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.