lost his dad to brain cancer when he was a small boy, Frank Empfield lost his dad at the same age and both Gordy Kelly's biker trash parents died in prison.

Marto (Marty Hall) was adopted through a church adoption program after his chronically wasted parents were sent to prison for felony domestic, vicious child abuse and neglect. I doubt Marto or the rest of my pals remembered or cared about their prenatal and infant suffering they endured while wasted in the womb enriched with nicotine, or growing up like dumpster slime viruses, but their criminal and humorous talents telling hilarious stories and crude jokes presented a clear explanatory tell indicating rubbish bin genius. Basically, it's a tough world out there and me and my friends are the people who make it that way.

The list of ingredients that went into the formations of these friendly creatures is not dissimilar to rotting trash cans leaking out back a whorehouse. Marto isn't very flattering describing us. We collectively were known as 'bags.' Meaning my collection of druggy fuckers were self-titled 'shit bags, douche bags, scumbags, nut bags and scrote bags.' This isn't unique though, I'm sure you coppers had pals at university and police academy you still fondly refer to in the same way. In recent decades I've seen additional 'bags' describing my childhood friends: diaper bags, colostomy bags, garbage bags, puke bags and barf bags. This is endless.

You may wonder how such funny-looking lads assembled to create such havoc upon the sensibilities of my fine neighborhood. Well, we didn't, my neighborhood was genetically modified towards being a white slum. It goes like this, we're all GMO (genetically modified organisms) similar to breeds of dogs or farm animals. Ignorant folks are the product of generations of selective breeding to give us such a shitty product. My pals, being odd ducks and rather goofy looking butt fuckers arrived at my loud Caspar-Trash Chem-Fests parties appearing by all standards, plainly ugly. As we grew to be adult felons and funny addicts, we transitioned to be each other's very best friends.

Any fool's excuses for stupid criminal records are like assholes, everybody's got one and they stink. The truth of the matter is my pals and brothers were quite possibly the dumbest Finns, Brits, Wops and Micks and thoroughly enjoyed embarrassing everybody they came in contact with. It's not our fault though, we all came from dysfunctional homes filled with ignorant impaired people. Looking at me and my pals, our parents should've practiced celibacy, instead we were excreted like shit from within the womb, crapped out of our prenatal slimy prison cells of placental, chemical addictive doom. Or as infants, our redneck parents, instead of whipping and beating us autistic, should've converted us into runny pork shit by tossing us fetal mongoloids over the pig sty fence. It's the swine abortion technique, teaching retarded infants to sink or swim in runny pig flop, then getting wolfed down by voracious, hungry pigs, ass-first hoggy style.

My justification for frequenting jail cells is, well, inexcusable. I may have an excuse though. When our wasted fathers spooged all over our mothers' glass eyes, wooden legs, colostomy bag insertion sites, vice-grip sphincters and dentures, I firmly believe every sperm cell our retarded paps secreted had a spirochete attached to it. Oh, that's right, my Alaskan readers only got GED's. Spirochete is the medical term for the nasty bacteria bug that causes syphilis. Despite their flaws and humorous morals and anomalous intellect I surely enjoyed sitting at the table downing beers, snorting coke and chiefing monster bong rips listening to avant garde music created and recorded on site, planning heists and crimes or having monster parties. These deceased men are worth your tears but its doubtful I was worth their merriment.

While my brother and pals were still alive and breathing, they got along in police stations like shit does in an ice cream parlor. Marto spent many nights in the pretrial tank and his description of the King County Hotel was, "Fuck dude, I was in the tank all night. You oughta check that scene out. Most of those folks on my floor are honest to God sick motherfuckers. I watched 'em eat their own shit with their hands. It's fucking pitiful. I almost choogied my lunch." My response to Marto's disgusting scenario overnight in jail was, "shit Marto, with your high-risk lifestyle getting arrested weekly and practicing unsafe combat fisticuffs in prison your shelf-life is way past pull date. With such a short life expectancy, I don't recommend you buy green un-ripe bananas." Figure it out.

You coppers can plainly see how future criminals get started: kids in foster care, adopted infant losers, kids who are neglected and abused by their mentally ill alcoholic parents, kids missing one or both parents and kids with crippling emotional problems. None of these kids had a chance. They don't get lost as adults, they get lost as children. A skill and effective coping mechanism my brothers, pals and I utilized was a trick called masking. In essence we faked normality and blended in with regular mentally healthy populations as impostors.

You may have had your suspicions of me and my chameleon adaptability in symphonies, universities worldwide and especially police departments all over Alaska and overseas. One copper of Irish descent, David Craig stated, "You're a quick study Mr. Ewing, but I believe you're in the wrong line of work." He busted me after I'd quoted from memory, "a patrolman walks on, and turns no more his head, because he knows a frightful fiend doth close behind him tread." Sounding smart, I kyped that from class, but like you killers, I believe David saw a chink in my armor, costume and stage craft. I like that word 'chink.'

My pals were all products of garbage childhoods and as young adults loved hurting and killing folks deemed unworthy of breathing God's air or lying, cheating customers refusing to pay their debts to the landlord of their favorite crack house. That would be me. Without their shitty upbringing and shittier childhood how on Earth could these young men be attracted to an asshole like me and achieve such high tolerances to alcohol, cocaine and marijuana? Any mortal duplicating those levels of intoxication would perish.

With my flock of intellectual cripples, the awful violence came naturally and it took an entire lifetime, all by myself, to make friends like them. Once fully formed and completely flawed and fault-ridden, there ain't no changing a single soul I befriended during those years. To avoid snack time in jail time or nap time in the dirt, I was forced to flee Seattle and ended up working with a bunch of fucking cops. True story, you fuckers were there to watch me stumble, mess up daily and learn a new career the hard way. Boy did I fuck up at every step.

Jail is an awful place, even for the likes of me and my pals. It reminded me of the Woodland Park Zoo in Seattle. Bare walls, shitty paint, steel bars everywhere and constant racket echoing throughout the entire facility. That racket gave any normal person migraine headaches, but most convicts and jail guards weren't fucking normal. In addition to the cacophony of banging and yelling, the smell is horrific and puke-worthy. It's the smell of dirty laundry and pit-stink, foul chemically imbalanced urine, wretchedly stinking feces from bad diets barely camouflaged with way too much Pine-Sol and cancer causing cleaners and disinfectants. To my nose, prison is a messy collage of olfactory poop, puke putrid. I'm gonna go clean my sinuses with a dish scrubber.

One significant point is zoos have changed drastically since my childhood visits. Apparently some experts decided animals thrived in a more open, sanitary and natural environment. I'm thinking a dim bulb will be turned on somewhere and prison officials might realize human beings could thrive in a better environment as well. American prisons are now the nation's number one provider of mental health care, the largest single block recipient of Medicaid and most prison occupants are incarcerated for brain diseases, neurological disorders, poor compulsion constraint, moral judgment mistakes, basically acting like behaviorally unhinged failed abortions.

Imagine your careers in public safety free of disturbed mental degenerates and only focusing on professional criminals. That'd be too simple: easy-peasy-Japanesey. America has the largest number of citizens behind bars, more than any country in the world including our enemies such as Russia, China, Iran and North Korea. At an average cost of $100K per inmate, we may be paying far too much to feed, clothe and cage sick, diseased miscreant human beings. Deportation to far continents, such as Africa or Alaska, similar to our ancestors who were penal colony members. Just a thought and may not be such a bad idea.

After their releases from jail, which was quite frequent, Gordy, Franky, Marto and my pals would reach into my fridge, pull out a handful of dark European beers and pour 3 into a giant ceramic, ceremonial get-out-of-jail beer stein, tip it back gulping and inhaling the entire container. Newly freed alcoholics preferred a diet of food for a day, liquor for a week. Then I'd scratch out a fat pile of minty fresh, medically beneficial, acetone flavored cocaine, pull the tops of 3 more dark beers and refill the gargantuan stein. Dark beer, high grade cocaine and chronic green bud had a very short shelf life when Marto, Franky, Gordy and my pals were on site, on premises working on their seaweed diet. Namely, whenever they see weed, they smoked it. Marto's and my childhood crew's reasoning for chugging gallons of beer, smoking death bud by the ton and snarfing a snotter full of blow was that once a soul sees horrid violence, death and decay (shit you cops deal with every day), ye gotta wash the images out yer mind and down yer throat. I think you cops saw a similar pattern amongst yer colleagues.

I doubt any of my pals suffered similar shit you coppers witnessed. Traumatic, fatal Seattle injuries are not so red as the stained tundra kissed and embraced by Alaska's dead. We may turn our backs upon the Arctic dead, but you coppers have buried many much-loved family members and the dead, in their silences, keep you in their memories and have you in their hold. A consolation to our remembrances of the dearly departed and sorely missed is that their spirits are devoid of human frailties, unburdened by time and space, free of hatreds inculcated within us. To all of them, you are silently bound to buried family members past and future, their eyes now ice. Ours wet.

Doing any stretch in the King County Hotel will warp yer shit. That jail holds celebrity Methicans, niggers and partial birth Neanderthals from the shittiest neighborhoods all over Seattle and those conflict hot zones have the same murder rate as Washington DC, also known as Hollywood for the ugly. Marto would inform me, "Shit Karl, I done time with fuckers from all over the CD (central district), West Seattle and even Federal Way. Life to them is about as important as water leaking out the bottom of a paper bag or an anus with missing stitches and busted draw-string. Instead of taking anymore risks delivering product, we oughta send John Granberg down there and turn their shit into cans of dog food." The day a writer like myself starts to make sense to highly educated, retired Alaskan cops is probably the day you should seriously reexamine your relationship with the rest of the human gene pool.

Whenever we were stumped with humanity's existential dilemmas, my pals would ask, "What would grandpa Fred say?" Marto was referring to lectures from my grandfather whom arrived in America over 400 years ago, his lineage that is. Grandpa Fred was quite knowledgeable of the Confederate State slavery industy for the southern tobacco and cotton plantations, Chinese Cooley slave trade for railway work nationwide and wholesale purchases of children from Pacific Northwest orphanages to stock up the prostitution industry specializing in child sex slavery for the Klondike and Nome Gold Rushes in Alaska.

My grandpa would chuckle and explain slaves were bred to be slaves and ye gotta clear a million dollars worth of work from each slave. In today's money. Slave stocks were selected for plantation, railroad and prostitution work, then matched with breeding partners for better livestock. "The rest got fixed." He was speaking far ahead of his era, harsh GMO language glossed over with polite terms like 'spay and neuter' niggers, chinks and whore kids like Iditarod Mushing Dogs. Meaning castrated.

Slavery vacuums 2 million souls away from Africa every year, even today. I know this cuz I tried to do business with some of them. My deals with white trash were cash and carry with never a hiccup or problem. At a pivotal moment in this drug merchant's shitty career, me, Dennis and Marto went down to the projects to deliver "half a nut" ($500 package) to the niggers, that's the day we got the run-around and stall. Them darkies had zero dollars and were talking smack about being credit-worthy and "good fo' it." They expected us to hand over a pile of premium product and go home unpaid. Fuck that.

Me and Marto smelled a shuck and jive scam, namely nigger BS and told 'em we're heading to the car to grab the blow. Not. Down the street we turned around to see that crew of goofy, nappy-headed wanna-be poser nigger gang bangers on their shitty ghetto doorstep dancing like angry porch monkeys, holding their guns sideways like TV boon-tard raped apes, cracking off pussy 9-mils in our compass direction all over the street, hitting everything but us. Me and Marto hid behind a hot, sloppy dumpster until Dennis roared back to us in reverse. We dove in the car and he floored it. Not a scratch, not a dent in the car with only shitty rotten garbage slop all over me and Marto. We stunk real perty and Marto said I smelt like Cully's girlfriend. My retort was Marto smelled like a chili-shitting Latrino (meaning Latino and latrine) with a side-order of pepper belly butt pussy, dandy smear. Funny diseased Neanderthals we are.

Heather McCoy's last few visits occurred prior to my closing down the mortuary and crack house, departing Washington, heading to an even shittier arctic Alaskan village. She swore she never disclosed her "white boy hook-up" and never confided our business relationship to that shitty crew of bad ass black dudes in her apartment building. She knew the brothers in her 'hood were keen to "poach her conneck." Heather stated "them trashy niggers make it hard on the rest of us that were solid on the cash, I'm pissed off they fucked all that shit up." Without revealing incriminating or knowledge of alleged homicides, I accepted her apology and told her that we could continue trade if she drove up north to hymietown and crackerville fer product. She expressed heartfelt thanks to me, followed up with bit of Black Americana folk-wisdom, she declared, "y'all ain't gotta see no gorillas climb a tree to know coons climb trees to steal yer shit." Eloquent black girl huh?

Heather claimed she was good about "watching for po-licemen" (SPD) following her, but she likely didn't see the brothers that tailed her and scoped out my place. Fuck, I probably assumed incorrectly she bragged to her girl-pals she had a sweet hook-up with ugly, dirty white boys up north and her crack-nigger hoodlum neighbors simply needed a location. They returned to climb in my window, kick in the front and back door and that mistake cost them boys their lives and cost me a perfectly good operation in a town where stink and shit go hand in hand. I felt sorry for Heather being likely responsible for 3 nigger bros that showed up at my place to steal shit and mysteriously disappeared off the face of the Earth.

She had the patent look of a lost profitable side-gig and the sad expression on her face reflected ancient racial knowledge of lynched comrades that only she seemed to see. Heather suspected we were somehow involved in the vanishing act when those Nigerian fuck-ups got dead, burned and dumped under an outhouse. She could read the invisible shit prints on my crack house walls without a cereal box decoder. She also knew, but could never verify the disappearance of them 3 niggers were attributable to the actions of her favorite dudes sitting right next to her, snarfing tasty lines, enjoying European dark beers and passing around a fat monster bomber joint enjoying Cully's Neuroshima space tapes. Those dudes were myself, Dennis Singleton and Big Dumb Dale Campbell. Today, all but one of us is dead.

I'd always wanted to believe I brought the violence in my life here to Alaska from my growing up in Washington. My most violent moments, or at least the most indefensible arose prior to my new jobs alongside you graying gunslingers and rusty killers. Not because I was a sub par semi-pro drug dealer nor amateur human garbage man and inept waste disposal technician carrying away bad debtors, stale rotting crack whores and leaking dead niggers. The most violent periods of my life happened before and during my chronic alcoholism and massive drug consumption. Mistreating bipedal monkey tissue happened both drunk and sober, mostly south of 60 degrees latitude. I suspect me and my drug pals inherited defective DNA and many others just like us suffered and died due to our behavioral disabilities, moral inadequacies, ill tempers from excess drink.

Most of my pals flew up to Kotzebue to help with remodeling jobs, escape silly police and judicial grudges back home and deliver bulk sheets of blotter paper LSD. This roster included Scott Wade, Dale Campbell, Marty Hall, Harley Bronson, Troy Date and my brother Cully. I flew Scott Wade up after he did a huge epic gig jamming at some rich kid's house. Him, Cully, Paul Kay, Loren Kratzke and a kick-ass drummer named Mike Patterson hauled in truckloads of equipment, then blasted the place while crowds packed a gorgeous mansion overlooking Puget Sound. Many kegs and cases of cheap beer and bust-head liquor and wine coolers were packed in for the party, plus all the pain medications, sleeping pills and barbiturates the attendees kyped outa the owner's master bathroom medicine cabinets that were chewed and snorted. Then barfed.

By sunrise the next day the house was trashed and packed with passed out party animals creating an unsettling image of a hunnert wasted winos offa skid road that let rip. Up in Kotz, Scott told me that a hunnert inhuman pukers were hauled away by police and ambulances the next day and the cleaning crews had to scrape the floors and carpets with shovels. The insurance adjusters couldn't believe the destruction wrought upon the walls, fixtures, furniture and appliances, ultimately denying coverage. The only names the police and mansion property owners could retrieve from the hungover, barely surviving, sick-ass party pukers was the lead guitar player's name: Scott Wade. They blamed him for all the liquor and drugs. And the oceans of soaking urine and mountains of vomit.

During his exile, Scott was in Kotz working with me on house 369. That summer he was also getting humped to ruins, his dick over-inflated and his mouth stretched way out by Miss Boobies (Lena Henry), a rather pretty large-breasted babe that devoured Mr. Wade whole and smothered him with overwhelmingly ample bosoms and clean, tight (never pregnant) aboriginal pussy. Scott discovered why Marines march to the chant "Eskimo Pussy's Might Fine."

Me and Scott did a champion job expanding house 369 on second avenue, framing the outward expanding add-ons, exterior wall covering and metal roofing with the assistance of Mike Zagars. Of course a shit load of LSD blotter paper was traded and eaten, a ton of green bud I grew inside house 676 Caribou Street was incinerated, then washed down with smuggled Everclear and legally ordered booze that's unfit fer human consumpt. At no time did any cash trade hands. Honest Injun.

When Scott Wade returned home to Seattle that fall the cops no longer needed to drag him in for interviews seeking information how a million dollar house got trashed with puke and smelly piss-soaked corpses that appeared to have been wrapped in slimy membrane, defecated into that house by large badly constipated elephants relieving themselves with shit-soaked, placental runs by the ton. Laughing, I advised Scott to "tell the cops in Seattle that you were attending a First Alaskans child-gomer faggot-camp up north after you were diagnosed with AIDS." He could never pronounce "Camp Sivunivik." I remember seeing the expression on yer faces when you coppers saw my pals flying north to smuggle butt loads of acid and work summers in Kotz. Those expressions on yer faces revealed to me the secrets about the soul of a cop that should forever make you think differently about our common anthropological origins.

Most of my LSD and Everclear trades worked out perfect. One trade that went sideways was a deal with Brian Higman making a trade with Gumby's high school pal, chum and roommate, yet I cannot recall his name. Me and Brian didn't make a trade for a couple hits of acid and jugs of Everclear, but a 'front' or promise to pay with weed or jugs from this chubby nugger on his next booze order. You sober coppers may not know this but Everclear is distilled 4 times and charcoal filtered 4 times to remove almost all the water and all of the toxins associated with fermentation and distillation. What you get is a super clean, meaning minimal hangover, light tasting liquor that is 2.5 times stronger than shitty R&R Rotgut Whiskey. Fucking Bacardi 151 delivers one motherfucker of a hangover. I can attest to that.

Gumby's roommate was a chubby fucker with brown hair, but for the life of me I can't remember his name. I think those two were referred to in Kotz during the early 80's as the Two James's. Gumby and his roommate lived in the apartments adjacent from the KEA facility just a few blocks up from the Kotzebue Airport. My memory fails me, but I'm thinking that Thrasher's apartments were the 888 apartments KIC bought and used for crew housing, up north town. Chilcott's #266 was the building on 3rd Avenue where Scott McConnell and Jaynor Clark lived, if my dispatcher imagery still works. But the name of Gumby's and his roommate, the 2 James's apartment escapes me. It's also the same building Wade Laws and Jerry Ann Lane also lived. Oh wait, by divine telepathy, my KPD coworkers advised me the building is called Weeks Apartments, built by some gomer named Doug Weeks. Whatever, the front to Gumby's roommate was a couple jugs of Everclear and LSD on his promise he'd pay Brian Higman back with weed or replace it with Bacardi 151. Nonesuch. Fucker never paid.

Later that summer Gumby asked me to house-sit his apartment during his vacation to prevent anybody from breaking in and robbing the place. Fuck it, while there I robbed the place and kyped an illegally poached walrus tusk and skull headset hidden in the closet of his roommate's apartment. It was the only remedy for a cross-threaded 'front' that was an injury unhealed.

Secretly, I sat on the tusks for a few months awaiting nonexistent ruckus to cool down, then went to Victor Karmun's office at US Fish and Wildlife or Alaska Fish and Game with bun. She, being a native Alaskan, had the tusks legally 'sealed.' From Victor Karmun's office we walked directly to the Kotzebue Senior Center and donated them for a $1500 tax donation reciept. Bun's grandma, Bessie Kowunna from Point Hope lived their and enjoyed our gifts of Eskimo artwork and Inupiaq decorations. Most I acquired in trade fer booze and LSD. Bun also liked the charitable donation receipts that the Senior Center provided her and drastically lowered her AGI (adjusted gross income) on next year's 1040 IRS filing. Done deal, slate clean.

Another boge-deal was Barney Reuters leaving me with a stink-uch bargain that festered like an inflamed tooth. I helped Barney and his skanky weird wife thoroughly clean their apartment and box up all their shit after he quit work at KPD, moving out of the 29 Unit Apartments and leaving town for the lower 48. I also assisted in cleaning all the cupboards, counters, refrigerator, oven and vacuumed and mopped the floors on the bogus promise he'd toss serious dineros my way, or a case of Bacardi 151. Total flop, Barney left town and skipped on his promises. Or tried to. The apartment was spotless and Wanda Stein loved our 3-day cleanup job and returned his entire deposit. I was steamed. That same week, Gumby phoned and told me he had a big stack of boxes filled with Barney's old over-sized clothes I should pick up and ship upriver to Bun's mom in Selawik.

I jogged downstairs to Gumby's and chatted with Barney and his wife plus Mrs. Rea, Nicole Strickland while they were stacking and sorting a ton of shit. They had boxes heaped by the door designated as the ones filled with old extra-large clothes they couldn't afford to ship or mail out to Mr. and Mrs. Berend Reuters' hometown yonder 48. After my suggestion of donating all their surplus shit to the villages, they had a surprisingly large number of boxes they wanted me to send upriver to Selawik for Grandma Magdelene to hand out to everyone in the village that could fit such large over-sized fat-ass white-trash garments.

In another pile I spied a unit filled with a shit load of jewelry boxes, makeup and girly shit, so I surreptitiously snatched it, closed the cardboard flaps and set it amongst the old clothes destined for Selawik. Loudly asking for clarification which boxes I was to carry out, they pointed at the pile by the door. I lugged all of 'em upstairs and pulled the jewelry boxes out and was surprised to find a treasure trove of Alaska Gold Nugget and Black HIlls Gold watches, necklaces, bracelets, rings and earrings Barney's wife stole while working upstairs at AC. Barney's wife was a serious retail merchandise thief and I cleverly scooped up her ill-gotten gains and unjust enrichment as payment for cleaning their apartment.

The jewelry I set aside and sealed all the second-hand big-butt clothes with strapping tape, affixed address labels, called Wade Laws for a cab and booked to the Post Office and sent 'em away. Me and bun decided that we shouldn't keep the jewelry, so I sent it all to my mom. I told her we were greatly indebted to her and owed her a ton for rooming and boarding Sara for so many years (2nd to 11th grades) and making arrangements for Sara's oral surgeries and orthodontia, private clarinet lessons, equestrian training and tutoring at the Sylvan Learning Center in Seattle: all spendy endeavors. I sent my dad a shit load of fine firearms as his reimbursement but mom totally dug all the gold jewelry we sent her.

Weeks later, Barney phoned me at KPD and asked about the missing jewelry. I told him I taped the boxes shut with strapping tape, added mailing labels, then sent them upriver. I didn't see any jewelry and if it went upriver, I'm pretty sure the recipients enjoyed it. Barney's wife was a major klepto and I could hear her in the background, long distance over the phone, screaming and cussing, bitch was majorly bummed. On one of my trips to AC to buy a pair of Levis and Sorrels, as an AC cashier, she inserted a couple pair of gold nugget earrings in my purchase. "Cop privilege" she called it. I shrugged and gave the earrings to bun at Christmas.

What's odd was the only person busted for shoplifting was Gumby's sister. She was the weird chick that married Richie Eunice after she got pregnant. During her pregnancy the AC store manager confronted her leaving the store in possession of real nice new, stolen tennis shoes. I wondered why she was charged with concealment of merch, sitting in the drunk tank when I came on duty. I would've recommended a summons to appear, not clog the jail with petty crimes, noisy gripes and a major whining fucking headache. Gumby explicitly told us not to abuse her. Like that's gonna happen, preggo bitches never rocked Tom Evans' boat. Since then she separated from Richie Eunice, returned to Caldwell, Idaho and he raised their daughter.

Even months later Gumby brought up the missing jewelry during shift change at KPD. I felt my face get hot but bluffed and told him I didn't examine or re-wash the super extra-large, wide-load, fat-butt clothes prior to sending the 8 boxes of Barney's and his wife's big garments to Selawik, repeating the story I merely closed the boxes, taped a mailing address label on them and sent them out. The cheap rate at the post office still cost me about $75. My explanation was, "No, I didn't dump the boxes out looking for any jewelry, it was just old clothes." I scored a large trove of treasure that more than paid back for 3 days of cleaning their apartment, simultaneously repaying my mom for Sara's decades of care. Clawing back that deal split two ways.

One more old debt that was glossed over was when Brian Higman quit his jobs at the School District (NWASD) and KOTZ 720 am. Brian packed all his belonging and left the big stack of boxes with Nils Gregg to Gold Streak on Alaska Airlines down to Brian after he left town. That would've been a spendy affair. After Brian flew to Seattle, Nils nixed their agreement and stacked the mountain of boxes on my front porch. Fucker. I phoned Brian and asked him why all his stuff was piled up on the steps of my house. Brian blew a gasket and explained Nils fucked him over and I needed to repack everything and Gold Streak it to him pronto. On my dime.

Fuck that, it looked like half a nut ($500) to Gold Streak all his shit. I brought all his crap inside and separated everything he owned and organized his legal papers, mail, music CD's and cassettes, photo albums of the NANA Region and important documents. I put all his clothes including boots, gloves hats and parkas, dishes, stereo junk and bed sheets and blankets aside and tried to minimize the crap I was stuck paying the freight for. That total was 3 decent-sized boxes of his paperwork, music, pay stubs etc for taxes, his photo albums and I then used his favorite shirts and pants as packing material, went to the post office and sent the shit to Seattle parcel post or whatever the cheapest, slowest selection saved me the most money. Everything else I stowed in my closet for diddling with later.

The one item of interest that Brian and Nils left on my porch was a beautiful 14-foot long piece of whale baleen. I cleaned and polished that thing till it glowed and brushed out the long hairs. Then me and bun took it to the Kotzebue Senior Center and donated it to them to hang on the wall as Inupiaq Cultural Decorations. The charitable receipt was also worth $1500 dollars against bun's AGI, adjusted gross income on the following year's IRS tax filings. Brian received his important paperwork, pay stubs and documents like birth certificates, music, photo albums, resumes and recommendations and I promised him I'd sort out all his other household stuff in short order. Like never.

That was a bullshit deal and I never intended on packing so much heavy domestic crap like bedding, kitchen shit, heavy winter gear like parkas, gloves and boots and his old stereo equipment and pay to ship it all the way to Seattle on Alaska Airlines. Fuck that shit. He may be one of my best friends, but a pal shouldn't dump all that on guys like us. Ultimately, a few short months later, Higman, Dan Newberry and Elizabeth Sidoris left Seattle and booked to Bemidji, Minnesota and Willie Hailstone returned back home to Montana. All that extra crap of Brian's ended up at Kenny and Annie Henry's place, #704 Front Street. It was a huge heap of bedding, winter clothing and stereo shit I couldn't justify spending big bucks Gold Streaking south. Kenny and Annie totally dug the stuff. I'm a real charitable fucking guy.

One last bargain that pinched a nerve in my ass. When Jeff Smith became Kotzebue City Manager he faced severe budgetary shortfalls and was forced to eliminate positions at Public Works, Fire and Rescue plus a couple slots at KPD. I was one of the most recently hired, so I was the first to be fired. I found a job at the school district as Janitor/Maintenance under the tutelage of Mike Dennis. He needed a person to disassemble the print shop, the big 2-story workshop in the rear of the District Office and sort out the piles of equipment stored there. The place was heaped with surplus school equipment such as overhead projectors, PA gear including amplifiers and expensive speakers.

I started my work organizing the stuff during the day and performed the trash and vacuum duties in the evenings after all the employees and staff went home. On the fourth week Mike Dennis approached me and informed me the school board balked at my wage scale and reduced my pay from $18 an hour down to $12. Yup, no kiss and all fuck. I smiled and told him it wasn't a problem. At that moment I knew I was gonna have to claw back compensation my own way.

I started by locating strong cardboard boxes and packed all the overhead projectors, extra bulbs, microphones, gymnasium amplifiers, speakers and assorted cords, connectors and goodies I could assemble. Then I went upstairs and placed all these filled boxes on the District Office postal meter scale and weighed them, printed up the 1st Class postage fee stickers and grabbed a handful of Priority mail stickers too. Each morning on my run-around school district errands I brought a couple boxes to the Post Office and mailed them south to Seattle. Namely Cully's home address.

This continued for weeks until I emptied the print shop room of any valuables Cully could use in his light shows and loud public performances in bars all over hell and back. I spent a grand, I mean a grand of school distict postage fees from the postal meter and enjoyed using Priority Mail services I'd normally demur due to their incredible expense. Cully totally dug all the light and sound equipment he received and I got praise from my boss, Mike Dennis for cleaning out the print shop so quickly. The snag that arose was a goofy employee named Dave Summerfelt. He was inquisitive where all the dandy equipment went. Wise to my scam, Albert Monroe testified the he and Haviland locked the shit up in a Connex container telling Dave Summerfelt to blow chunks, pound sand and get outa his face. I quit the school district shortly thereafter and started doing scut werk for Kim Nay and Chief Nolton on what became the Capone Narc Job.

A score that wasn't related to unfinished business was my robbery of the Kotzebue Rec Center. Ken Hall and Chris Ciringione were griping that Karen and Bob Mulluk, being the administrators for the Rec Ctr, were kyping tons of cleaning and paper stock supplies for their private janitorial service they did on the side. Stealing so much shit from the City of Kotzebue allowed them to low-ball their bids on janitorial contracts for buildings around town. The Capones had to pay real money for their supplies, but bartered liquor, weed and coke instead of wages they paid their lackeys. Crime, like shitty toilet water is opaque when shaken or stirred. What's one more crime when crooks abound.

I had my eye on a rolling rack of amplifiers and assorted PA gear for dances and concerts at the Rec Ctr. I didn't steal the entire rack of electronics as repayment fer shit. I simply wanted them. All of it. So after our workouts and Sara and bun went to school and work, I returned and disassembled the equipment and left an empty rolling rack stored in the back rooms. All the equipment was boxed and shipped to Sea-Tac Airport for Cully to pick up. That shit was likely the only flurry of freight I ever spent so goddamned much money on Alaska Airlines' Gold Streak fees. It all went to a good cause. Poor Mulluk's didn't last long.

Okay, you coppers know that I ain't admitting to shit without revealing a butt load of evidence and testimony, self-incriminating. One treasure hunt and collection I completed will likely piss you off. On my rotating foot patrols and narc jobs around the state, I stole, acquired or collected a nice assortment of police badges. At the Kiana VPSO Office, after a thorough cleaning I found an old VPSO badge and a VPO badge. Those I kept. On my narc jobs and drug missions statewide I kyped from drawers full of junk an Alaska State Trooper badge in Fairbanks and a North Slope Public Safety Officer badge in Barrow. That makes 4.

On my last visit to Octuck's condo in Fairbanks I found an old KPD patrolman's badge and a Kotzebue Fireman's badge in boxes of personal effects we were sorting, stacking and taking to a local thrift store. Octuck laughed at my "pukuk skills." That makes 6. All of these I sent to my dad who pinned them in a cool glass-faced varnished wood display box with a black felt backing. Quite nice. After he died, my drunken brother likely overlooked the significance and importance of such a cool memory box commemorating 907 cop shit. I've asked all over hell and back and nobody knows where they went. Their final resting place will forever be a mystery. For your info, I left instructions with the lawyer in charge of my family's estate to mail this collection of authentic police and fire badges to the mailing address of the AST Office in Kotz. They'll know what to do with them.

Ralph Waldo Emerson was quoted saying, "I feel my personality is as complex and fractured as wearing a full-length mirror, walking down a crowded street." Some days we're drug dealers, other days we're jailers, janitors and narcs. My roles on this stage shifted many times. Sometimes in the same week. Monday I was mopping puke in the Kotzebue Jail, next Wednesday I was explaining bullet drop, wind drift and effective distances shooting with pistols to a little Eskimo girl. The following week I was at Chukchi College (for the mentally retarded) taking notes for my rural economic development Associate's Degree. The only person I was allowed to impersonate wasn't myself. I didn't mind. After decades in my line of work, the less time I spent in my own company, the better.

Now back to the snag that killed some niggers and shut down my operations in Washington. Heather McCoy never admitted to revealing the location of my operation to the 3 black gang bangers. Their disappearance created quite an uncomfortable fulcrum in our relationship, as did her pregnancy with my brother's baby, Cully Nigger Junior. All these years later, I kept mum about Cully having a mud-flipper jiggaboo nigra runt that could possibly be heir to his estate, cuz, fuck 'em, you know?

After my brother's recent death from alcoholism (liver failure) his estate was liquidated and estimated to be worth around $600K after draining his bank accounts and selling his house. These proceeds were then split amongst us surviving 6 brothers and sisters, the sole heirs to his estate. He wasn't married, wrote no will (intestate) and had zero children of record. That any of us would admit to. Who wants a welfare-dependent ape-butt hair-lip GMO (genetically modified organism) monkey fucker to split the estate proceeds with?

My brother Cully's surviving siblings totals 6 of us, so do the math, that was $100K for each of us. I ain't sharing shit and besides, she was a blabber-mouth and likely disclosed me out to the crew of black fuckers that died trying to force their way into my house. Coon-boo 1 got a baseball bat on the noggin climbing in my window, Dale Campbell broke nigger 2's neck and Dennis plugged Sambo #3 with a single 38 caliber bullet exactly through the sternum. All three fatal injuries likely hurt like a bitch. The bonfire and ash disposal under a foul outhouse was quick and painless.

My belief is Cully's mixed-mud baby ghetto-chimp doesn't deserve a damn dime out of his estate. Here's the technical aspect to my family's poor estate planning. My dad and I collected many dozens of firearms over the last 40 years. My mom also received a shit load of nice jewelry I purchased, stole and heisted. Quite a pile. Cully was the appointed estate executor and a drunk.

I doubt he was effective in getting top dollar for the jewelry and firearms and I still cringe at the thought of the FBI contacting me about my dad's collection of guns used in commission of a crime. All the houses and properties he almost finished unloading so when he croaked from drinking before completing his executive duties, we appointed another sibling to administer the liquidation with me and my surviving siblings splitting his slice of inheritance. We got a sixth of his estate. Payback has washed the slate clean. I sure miss my brother, but not his drinking. I'm cool with the outcomes.

Here's the split on croaking family monies. After specifying in his will only his grand kids (myself and 6 brothers and sisters) receive his estate, denying my parents a dime, we received a seventh sibling slice from my grandpa's estate (golf course, slavery, child exploitation in Nome, Ketchikan, Skagway, Chinese Cooley slaves), I got another seventh slice of my parent's estates. Plus a sixth of Cully's cuz after he died, there was no longer 7 retarded offspring to share his shit.

I'm thinking the slogan 'cheaters never prosper' and 'crime doesn't pay.' Wrong. At no time did any poor black children receive any monies from my grandparents, parents nor my brother Cully's estates. Do you see any problems?

In truth, bun is now a wealthy elderly native woman who squirreled away her own pile, plus inherited slavery, bootlegging, real estate and robbery loots from her criminal husband. When she dies it all goes to Sara with nothing going to any old girlfriends or pals. That would be silly, most of 'em are dead now. But its a brave new world, I suspect the surviving has been spayed and neutered.

We'll never run out of Alaskan Public Safety material to lament sorrowfully or chuckle with startlingly course wit, lest the charm of my gutter mouth and urinary penmanship be smothered by the unconvincing pedantry of walking by disgusting stacks of excrement buckets not losing our lunch nor hurling cookies.

Who writes this shit? I oughta get my fucking head examined.

Karl.

PS. I'm sure I typed tasteless rhetorical mistakes and historical inaccuracies, but you old frosty coppers can correct me as needed. I pulled shit outa yer long-term memories from WAY back and this time didn't even mention coffin stuffers like Shiela Romaine, Gil Hall, Shanon Pavel, Edward Wayne Henry, May Marlene Thomas, Dallas Hannah, Troy Adams, Butch Lincoln, Scotty Hanson, Kevin Zabriski, Bessie Harris and Ethan Cooley.

Fun, fun.

When you're at the hospital or mortuary caring for your wife, be sure to lock up your damn house.

Top of the morning gents,

I was sneaking around a dark empty house when car headlights lit up the goddamned place like halide lights in a grow room or a fucking alien spaceship landed out front. Shit, someone's home. You see, I offset my lean months by creeping and stealing from elderly folks while they're at the hospital. Don't feign shock, offense or grandiose indignation, I had steady bills and expenses with an unsteady criminal income, so diversification of felony malefaction was in order. As a moron and a criminal I fought to resist trends of strangling apathy and trying new reprehensibly indictable schemes worked quite nicely as antidote to afflictions of epidemic complacency.

I had to earn a fucking income. Imagine me homeless, a rabid animal passing myself off as human, sleeping on the sidewalk, displaying a hand-scrawled cardboard sign saying, "Ninjas kidnapped my family. Need money for Kung Fu lessons" or "My life is a complicated drinking game. Please help." Yes, I may be retarded, but I never figured out how welfare worked, so I refuted the notion of waiting in long lines with losers that smelt gruesome and atrocious. Besides, I was too stupid to see the logic in purchasing brown shoe polish to cover my face and blend in.

You coppers know how it is. We all got bills and despite my nemesis Detective Beuler damning me with faint diminished praise I was a dullard genius-savant, gimpy athlete and greatly under-handicapped, I reluctantly began to consider myself a vile iniquitous villain with an extremely crippling alcohol and drug problem. At first blush, you old coppers may presume me benign and harmless, unless you were sitting in a hospital room watching your spouse die while I'm in yer house robbing you blind. Of course, that would be when yer estimation of me would be greatly degraded.

In our younger years my brother Cully worked at Care Medical, otherwise known by his coworkers at Care Less Medical. His job was servicing hospital equipment such as wheelchairs, mechanical hospital beds and any other high-dollar medical shit old fuckers like us gimp about with in our waning days of infirmity, atrophy and expiration.

The primary service Cully rendered was to drive company vans to all the hospitals in the Seattle area to fetch broken equipment and replace them with brand new, repaired, refurbished or overhauled units. The hospital staff would call Care Medical and explain to Cully the make and model of a particular mechanical bed, hoist, lift, stroller or wheelchair that was malfunctioning and he'd load the van with an identical piece and book out there. He was on a first name basis with the floor nurses, X-ray staff and trauma techs and they needed constant visits to service or replace their inventory of mechanized tables, chairs, beds and tools.

On each drive out to the hospitals he'd bring a dozen brand new Sears Die Hard Truck Batteries. Every electric wheelchair required 2 large automobile batteries and all the cordless equipment like rolling gurneys or surgical tables also required two of 'em so Cully's duty was to replace every single one on each visit, regardless of age or current state of charge. Once back at the shop, with these nearly new, barely used batteries in perfect condition, Cully connected chargers to them all and I'd pick them up every weekend and sell them. Everybody I knew wanted brand new (months old) Sears Die Hard batteries for their cars, vans and trucks.

Think about it, in a month or two, how badly could a wheelchair wear out 2 big-ass automobile batteries, they were clean and pristine so I sold them for $25-$35 each and they flew out the front door of my mortuary faster than I could book down to Care Med on weekends and load up my trunk. Nearly every visiting guest at my crack house, for a small fee or bag of weed, I'd pop the hoods, take out the old battery, replace it with a shiny brand new larger one and bungee cord it tightly in place. Occasionally I'd also replace the corroded terminals. After collecting a pile of old shitty batteries, I'd take them to the recyclers and get $6-$10 a piece. Before Red Dog Mine, the world's largest zinc and lead deposit, scrap batteries were worth serious dineros. So were old radiators. I likely sold a hunnert batteries to everybody I knew, quickly installing them in the vehicles they drove in on. I got rather proficient and speedy with my services rendered earning a fee for a brand new battery and also scrap battery monies at the recycle station.

On a side note that rightly should, but doesn't mortify nor humiliate me in the slightest is on his hospital visits, wearing a smart service uniform, Cully would stroll through the Long Term Care Ward, feigning review of important equipment details and flip through the pages on their clipboards, scribble down the home addresses of old dying folks, then give 'em to me. Cully described the old men and women dying in hospital wings he visited on service calls with their spouses of a hunnert years sitting next to them reading poignant, heartbreaking old letters from the war or pointing and touching pictures in family photo albums, then callously give me a time horizon of dead meat mortality. Since both husband and wife stayed in the hospitals for days and weeks till one of 'em died, I deduced their homes were unoccupied and needed my criminal attention. Cully gave me their addresses and then I'd climb and creep their homes and rob them.

That's what I was doing. Late at night, I crept in through windows or jimmied doors with plastic credit cards and while grandpa and grandma were laughing or crying at the hospital I was opening liquor cabinets, medicine chests, drawers and jewelry boxes or prying open gun cabinets looking for loot to fill my backpack with. Dying oldsters usually had pounds of narcotics, barbiturates and opiates, so after loading up major tonnage plunder my crack house and mortuary was stocked and inventory bins overflowing. I'd done roughly a dozen residences and the homes were usually quiet and empty. After hauling my loot, I'd lock up and leave the place perfectly intact, tidy, without a trace of evidence of burglary, except the missing treasure. Shit, like TV crooks, I wore leather gloves cuz I thought they made me look cool.

Some houses had little yipper dogs licking my hand happy to have human companionship while the owners were away sitting vigil aside dying beds. I'm a such a filch, but after verifying the ingredients included dead hooker pie filling or dead crack nigger butt paste, I'd open cans of dog food, fill their food bowls, rinse and top off their water bowls and talk cheerfully to the little pooches as I stealthily ransacked the residence and filled my backpack with odd bits I fancied and could sell or melt. I'm an old hand at the stolen jewelry business, meaning the rare metal recycling business. I may suffer massive drain-bramage, possess a poorly organized library of memories, have no forgivable criminal history and no legitimate biography free of sin, but I surely enjoyed recycling rare valuable metals and re-purposing a shit-load of stolen guns. The stolen drugs and liquor were immediately applied to commercial utility and liquidity.

Remember, all pawn shops and jewelers in the Seattle area have hot sheets of stolen merchandise circulated by the bacon bits, so my arriving with gawdy gold baubles and shiny silver bits stolen just last week proved problematic. My remedy was to visit the gold and silver buyers and let 'em examine the stuff, weigh it and offer me a price. Gold was around $500 an ounce back then and what's ironic is the melt weight price exceeded the monies I'd receive from hose-bag pawn brokers and unscrupulous dirty jewelers who paid dimes instead of dollars and melting the shit skirted police scrutiny. Fuck it, I stole it, I'm gonna melt it. I'm a fan of green ecology and I recycled non-ferrous metals such as gold, silver and lead like a motherfucker.

Okay, back to my unsolicited home invasions. Some dogs were mean and tried to bite me so I did the farm boy football punt and kicked 'em through the field goal posts then performed the George Floyd nigger neutralizer maneuver and stepped on their necks. Fuck, you coppers think you're the only fuckers that kilt a hunnert dogs? I'm there dude, but I went one step further. Prior to my shooting stray dogs on foot patrol duty in Alaska, in the Seattle home I burgled, some dogs I twisted and broke, then staged their canine corpses at the bottom of the stairwell or simply carried the cute little pooch carcasses away and stowed them in Goodwill used clothing bins or stuffed them in some fucker's mailbox as gag junk mail. What are ye gonna do? I didn't fuck the damn animals so ye can't cite me for impersonating a police officer.

Some dogs had swinging pet entrances and exits built into the backdoor and if I got my hands on them snapping at me in the backyard, they died quickly and I'd arrange their canine remains adjacent to the curb on the street or under recently parked cars. Stupid pooches, they died behaving exactly like dogs should, guarding their castles. Some loud barking dogs I simply pitched into bathrooms or tossed them downstairs and closed the door so I could continue pillaging in peace and quiet. Occasionally, I pulled open the back door, stepped aside and let a vicious dog run into the backyard so Dopey the Doberman could practice his dog-fighting techniques. You'll laugh, but even if the pooch was a male, Dopey mounted and fucked it. He probably got that from you guys.

On this particular evening, the old man came home before I even got started. He pulled into his driveway, closed the car door (only one) and came in through the front door. He dropped his keys and coins in a ceramic tray, hanged his coat and scarf and put his hat next to his keys. The old man walked in to the kitchen, put on a pot of coffee, then entered the living room and sat on the sofa. I stayed still and silent concerned he'd cut the cheese, pass gas with weathered bovine vaginal flaps or fumigate my crime scene with freshly baked butt brownies. Old folks let rip if nobody is watching or nearby to choke.

From an unused musty guest bedroom I could hear the old man sitting still and breathing. He was as silent as I was and I couldn't even move a muscle without squeaking my sneakers or a noisy floor board. I could hear the old man breathing and I considered making a loud distraction and bolt out the back door to my car and flee. This old dude looked like my grandpa and the notion of scaring him to death and leaping off his back porch didn't sit right with me, so I layed low, down the hallway and waited for him to go back to the hospital or step into the bathroom, then silently sneak out. My calculations were grossly incorrect.

He was never returning to the hospital, I heard him say something that grasped my heart like a vice. He said, "I'm gonna miss you sweetheart." My timing was shit. I was breaking into his house and robbing an old man on the evening his wife died. He was tall like me, fair skin, silver hair combed back and he was just breathing, sighing deeply, but not crying. He was absorbing the sounds of a newly silent home without his wife. Except I was on hand to observe him and it felt awful. My guts were already stressed and now I hear the old man grieving. I was also saddened Cully never told me this old guy looked like our grandpa and I felt like shit fleeing while that old man was in the midst of blinking away his vale of tears.

Stealing from other classes and colors is simple. Robbing yer own kind is upsetting. So is burying yer own kind. I suffered through funerals and they're sickening. When it came time to closing the coffin lids on my grandparents, seeing the surviving spouses weep and fall apart tore my shit up. I seen grandma lean over and kiss her husband on the cheek saying goodbye crying. This same grandma enjoyed her fancy cigarettes for 80 of her 90 years, developed tumors in her sinuses, throat and lungs spreading everywhere else, leaving us kids to attend a funeral that was kind of disturbing, she didn't look like grandma. One aspect of funerals is they can serve as family reunions.

At one funeral I attended I was surrounded by millions of my closest family relationships. It was wonderful to see so many ugly motherfuckers that looked just like me. As the party ebbed I noticed the funeral parlor vacated and convention hall was completely empty. The millions of my closest family relations simply vanished. Coming to my senses, I realized in one terrifying moment, my sister had swallowed every single one of 'em. Fuck, don't make me spell it out. Connect the dots you mongoloids.

In death, cancer makes everybody look different and weird. At open coffin ceremonies, makeup and wigs don't help shit and I told my brother Cully grandma looked like are a scary clown. Cully's opinion was, "Her tits feel real. Here, smell my finger." My other grandma, after a life of recurring problems with a rich woman's habit of refined distilled beverages died of colon cancer losing half her weight. We didn't get an open coffin, that'd be a bit too much to witness and endure and what's left after cancer's wreckage, a junk man or recycler like myself would've been out of his mind to offer more than $50 for the cadaver.

So, here I was, hiding in an old man's house listening to him breathe and sigh. Not one of my finer moments. In the kitchen I heard his Mr. Coffee Maker gurgle and chuff as it finished brewing and the old man stood and went to tend to it. I smelt the coffee and I thought I should join him fer a cuppa, but that would've scared him shitless and stopped his heart. He was running the kitchen faucet and banging around noisily washing cups and saucers so I stood and silently stepped out the back door, sneaked through dark rain to my car and left. My backpack was empty, but if I'd pilfered any loot, I would've placed all of it in his mailbox. Now, 40 years later, I believe I meant it.

Witnessing old men left all alone hurts and humiliates like a motherfucker and I thought I'd use this parable as notice to you coppers. We'll likely outlive our wives and end up just like that old man sitting quietly on the sofa in a silent lonesome house. We have to get over it already. We'll have to clean and dust our old houses, though the only thing widowers' homes are good for, in our lonely old age, is keeping termites, mice, rodents and stray mutts out of the rain and from getting pneumonia. Fuck it, yer wives are dead. Call a Realtor, get a decent price and dump the wreck formerly bearing your mailing address for the last century. Move to a resort-like senior center. Your new lifelong best pals and comic sidekicks are already there waiting fer ye.

Speaking of yer wives, their old bodies, to tell you the plain truth weren't anything to get excited about, and having to haul the broken thing around made her gloomy during her final days as she dropped pieces and neared death. Your wives couldn't help it, poor souls, any more than anybody else could help what sort of body they'd been born with or died with. Be real, our wives face the dilemma that complicates the lives of cannibals, namely, that a single body cannot be used over and over and departing it's scant decaying messy remnants can be tearful.

I sent you pictures of me and like your wives, we inherited defective genes requiring constant medical attention: degenerative spinal columns, numerous teeth capped and crowned, failing organs such as our lungs, livers and pancreas and ever-increasing tumor removal surgeries. Plus, we're ugly drunks and smoked too much. Be real, it's been decades since yer coworkers at KPD or AST were seen fighting over other cops' wasted wives looking fer a quickie. Jesus fuck, I coveted Vernetta Nay in a big way and witnessed how coppers boned and groped other cops' wives. Therein lies more peril in your fists and pistols than twenty of their puny dicks. The only humor in that image is the thought of 2 wasted half-breed piglets (think Erlich and Westlake) playing tug-of-war over another cop's drunken wife, thus creating images more aptly framed as pulled pork. When tossing Erlich and Westlake off a building and betting which one first hits the pavement below, who'd care? Life is a cheap thing besides a policeman's work.

Maybe we had wonderful minds, but our bodies ain't silver or gold. After a soul is freed from its deteriorating body, losing parts and tumors, the corpse is about as much use as a railway flatcar heaped with scrap iron. Get real. Explaining everything you see, smell and taste on yer wives old failing bodies, would scare a marble statue into moving far away from ye and send a faggot fleeing breathless and nauseated. Even yer daughters are approaching menopause and grand motherhood with their mountain dew becoming mounted, rutted dust. Time to book to the old folks' home, dress up, buy expensive haircuts, drink endless umbrella drinks, smoke cigarettes 9 miles long and stare at and drool over naked young women we used to harvest like stacks of tasty pallets of bodacious fruit, flora and fauna. Then we'd be embracing the eternal essence of nature taking on the order of the universe within our mortal human frame. I read that somewhere and I think it means injecting your scrotum's high-protein output into hungry naked girls.

When a soul parts with the body we no longer take up space here on Earth, we no longer require so much food everyday and we're not subject to the passions of our bodies. Our glands give us wood, our anger withers our patience and our hearts drive force and speed to our feet and fists. Once dead, all things bodily vanish and we can finally get along without competing for resources like electricity, heat, food, clothing and shelter.

Proceeding beyond our elderly years and transitioning into becoming rotters, we're freed from medicines and prosthetic equipment, cholesterol and blood pressure pills, hearing aids, canes, strollers, eyeglasses and future surgeries to re-attach our retinal sheathing from the blows you suffered on duty or simply due to normal age-related macular degeneration. Personally, I'll be free of my twice monthly visits to the chiropractor. All the centuries lifting freight, farm animals, drunks, dead bodies and stolen loot have taken tolls on each vertebral disk. I expect to live as long as my healthier, century-old gramps and grups, but I don't have to like it. I'm sick of old fart health care.

After sneaking out of that grieving old man's house empty-handed, I told Cully about the close call with the old man coming home while I was in the house, he shook his head and advised we pause the B&E (breaking and entering) scheme. My brother had a real eye for the obvious. Possessing a surplus of shit I'd kyped: pistols, poundage of drugs and surplus jewelry we continued the battery operation until we saturated the market and everybody and their uncle had new batteries in their cars. The last dozen I kept on hand to install in the old-fashioned used cars we purchased at the school district and city hall surplus equipment auctions.

Those vehicles, being rather mature looking, served our purposes because they were sleeper drug delivery cars and were upgraded with basically everything: tune-ups, oil changes, filters, tires, brakes, shocks, alignments, wipers, belts and hoses. And new batteries. On my pair of 66 Dodge Darts both needed new carburetors, they were black and foul, so I pitched the old factory junk and bolted on a new Weber carb on one Dart and a Holley carb in the other. These new larger carburetors broadened the power curves, brought me greater fuel economy and increased performance.

Those old geezer cars, once refurbished would dependably drive all over the Pacific Northwest from Canada to Lancaster, CA. They drove nice and smooth and at or near the legal speed limit, got excellent fuel mileage, ran at optimal engine temps not using a drop of oil. They were also conveniently overlooked by highway patrols and with topped off tanks of premium, drove flawlessly for days on end. Wearing my grandpa's clothes, wasted on the products I delivered, I'd drive for days on end too.

On my missions from Seattle to California I had a copilot, Dennis Singleton. He was pals with the wholesalers in Lancaster, CA, directly east of Los Angeles. We did a lot of large-scale partnerships that worked wonderfully and I always enjoyed his humor on long drives. One time we got pulled over by a CHIP's unit (California Highway Patrol) and the patrolman requested my license and registration, commenting on our being from out of state (Washington plates). He then stated that the reason he pulled us over is he was looking for two child molesters. I leaned over to Dennis and whispered to him conspiratorially, Dennis nodded and I then turned back to the patrolman and replied, "Okay, we'll do it!" That was a joke.

With the 6-cylinder vehicles (2 Dodge Darts and 1 Ford Econoline van) we had to hot tank, meaning acid bath and machine the cylinder heads to clean the burnt areas where the head gaskets blew out and leaked compression and install new rocker arm assemblies. Planing down the matching faces on the bottom of the cylinder head and the top of the block is where we gained a little more compression and a little more power requiring premium fuels to prevent knocking and dieseling.

Straight (inline) 6 cylinder engines seem to get hot pistons at each end, fore and aft cuz the tiny original factory single barrel carbs were rich in the middle cylinders and lean at the ends. The carbs also built up sludge so replacing them with Weber and Holley upgrades worked like a champ. Carbon deposits developed around the intake and exhaust valves so after tanking and machining, some valves got replaced due to pitting from shitty gasoline and operators not adding cleaning agents with every other tank. Which reminds me, I bought a pint of fuel injector cleaner and a pint of Iso-Heet that need to be added to my Subaru tank of premium this morning. Fuck, centuries have passed and I still treat my cars better than I do myself.

You coppers may wonder why I didn't maintain full-time employment nearly half a century ago, but I tried. My specialty was cleaning and restoring houses and buildings but jobs and projects have beginnings and endings and lining up work, back to back was damn near impossible. I told you about working at the old Campus Apartment Building (1889) in the U-District, the commercial area around University of Washington. We restored 40 apartments, added 8 more converting the old large 3-bedroom apartments, storage spaces and boiler (furnace) rooms into extra studio apartments. That job had numerous breaks as the manager, Don Heupel raised rents and evicted old slummy tenants, thus freeing us to overhaul the apartments.

I worked for a couple other construction outfits in the Puget Sound area too, but if the forecast foretold periods of unemployment, I was looking north to Alaska fer werk. I flew up 3 times: Dutch, Cold Bay and D-Ham sliming crab and fish guts. The processing lines were boring so I always put in for other jobs such as pushing fish heads, guts and blood with a 6-foot wide rubber scupper into the floor drain grinder and power-washing everywhere inside the warehouses. I also got gigs working S&R (shipping and receiving) loading pallets, moving them around with forklifts for outbound freighters and stacking mountains of incoming freight as the shit came off the boats. I worked graveyard shifts due to the higher hourly wages and during these late shifts, as at local PD's and trooper offices, I learnt teamwork and to take care of my coworkers.

Everyday after shift at 8:00 am, I'd book down to Carl's Elbow Room and pick up a half-gallon of whatever the clerk had on sale from the bar and package liquor store. The dude always seen me coming and would have mark-downs already piled up for me to choose from. I usually tried to stretch my meager pocket money as far as possible, buying the best quality from the heap of discounted cheaper brand booze. I'd make my purchase, usually round $8-$10 for a half-gal torpedo, stow it in my backpack and book to my dorm to shower and catch 40 winks before my next 12-hour shift, 7 days a week.

Arriving on duty at 8:00 pm every night, I'd stash my backpack in the shelf allocated to me, take my work orders from the freight shack at the end of the pier and start my 12-hour shift hauling, hefting or stacking fish and crab packaged outgoing product as directed. If the pier was messy, or more likely a disaster, I'd fire up my flatbed 10-ton truck, load it with busted shit and garbage and take it to the dump. We took numerous coffee breaks throughout our shifts, a quick lunch break, then near the end of shift, round the 8-hour mark, we'd gather for a toke sesh and pass around a jug. That was my contrib.

I was surrounded by older beat-up lifers that looked a lot like my compatriots at my mandatory Alcoholics Anonymous meetings with Don Beuler back home. We'd chief up brown Mexican (Dumbo) weed, Colombian (Lumbo) Gold, harsh Panama Red shit and even some Thai Stick that was supposedly opiated. Don't believe it. This is years before CRB, cancer research bud, meaning the designer green bud you see at Cannabis Shoppes today. We were smoking bugs and shit when we blew out giant plumes of pot smoke that was basically dirt weed arriving from south of the border. We also likely choked down a fair amount of paraquat.

To wash it all down I took the cap off the half-gallon of discount whiskey, rum or vodka I stashed in my backpack and passed it around till it was drained empty. No red-blooded white man, tall native or black dude drinks gin or scotch. We were juiced up nicely on liquor and big tokes of weed, likely looking like glowing red, blood-filled ticks, primed and ready to get back to work.

During our 420 safety meetings I learnd a shit-load of tasteless racist jokes that float to the surface in my old age. Like right now. Here's a native joke describing their toothless hair-lip speech. "Knock knock. Who'sh dare? Dishes. Dishes who? Dishes yer father nigger, bend over!" I might have been a skinny 18 year old kid, but I found my place in this crowd of old drunks that are likely still there, working long-ass shifts, drinking like me. Okay, maybe not. You soldiers know they're all dead like my pals, brothers and coworkers. It's a fucking miracle you coppers are still with me breathing God's air.

After we blasted mucho weed and downed all that liquor, the last 4 hours of our shift went by in a blur, but a pleasant experience. We'd be cheesing and grinning, energized, running round wrapping up our work duties as the sun rose. I worked most of the summer and finished after 6-10 weeks of work. That put a couple grand in my pocket, after deductions for military defense and senior citizen pensions and health care, whatever the IRS and Juneau's income taxes left me, allowing me to scrimp and save during my time back home in Seattle. After my 3rd trip up to D-Ham I made a bit more and had enough money to set up a profitable drug house. I should've stayed up in Alaska with those lifers I worked with. They stopped going home, staying in Unalaska working Unisea, Trident, Pan-Alaska fisheries year round. Their explanation was police troubles they got into whence they arrived back home: drugs, fighting, driving offenses etc. I didn't have a clue what they were talking about.

If you venture out to the Aleutian Chain and spend time with the folks that work those shitty shifts, you'll find mostly weathered, worn men inhabiting empty shells. Some were scarred up ugly bikers and others were fucked up morally crippled veterans with nowhere left to go. Alaska to most men like us is the end of the road. It's the last and final stop. Their war stories were awful and nearly impossible to forget. Those boys told remembrances of potting gooks, meaning blowing off body parts and faces of women, children and old slant-eyed chinks, otherwise described as "bowling fer zipper-heads." I know, nobody says chinks, zipper-heads and gooks anymore, unless they're wearing robes and burning crosses.

One black dude described getting a blow-job from a little Asian girl. After putting a bullet in her head he nearly busted her teeth and jaw to get his dick out her dead mouth locked shut. I didn't ask to see the scars where that trouser mousetrap snapped shut. Other old fuckers explained genocide in South America blasting Indian families to bits, clearing villages for oil and resource mining identical to fabled American tales of how the west was won. You may recall your history lessons: out on the American west and Alaskan northern frontiers, the total amount of suffering per year in the natural world is beyond all decent contemplation.

Don't think these crippled soldiers went off the reservation or gone rogue, they were just doing their job. American Imperialism means killing American Indians. And gooks. Being hidden way out on Alaska's Aleutian Chain, working slave wages was penance for their crimes and also provided a work environment with medically beneficial amounts of alcohol and drugs on the job, in the workplace, employee break room, late at night at the end of the pier. A likely scenario is that all my former coworkers reside in hospitals dying in the same equipment my brother Cully serviced and replaced. Albeit with drip trays beneath. Shit, ain't none of 'em fit fer humane society. Just like us. Don't kid yourselves.

I've chatted and discussed deadly habits with my pals in Alaska and one friend I called Chief, a tall handsome Indian mountain that walked like a man explained it to me this way. "Karl, my sister smoked too much, my father smoked too much and my mom smoked even more. That's why I smoke. Everyday I wake up and look in the mirror and see a fucked up Indian, so smoking is the Native American way of committing suicide. Suicide by cigarettes." My buddy Chief smoked Pall Malls and stated it was the favored brand of authentic First Nation suicides.

His paps died in his forties and he was glad to be out of it. Meaning out of life. The Indian life. "Karl, try sleeping on the floor, eating only government commodity foods, pissing outside and honeymooning in the outhouse. Rez life was shit. I grew up behind barbed wire. Here at the canneries I got it better than back on the rez. Besides, I ain't homeless like my buddies in town." In summation, Chief explained that IHS doctors never mentioned the primary reason many native Americans have for smoking heavily is that smoking is the fairly sure, fairly honorable form of suicide.

I never put a bullet in the brain nor strangled any girl I was fucking, but the thought of killing a bitch while fucking her and feeling her pussy bite my dick off sounds interesting. Every human being that occasionally or frequently drank to excess, needs time upon waking to clear their fogged brains and recount memories of sexual pursuits. Furthermore, time to overcome the sense of dread following long nights of drinking, where you could remember having your pants around your ankles at some point but not much more than that. I've woken up next to shit-soaked puking women of many colors, north and south of the Arctic Circle, yet never found sufficient rationale to chew my arm off. Or my dick.

Even an armed social worker from Manilaq making frequent home visits is a futile effort, natives die by their own hand in droves and are now replaced by fish processors with crabs: illegal immigrants speaking no English. What's the world come to? Alaska's fishing industry needed new slaves and natives, niggers and white trash spawn-tards like me are obsolete. I blame the Methicans and Asians, they're everywhere but won't put a bullet in our brains while fucking us. We kilt ourselves with booze and smokes.

Another note of import. Unlike Red Dog Mine or Prudhoe Bay, none of the fish slime and crab gut factories throughout Alaska did a lick of drug testing. You know a hunnert dumb fuckers working mines or petroleum that smoked fat bowls on their 2 weeks off and whence returning, were ordered to take a drug test. Workers used to take weird commercial over-the-counter herbal potions like Zydot, Terminator Gold and Test-Free the day prior to their piss tests to mask their weed habits but now cheek swabs are taken and that shit don't lie. You get a pink slip on yer locker saying good-bye sucker, adios chump, smell ye later nigger, food stamps will look good on you.

Chronic green bud takes roughly a month to clear yer system but alcohol, similar to cocaine and meth are gone after 3-4 days. Not a tough decision there. On yer days off, drink like a fish and snort powders like me, a drug fiend, you'll be fine. Shit, smoke yer meth and coke, you'll be even better. I think I see yer lungs, liver and pancreas in my septic tank yet I know to say nothing but good of the dead.

You might wonder why I'm always speaking to economic trends. Well, in America we can freely cross state lines for work and travel to any shit hole we desire fer wages. Makes sense huh? In Washington State during the 70's we suffered a MAJOR recession and finding decent work weren't happening. If a kid was 16 years old he could fly to Alaska and work all summer, providing you never missed a day of compulsory K-12 schooling. All us skinny kids pursued this.

A nice deal about Alaska was even a toe-headed kid like myself could walk into any liquor store or tavern and buy alcoholic beverages cuz the legal drinking age back then was only 19 years of age. Cool huh? Even at my ripe old age of 18 I entered bars and package liquor stores and purchased anything off the shelf. I was never asked for ID in Alaska, but in Washington the legal drinking age was 21 so I was forced to make use of my deceased pal Gary Los's drivers license. Weird, in the 907 I bought half-gallons fer werk everyday but in the Pacific Northwest I resorted to using identification of a dead man. If you include ID theft, I stole fucking everything not nailed down.

I kept Gary's drivers license buried in the deep recesses of my wallet, facing backwards and book-ended with my library card and my bus pass, in case the cops snatched my wallet to examine it for explosives or gory dildos smelling like their wives' cunts. Cops are funny that way. Oops, you boys already know this. Go ahead, punch the old bag and kick yer cross-eyed mud children that look weird and out of place in your family portraits. There's always at least one bastard in every brood that came out of a stinky dick that wasn't yours. Kill it now.

Okay, wash off yer boots, I'm continuing onward describing Alaska's numerous gold rushes, oil booms and work jags that brought fuck-ups like me north. By the thousands. The first big pull was obviously the flimflam scam gold rushes such as Klondike and Nome, platinum mining in McGrath before and during WWII, then came Cook Inlet oil and gas work authorized by President Eisenhower over 70 years ago.

The Cook Inlet petroleum fields provided so much oil and gas we loaded supertankers filled with both resources, shipping giant volumes to ports around the world. Now these mature fields are declining rapidly and instead of piping liquefied natural gas from the North Slope down to us, South Central Alaska is now poised to import natural gas from outside to supply the heat and electricity demands of Anchorage, Mat-Su and Kenai customers. Imported natural gas for electricity and heat will be roughly double what we pay from local sources today. Scrutinize yer bills, grab yer dicks and get ready to shit a brick.

Following the giant boom of fish and crab harvests throughout the 70's was the Trans-Alaska Pipeline build-up facilitating the Prudhoe Bay 12.5% well-head royalty money flows. Once oil revenues flooded the coffers in Juneau you coppers witnessed the construction and municipal staffing boom across Alaska's 320 towns and villages. Every community screamed for schools, hospitals, public safety, water and sewer service and airports. That's the economic flood bringing most of you coppers to our dearly beloved shit holes, meaning a job, a wife and family. Since winding down Cook Inlet, Big Fish and Prudhoe Bay the current boom is welfare and hires nearly 4 out of every 10 Alaskans. I'm being facetious using the word 'hire' like smearing turds on bread and liking the taste.

I caught the fish boom, the school boom, the municipal boom, the university boom and finally the pension boom. I never worked oil or gas but my employment was derivative of these royalty revenue streams. The fish boom is self-explanatory, the school boom brought me to Kotz working with MicoDot (Brian Higman) doing inventories borough-wide, the municipal boom gave me work alongside you killers at local PD's and trooper offices, the university boom happened in the 90's while I was at UAF and the pension boom pays me a decent monthly stipend, but the medical, dental, vision, audio and pharmacy benefits plus long term care is the vein of gold I'm now mining.

You may wonder what kind of lavish spending madness possessed the university system whilst I attended. Two words, Ted Stevens. The federal and state funding ran way over its river banks and I snagged a piece working the computer lab powered by 2 Cray Super Computers (there were only 7 in the entire world), flying all over Europe promoting UAF's International Exchange Program and a brand new car to drive as part of my weird campus job description.

Now follow my silly reasoning. The current welfare boom is federal money with a 10% state funding match: food stamps, Medicaid and Housing vouchers. The food stamp program is a mad gush of dineros that props up shitty businesses such as Rotman's, Alaska Commercial and every crap-ass native grocery store throughout rural retard-ville. The free handout monies subsidize food purchases and drive up food prices. The profits are so lavish, Mark Begich is now managing the largest grocery store in Barrow and the North Slope. "The little faggot got his own jet airplane, the little faggot is a millionaire" (Dire Straits/Sting, I want my MTV). The free medical coverage (Medicaid) subsidizes medical services and pharmacy purchases statewide. Every private, public and native clinic and pharmacy would be out of business without the Big Dog money Medicaid brings.

Rents in Alaska are artificially high because AHFC/HUD, (Alaska Housing Finance Corporation/Housing and Urban Development) hands out rent vouchers for every low-income zombie obese slug that meets the poverty guidelines on their monthly household reports. Northwest Inupiaq Housing, Barrow's Housing Authority and every other guv-ment public housing outfit would cease to exist without so many poor fucking whites, blacks and reds pissing, shitting and trashing the multitudes of free and low income apartments and houses all over Alaska. Private landlords smile at this program and can rent total shit-holes to poor families for these monthly vouchers worth their weight in gold. I mean cash-bucks.

So there you have it. Gold boom, fish boom, oil boom, school boom, municipal boom, UAF boom and now pension boom. I missed the welfare boom and should have my head examined. All those years of stressful, hard work and I coulda been sitting on my ass in public housing, eating food stamp foods and getting my dick scrubbed and de-blistered with Medicaid. What was I thinking? I'm still pissed off at my work doing a dozen narc jobs across Alaska thinking it would somehow improve the lives of our fellow citizens, a fading glimpsed mirage of something better. I'm fucking retarded and now a lowly civilian puke.

Poverty is generational, obesity and illness are forever and as long as the welfare boom continues, we'll be surrounded by newly arriving trailer trash with their hands out demanding public assistance, heating assistance, energy assistance and if they're old fucking prunes, longevity bonuses, meaning Senior Benefits assistance. Plus a full bountiful Permanent Fund Dividend. I clearly specified we all came here for ball-busting hard work, but what did all these stinky unemployable motherfuckers come here for?

I'm repeating myself, but as a moron and a criminal I fought to resist trends of strangling apathy and trying new reprehensibly indictable schemes worked quite nicely as antidote to afflictions of epidemic complacency. Real soon, instead of aggressive, capable workers applying for a long list of boom-related jobs, we'll be surrounded by apathetic welfare bums extracting public assistance like painful blood-engorged ticks on our gonads and expensive parasites in our wallets, greedily sucking down dwindling revenues and state budgets.

I'm of the thought you coppers worked way too hard, way too long, for way too little pay. I wouldn't change a thing though. I modeled my own behavior after your honorable intent, long-ass shifts and realized new concepts in public altruism formerly foreign and disgusting to me. You fuckers were role models for this reformed crook and addict and despite injuries unhealed, scars and arthritic joints, it feels quite nice.

Fuck, I realized by working my miserable and mostly honest life away in Alaska, abstaining from my full throttle self-made crime wave, I possibly took the steam out of the crime boom I theoretically may be responsible for yonder 48.

In closing, despite the nail hole, I grasp your hand.

And shake it.

Karl.