The Great Land 3

By Mike Liston

Contemporary Alaska and the final book in the Great Land saga of everyday Alaskans and their struggle agains Big Oil and monopolized corporate media.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Mike Liston
• Release date: Nov 28, 2022
• ISBN: 9781792398445

Book preview

ONE

A breath of chill wind blew in from the Bering tattering the spectral fog. Along the wet beach of black sand streaked with bone-white gravel a gaggle of forlorn figures stumbled in ragged order just above tide line. In the lead trudged a thin man struggling to hold aloft a mud-streaked soaking wet American flag tied to a stick. Behind him limped a short, dumpy fellow carrying what was left of an automatic rifle; stock broken, barrel bent. The rest struggled behind all dressed in filthy bargain basement camouflage hunting clothes and loaded with sodden packs heavy with wet sand and what was left of their gear. One fell to his knees, then toppled over face first into a tangle of kelp.

Roscoe, squeaked one of the group his voice hoarse, man down.

Where? Roscoe yelped as he whirled squeezing the trigger of his rifle. Luckily it was jammed or the gun’s bent barrel might well blow up in his face.

He’s not wounded, said Big Sue scornfully giving Skinny a contemptuous kick. He’s just trying to con someone dumber than him to carry his pack.

Goddammit, this thing won’t work, Roscoe bitched struggling to unjam his rifle, its mechanism packed with black sand.

Hail Valhalla! pronounced the tall lantern jawed man at the front fighting as best he could to hold aloft his forlorn banner. The flag bearer, Alfred, was the group’s resident expert on Aryan culture, history and mating patterns. Hail! he cried solemnly jabbing his flag to just ahead where the dark wooden pillars of a pier loomed up out of the fog supporting a vast wooden hall. We’ve done it, the palace of Odin, Valhalla, home of heroes and dancing girls!

You squirrelly old fuck, Sue shouted, you said Valhalla is where we go when we croak!

Silence Apostate, with his mighty hammer Thor will strike you flat! roared Alfred. Attempting a salute, he dropped his flag as he tried to sing, although he couldn’t quite remember the words to ‘My Country Tis of Thee.’

Hey, what’s that smell? Skinny cried nose twitching scrambling to his feet. Is that food?

Food? What, where, when? Jim Maplethorpe whispered weakly. The last time he ate was the day before yesterday and just before they lost all their rations in their mad panic to flee a bear that just happened to be ambling by to a nearby salmon stream. The big bruin merely paused to give their store of abandoned instant noodles and power bars a curious sniff before they were swept off by the tide but our heroes were long gone.

Yes, yes, I smell it too, Alfred said with reverence. The gods; they have prepared food to welcome the Aryan heroes. Let’s feast! He ran leading the charge.

Forward men and take no prisoners, Roscoe warned as he crouched low to the beach drawing out his survival knife. It was May, perhaps Wednesday, Thursday, even Sunday, Alaska, the Great Land, the year 2011.

Well, the guys searched about and under the dripping wet wharf for a good hour as the tide began to roll in. At the edge of the wet beach a steep rock face studded with barnacles, mussels and sea weed blocked any way out.

Hey Roscoe, Skinny said now ankle deep in ice cold salt water, my socks are getting wet.

Shut up, idiot, I’m thinking, Roscoe said still looking desperately for the elevator; at least, a set of stairs.

Hey, what’s this? asked Big Sue having spotted a rusted metal ladder bolted to the dark side of a pier. She gave it a shake. At least half of its bolts were missing.

I’m not going up that, squeaked Jim Maplethorpe. Looks dangerous.

You got any better ideas? sneered Roscoe. Big Sue, you first. I’ll cover you with my…uh, survival knife.

Why the hell do I always have to go first? Big Sue complained although she knew damned well why. Of the group, she’d been the only one to serve in the armed services although she been drummed out for inappropriate sexual contact with new recruits irrespective of gender.

Hey, Roscoe snapped, we’ve been over this, we don’t discriminate because you sit to pee. He grinned. You should go because, you know, ladies first.

Chicken shit bastards, Sue grumbled grabbing on to the ladder. Aside from inappropriate sexual contact, she might have also been asked to resign because she couldn’t squeeze into her uniform. She climbed up the ladder grunt by grunt as the thing wobbled dangerously and she disappeared into the murk. They waited for some minutes in silence as the Bering Sea now lapped about their shins.

‘Roscoe, Skinny complained, I’m getting wetter."

Great, get your ass up the ladder.

But-

Get going, Roscoe snarled, or I’ll gut you like a trout. Skinny scrambled up the ladder quickly. The Bering was now at their knees.

Alfred, you next, let’s show the flag.

Yes, sir, Commander Roscoe Sir, Alfred said snapping back a salute and after carefully rolling up Old Glory on its driftwood staff, he clambered carefully up the ladder and disappeared.

Okay, Jim, your turn, ordered Roscoe the Bering now mid-thigh.

Why don’t you go, Roscoe?

Because the Captain always leaves the ship last.

This ain’t no ship, it’s a beach.

You want me to gut you like a trout?

Go ahead, Jim dared him, better than eaten by bears.

What’s a bear doing in Valhalla, stupid?

You’re not afraid, you go, Jim demanded the cold water now shrinking his testicles.

I gave you a direct order! Roscoe snapped.

Who died and made you Supreme Leader? I don’t remember that election.

Billy Bob made me leader after he was busted for tax evasion.

So you say, Jim replied hotly, the Bering now up to his waist.

Okay, screw you, stay here and drown, Roscoe said grabbing the ladder but he couldn’t hardly move because his ‘water proof’ Kevlar survival pack was full of seawater.

Son of a bitch, Roscoe fumed struggling to free himself from the straps. He did so but dropped his knife, thought about retrieving it, thought better and scrambled up the swaying ladder like a monkey its tail afire. Jim stared up at him the Bering now up to his neck. What was better, man-eating bears or a watery grave? And while he stood there in the neck deep freezing water fighting to make up his mind, a big wave swept him away.

Since they’d landed, Roscoe had the crap scared right out of him every five minutes on average all starting when their rubber raft flipped in the turgid surf. Next came the marauding gulls, the bear and those biting flies and scaling that swaying rusty ladder in the dark through a trap door was right up there and if Roscoe had had anything but sea weed to eat the last two days, he might have just filled his pants. Going up that rusted, creaking, swaying ladder into the pitch black as the icy cold waves lapped higher and higher was just about as bad as that bear, flipping the raft and those gulls try to peck a hole in his head.

At the top of the ladder, he came to an open trap door leading into the murk. Too scared to go further; too scared to retreat, the issue was decided for him when the corroded bolts holding the rusted ladder to the pier ripped free from the rotted wood. He scrambled up through the trap door just as the ladder crashed down to the surging sea.

Once on to what felt like a wooden deck, Roscoe waited fearfully on all fours. When his eyes eventually adjusted to the dark, he could see he was in a huge warehouse-like structure filled with empty crates and stacked pallets all reeking of fish. Getting to his feet carefully, he searched for a weapon but the best he could do was wrench a board off a crate.

Roscoe proceeded further with all the stealth of a Daniel Crockett until he tripped over an empty paint can. He hit the deck as the can loudly clattered. Just then a huge rat loomed up out of the dark to give him a good sniff. Screaming, he jumped up and ran for his life.

Roscoe, that you, you fucking pussy?! Big Sue boomed out from just ahead. This way, Sally, we’re here! She laughed raucously as Roscoe ran in full panic-nothing scared him worse than rats. He made for the sound of Sue’s laughter, turned a corner, spotted light streaming out from a door, ran in and there they were all seated at a big table wolfing down cold pork and beans and stewed salmon. At the head of the table smoking a cigarette watching them all with no discernible curiosity sat the gray bearded wise old Father of the Gods, Odin AKA Mr. Ron. Roscoe stared about the room in awe. On one wall hung a faded sign stenciled Knutson Sea Foods and just below it a sign scrawled in pencil Dining Room, Whites Only, Chinks down the hall.

Wow, Roscoe whispered in awe, no Chinks. Just like the good old days.

Come on, Roscoe, Skinny said enthusiastically, Odin says to dig in. Well, he didn’t exactly say so but he did wave his cigarette.

Please to make your acquaintance, Mr. Odin, sir, Roscoe said sticking out his hand.

You just don’t shake hands with the King of the Gods, Alfred whispered furiously, you got to swear your obeisance, sacrifice a kid.

I’m not even married, Alfred, how am I gonna sacrifice a kid? Roscoe asked.

I’m talking about a young lamb. My land, Roscoe, there are large gaps in your Aryan indoctrination.

Yeah, yeah, well…Odin doesn’t seem to mind. You, uh, see, Mr. Odin, me and my men, well, we’re very happy to see you. I don’t know what we would have done, you know, if we hadn’t found Valhalla and all these…pork and beans?

Food of the gods, Alfred opined spooning the sweet nectar of Valhalla into his mouth right from the can.

‘Yeah, and I don’t usually like fish, said Big Sue her mouth crammed with stewed salmon, but I’m so hungry, I’d eat dog shit served hot on a plate."

So anyway, Mr. Odin, Roscoe continued as he helped himself to a bowl of stew, me and the men are here to found the first Free White Aryan State, you in? Odin didn’t respond to the question but he did light up a new cigarette with the butt of the last. Roscoe watched him smoke hungrily. Did he dare hit Odin up for a smoke? So, uh, Mr. Odin, I kind of lost a whole case of Malburgs when our survival raft got swamped in the surf so uh…do you think I could… his fingers edged toward the pack of generic cigarettes sitting on the table but Odin snatched it back. He did quite generously and silently push the fully loaded ashtray across the table so Roscoe could pick through the butts. Bowing his thanks, Roscoe searched his pockets for survival matches until he remembered they’d been ditched with his pack. Fortunately, Odin’s last butt was still smoldering so Roscoe was puffing away in no time. Man, that’s great, Roscoe sighed blowing out a gust of secondhand butt, nothing like a good smoke after a man’s just missed getting drowned, starved and chased by a bear.

I still don’t think the bear was chasing us, Roscoe, Alfred said as he wiped cold tomato sauce off his chin. He didn’t touch the freeze-dried eggs.

Says you, hey, I’ve been to the zoo, I know a hungry bear when I see one- Odin had got to his feet abruptly. It was the first time he’d moved except for the incident with the cigarette and he seemed a little unsteady on his feet as he sort of shuffled in the direction of nearby closet. He opened it, reached inside, grabbed a bottle of whiskey of dubious origin, had himself a long pull and put it back. Truth was, Odin had just stumbled out of his bed a few hours ago and he was already potted on cheap Chinese Scotch. He shuffled back to his throne and sat down.

Is Odin drunk? Skinny asked in a low voice.

Kind of looks like it, huh? Big Sue snickered.

Don’t be ignorant, Alfred broke in his tone stentorian. Of course, he’s drunk. That’s what the Gods do in Valhalla.

Hey, ain’t they supposed to have dancing girls? asked Big Sue. Or we gonna have to put Skinny in a skirt?

Oh no, Skinny said immediately wary, you can’t do what they done to me in Juvie.

And just what the hell was that? Roscoe demanded.

Nothing, mumbled Skinny ducking his head, absolutely nothing. Loved every single minute.

Yeah, I wonder… Roscoe muttered suspiciously. There was something funny about that Skinny with all his vague references to ‘juvie’. Was he some kind of degenerate godless homosexual? It was high past time for a serious talk with Skinny; beat a confession out of him if necessary.

Help! a voice howled from some distance away.

What the hell’s that? Big Sue jumped to her instantly on guard.

Kind of sounds like Maplethorpe, Roscoe said unconcerned. I thought he was drowned.

We have to go help him, Skinnny said getting up albeit reluctantly.

You go, I’m still eating, Roscoe said taking a last leisurely puff on his secondhand butt.

Come on, Roscoe, get off your ass, said Big Sue lumbering up. We all swore we’d help each other out.

Fuck him, he disobeyed a direct order.

Yeah right, and who died and made you God? And don’t give me more shit about that moron Billy Bob. Move it. Roscoe got up cursing under his breath. Odin AKA Mr. Ron stared into space as the group exited the room.

TWO

Sam Knutson spat on the wet wharf as he regarded his new group of cowed and frightened workers. In order to make sure they were all properly impressed with their new status as slave labor, She Tou had beaten the one person who dared to give Sam lip and so the spoiled fruit seller still lay unconscious on the deck. (See I Love Chao Yang by Lao Li) Knutson’s grin was cruel and cold. He was a mean old son of a bitch and as he watched the weeping women and sniveling men, he nodded his head.

Welcome to your new jobs, he said in a voice rough from a lifetime of cursing, boozing and smoking. Pay’s lousy, food’s worse but if you work your asses off and follow all orders, I won’t fill you full of holes and kick your corpse into the Bering for the crabs. He patted the holstered .45 pistol on his waist. Now pick that bastard up and follow me.

The silent group followed Knutson through the doors of a large shed. The first order of business was the chains and once they were all locked into the shackles, ankle to ankle, Knutson ordered them to shuffle after him through towering stacks of pallets of canned salmon out one set of doors and through another. Before them opened out the large processing shed and right in the center was a great metal contraption of conveyor belts and cutters.

This goddamned thing is the Iron Chink, he paused and giggled. Ironic, ain’t it? That’s right. You Chinks are working this. Be careful and you might keep your limbs but I ain’t making any promises as that Iron Chink’s a treacherous thing. Okay, you see a red X painted on the floor, go there, stand quietly and no false moves or you’ll be feeding the crabs. Each person in the group shuffled slowly to a red X and one by one, as Knutson stood ready to shoot, each person was given the key to unlock one ankle, pass the chain through a U-bolt at the center of each X and then snap the lock shut again. Once they were all secured, Knutson walked along the line inspecting each ‘slave’ one by one.

Hey, you ain’t so bad looking, are you? Knutson leered when he got to the Humanities PhD from Bei Da.

Please let me go, she begged, I’ll do anything.

Too old for that crap, can’t get it up. But you can play with my Russian pirates if they want some yellow twat.

Pirates? she blanched.

Shut up. We got fresh fish to can. She did as ordered and clamped her mouth shut. Next to her stood Ron, knees knocking as the old man looked him over. So… got myself a white man.

Yes, sir… Ron almost squealed. This old guy scared him worse than Da and seemed a hell of a lot meaner.

Don’t squeal like a girl. You ain’t working the Chink; you’re white so that wouldn‘t be right. You’re my new fork lift driver. Okay, you useless bastards, let’s get to work! Knutson spat on the deck and strode outside. There was a boat full of poached fish waiting at the dock and the Koreans were itchy to unload.

Once the fish were dumped in the chute, Knutson hit the main switch and the Iron Chink shuddered and clanked to life so abruptly most of the slaves screamed. He then trotted down to the floor where he spent the next few minutes barking instructions at his new slaves so they knew what to do. He then went into the processing room where new gleaming tins of chopped up salmon would be fed in to the huge pressure cooker. He’d do this part; he wouldn’t trust that boiler to a slave as he didn’t want to blow up the cannery to kingdom come.

As for Ron, it was his job to help unload the pressure-cooked cans on to wooden pallets and then run the loaded pallets in to the warehouse, where they would boxed up by slaves after the fish was processed and then await shipping. Normally Ron would have probably run the fork lift right off the dock with him on it but Old Knutson had him so scared, he dumped only a few loads, suffered a few kicks but didn’t get shot. Truth was, Old Knutson was lonely for a fellow white man to listen to him talk and so twelve hours later once the last batch of fish was cooked and canned, Ron followed the old man picking his way over exhausted sleeping Chinese and sat in the ‘Whites Only" dining room until early in the morning watching Knutson talk, smoke like a chimney and empty glass after glass of rotgut booze.

If Ron had bothered to pay attention to any more than hungering after booze and smokes, he would have realized that the lonely and talkative old criminal had actually incriminated himself to the equivalent of several life sentences plus before he finally toppled over. Ron would have helped himself to the booze and cigarettes at this point but Knutson had chained him by the leg to a post so he sat there, head down snoozing on the table until morning when Knutson, cursing loudly, dumped him out of his chair.

For breakfast, Ron, under Knutson’s directions, cooked up the slaves a stew of half cooked rice and salmon that was too far gone to can. The slaves ate ravenously as the PhD from Bei Da cast Ron envious yet venomous looks.

Once the slaves had been slopped, including Ron, it was time to box up yesterday’s cook. Once that was completed Ron ran the pallets loaded with boxes out to the dock where they all waited for hours until a battered looking surplus Soviet Navy vessel slipped in just after dark. While a dark hose pumped bunker oil out of the ship and into the cannery’s oil tank, slaves loaded pallets into nets which were hoisted up and into the hold. Once the fish was all loaded, a few pallets were off-loaded including rice for the slaves and cases of counterfeit whiskey, vodka and untaxed Chinese cigarettes. The captain, an Uzbeki from a former fishing family on the Caspian Sea handed Knutson a sack of cash as additional payment for the fish. The crew cast off and the Russians were off to sell the fish in Japan.

That night the slaves were locked up in their slave quarters, a converted freezer with a heavy steel door and once again, Ron was ordered to follow Knutson into the Whites Only dining room and listen to the old man talk late into the night.

Knutson was the son of an uncle who’d been hoodwinked out of his share of a very prosperous network of canneries located all over Alaska by George Knutson Senior. When George Junior was made a buyout offer from Tokegawa Fisheries of Japan, Sam Knutson threatened to take him to court.

He doesn’t have a leg to stand on legally, the high paid lawyer told George.

Of course, he doesn’t, my Old Man fucked his brother fair and square but Sam’s going to drag this out in court; could cost me millions. Sam’s dad, George’s uncle had been busted for smuggling whiskey from Canada into Bellingham, Washington during Prohibition and Knutson Senior didn’t want him associated in any way, shape or form with cannery operations even though Uncle had been smuggling using a company boat.

So, sue him back.

For what? He’s got jack shit. I say we make him an offer.

I don’t want cash. Make me over the deed for the cannery out in Agakhan.

Are you nuts?! George Junior exclaimed. That old dump has been mothballed since statehood. Even the Japs don’t- He paused for a moment and then gave Sam a look. Oh…I see.

You don’t see shit, Sam spoke while the lawyer looked on confused. Just the deed, no cash. It’s a good deal for you.

Whatever you want, cousin, grinned George. The cannery’s all yours.

George, criminally inclined by nurture and nature, had a pretty good idea Cousin Sam was up to no good but what the hell, giving Sam the cannery wouldn’t cost George a cent and who knows, Sam could end up dead or in jail so either way, George scored a win.

Cousin Sam did what he could to make the old deserted cannery at Agakhan pay. He set up an illegal casino but it was too far away to attract guests. He tried smuggling into and out of the Soviet Union but that cost him a couple boats captured by the US and Soviet Coast Guard. He even tried luring rich fishermen up from the States with the promise of great fishing and better accommodations but the first group that came up got bad fishing, beds in the bunkhouse, terrible food and they were not in the least impressed with the three skanky down-on-their-luck hookers Sam had brought in for the weekend from the port of Dutch Harbor. Sam’s final effort to make a go of Agakhan before setting fire to the place and blowing out his brains was to get back into the cannery business. Having spent his youth in and around canneries and being mechanically minded, he got the long mothballed equipment all working again and hired a crew but most of the crew quit the first month because they weren’t getting any fish and they’d been counting on overtime pay. Sam had put out the word he was buying fish but there weren’t hardly any boats fishing in the area since the cannery had closed years ago and those that did get a decent catch preferred Dutch Harbor or Cold Bay where they could go dockside and have some fun as opposed to Sam Knutson’s miserable hole at Agakhan where he could only pay the lowest price per pound on the whole Aleutian Island chain.

One night with only a skeleton crew left, Sam was sitting on the dock holding his pistol in one hand. He had the gun raised and was about ready to blow out his brains when he saw the shadowy silhouette of a large trawler steaming right towards him with no lights; not even a pennant for identification. He got to his feet with wary optimism. About goddamned time; here it was the height of the season and this was the first boat to dock in a week. But why in the hell were they coming in without running lights and did that guy in the bow have a machine gun? Sam was about ready to sprint for safety but when he realized that machine gun was pointed right at him, he stopped, made sure the guy could see him lay his pistol on the deck and he just stood there as the shadowy shape of the skipper up on the bridge turned his vessel to come up alongside the dock.

Don’t just stand there, help us tie up! called out a woman from the boat’s deck. Was that a Russian accent? Sam stared up in surprise and nearly got beaned by a rope end flung right at his head.

Once the vessel was tied up, the captain came down to the main deck and from his ship stepped onto the dock. He said something in Russian to the woman who had remained on the ship. She smiled showing a mouth full of gold teeth.

Captain say this my kind of shithole. He hear you buy fish.

Yes, sir, you bet, I got a full crew just waiting here ready to work. She spoke Russian to the captain, he laughed and said something else.

Okay, Captain make deal: you buy his fish or fish any friends he sends; nobody else.

Why nobody else? Sam asked.

Less questions you ask, maybe longer you live. Sam stared. He’d been around his full share of rough women in life but this bitch was hard. The machine gunner in the prow watched Sam with cold eyes.

Are you making me an offer I can’t refuse? Sam asked. The woman laughed, interpreted; the captain laughed too and muttered something.

You can refuse you like, you that stupid. We been watching you over a week. It’s the height of the season and no boats with no fish. Go bankrupt you like, up to you. Sam looked at her, he looked at the captain who was grinning at him, he looked at the guy in the bow and then he looked down at his pistol lying on the deck which he had just seriously considered using to blow out his brains.

What the hell, it’s a deal.

That night, they had a hell of a party. The Russians brought over a case of vodka, tinned caviar and most of the crew except for a few guards and everyone else, including the cannery workers, got so stinking drunk, Knutson didn’t even wake up till two in the afternoon the next day.

Where the hell is everyone? Sam asked Olga.

Who?

My workers. You said you had fish.

You don’t need them for our fish, it’s already canned.

Huh?

That’s right, we smuggled it over from Petroplavsk.

Why? Sam asked confused.

Hey, we get it cheap, you sell it US price, we all happy people.

So, you don’t want me canning any fresh fish?

Not today, no, Olga said lighting a fresh cigarette. But soon, yes, we got…associates, they get fish, you know, not so legally, we buy fish, or send them here. Then you can salmon, crab, whatever they got.

So back to my first question: my crew?

They on board, we take them first port, they can fly home. You don’t need them; we got our own people. Sergei, she barked to a guy on deck. Nashe rabotniki! Sergei grinned and started to open the door to a hold. Nyet, Bolvan, nashe! Sergei nodded and went to the door of the main cabin underneath the wheelhouse. It was just then Sam saw it was padlocked.

Ceichaz! Sergei snapped and men came shuffling out. Sam about dropped his teeth. They were Russians and all in chains.

Sergei and the other deckhands herded the sorry lot of prisoners of a plank leading to dockside. One guy slipped or intentionally committed suicide and with a cry, dropped like a stone to the sea.

Jesus Christ! Sam shouted rushing to the edge of the dock.

I guess he didn’t want to work, Olga said from over Sam’s shoulder. Oh well, easy come, easy go.

Who the hell are these people?

Is that question? Olga asked. Don’t you worry, they owe much money to wrong people. They work, you don’t pay. Win win?

Uh, yeah…sure, what the hell, Sam nodded his head getting into the swing of things. Free labor? He grinned. This was a money machine.

You feed them fish, you feed them rice, they work till you know, they can’t or something. We bring you more.

And I should keep them in chains?

Only if you want to live. Okay, we unload! She yelled out some orders ship side and the aft hold was unloaded and in minutes, cranes hoisting full nets of loose cans of salmon swung dockside and the workers, encouraged with plenty of verbal abuse and a few kicks from Olga, made great piles of cans on the deck. Sam got the fork lift and brought out a pallet load of flattened card board boxes and the ‘workers’ loaded them up.

A present from the captain, Olga said pointing to a couple of crates on dock. One was full of bottles of Russian vodka and the other Chinese cigarettes.

Chinese?

Da, they’re not bad. Okay, you sell fish get good price. We back later for our share. Cash dollars, unmarked and Knutson, Olga said leaning in real close, we know where you live.

You got no worries on that, Olga, honey, Sam smiled. He’d be nuts to fuck up a deal like this. By the way, what gives with the smuggling anyway? I tried it back a few years ago and got my ass handed back on a plate.

Hey, no Soviet Union, free market capitalism now. Everything’s gone to hell. People no money, coast guard no fuel. We got to do something to stay alive. Dos Svidanya, Sam, you watch your ass! Sam watched the ship steam off into the sunset without lights. It didn’t even have a name on the stern.

About a month and a half later, Sam got up early in the morning as usual and found the Russian ship already tied up to the dock and a new group of sullen recruits standing in chains on the deck ready to work the Iron Chink.

Where’s your workers? Olga greeted him. You have them locked up somewhere safe?

What’s left of them, Sam said. His pistol was now in a holster on his waist and a police club dangled from his belt. I had a bit of trouble, a couple got caught in the Iron Chink, bled to death; one guy came at me with a hammer, had to shoot him. The others mutinied. I was stuck in my room for a couple of days until they found the booze. Two of them drank themselves to death, one guy fell off the dock. A couple more made a break for it. I don’t know what they were thinking, there’s nothing to eat on this rock but seabird eggs and there’s no way off. Anyways, I sold your fish, got a great price. A few questions about the cans, didn’t look too American but hey, I got the money all cash like you want.

How much you keep for you? Olga asked her eyes narrowing suspiciously.

Not a penny yet. I got the paper work, receipts. You decide my share.

Molodetz (smart), Knutson, molodetz, smiled Olga showing her golden teeth.

And so, it went. Knutson did quite well with his contraband fish, gun smuggling, Magadan gold and enough slave labor, now mostly illegal immigrants, to work the Iron Chink. One night Olga and her gang got into a big shoot out with the Russian Navy and her ship was sank with all hands. That didn’t slow Knutson. He now had many underworld ‘friends’ from both sides of the North Pacific.

So, what do you think of that, Betty Sue? Sam slurred drunkenly in the direction of Ron who for tonight was wearing a dress. Knutson had lots of different outfits for Ron to wear as the old criminal like a variety of different listeners for all his long rambling stories. Wearing his habitual idiot expression, Ron nodded his head. A nod was plenty to satisfy Sam. He pushed the half empty bottle of bootleg scotch in ‘Betty’s’ direction and half a pack of smokes and then he laid his head on the table to sleep. Ron drained the bottle and smoked all the cigarettes and starting from about three in the morning, the windows rattled from the snores of both drunks.

After a couple of years or so or something-Ron couldn’t be sure, he came to a little later than usual to find Sam lying dead on the floor a fly buzzing in and out of his open mouth.

It took the rest of the day for Ron to scoot his chair over close enough to the corpse to grab the keys and unlock himself. The first thing he did was get good and drunk and smoke cigarettes to his heart’s content. It was only the next day late afternoon when he remembered his colleagues and grabbing the keys, he opened up the freezer door and looked in.

Feed us, they moaned half starved. They hadn’t eaten for over 48 hours. Ron tossed them the keys and took off he was that eager to get back to boozing and smoking.

You sure you don’t want to come? a Cambodian asked looking up to Ron from the deck of the swanky high powered cruise boat Knutson had bought for himself with some of his ill-gotten gains. Ron shook his head. He’ d checked Knutson’s horde and had a lifetime’s supply of booze, crap loads of canned fish, a couple tons of rice, crates of cigarettes and best of all nobody left to bug him. This was better than Heaven. He smiled; waved a cheery goodbye.

A few boats came by after that looking to sell poached fish or smuggled contraband but Ron hid under the pier. They’d leave after that shaking their heads and gradually but surely, no one ever came again and Ron was left all to himself in a huge hulking tin-roofed wooden cannery complex hugging the steep rocky slopes of a fog shrouded, windswept and rain-soaked island as Ron lost all track of time. His beard had grown down to his waist, he smoked, he drank, he even forgot how to talk until the Aryans showed up and even then, never said a word. He just smiled, chain smoked his cigarettes and drank with the occasional slight nod of his head.

Jeez, Jim, I thought you drowned, said Roscoe looking at Jim Maplethrope all draped with wet green seaweed and still clutching a stick.

Yeah, me too but I grabbed this floating tree and it got stuck in that cliff so…wow…I’m alive. What the hell is this place? he asked looking up and down the vast dock jutting off the side of the rocky island and the huge dark wooden buildings.

Valhalla, my friend, Valhalla. And Odin sits in his hall, smiled Alfred.

Alfred finally fall off the deep end? Jim whispered to Big Sue.

Finally? Sue giggled.

‘Shut up, Roscoe said under his breath as Alfred rambled on about great Aryan myths. We need Alfred, he gives the group class."

Yeah, yeah, Roscoe, whatever you say, Skinny shivered as the wind had picked up. So, now what’s the plan?

I’m thinking, Roscoe said looking up at the green hills and cliffs which ran right to down to the ocean falling off in a low cliff. You know what, I don’t see any trees. Just grass, lots of grass.

What’re you thinking, Roscoe? smirked Sue. You want to start a sheep ranch because you can’t find yourself a woman dumb enough to put up with your crap?

Hell, I don’t know, maybe. Skinny, let’s make that your problem. I’m just thinking like we got this place, you know, Valhalla. It’s way out here the middle of nowhere, it’s got fish; it’s got Odin. I think we found our spot.

This is where we’re gonna hide out? asked Sue as she’d always assumed everyone else in the gang would rather not meet up with the cops-especially after all those fucking crazy threats Roscoe made about shooting state troopers and lynching judges.

Who said we’re hiding out? Roscoe retorted a strange light in his eyes. Can’t you see? This is it, our fortress and the founding capitol of the Great White Nation of Aryan America.

Hip hip hooray! Alfred cried out hoisting his flag as the ‘Aryans’ cheered.

THREE

Reverend Thomas Bell was just pulling onto Soapstone Road a few miles north of Palmer, Alaska when he saw a familiar looking battered Chevy truck stop just up ahead in the direction of his turn. The Reverend slowed to a crawl. That was Bob Jittman’s pick-up; he knew it well as Mrs. Jittman, a tired young mother with five kids and presently pregnant, often drove the pick-up to services on Sunday with most of the kids in the pickup’s bed. A young woman, teenaged by the looks of it, and certainly not Mrs. Jittman, got out of the cab and a muscular tatooed arm reached out, slammed the door shut, took off throwing gravel and just as abruptly slammed brakes to a stop. The young lady ran to the truck eagerly perhaps expecting a kind word but the same muscular tattooed arm held out a brassiere. The girl grabbed it, leaned in for a kiss but Bobby shoved the truck into first and tires spitting gravel roared down the dirt road.

His ‘friend’ certainly didn’t seem surprised. She smiled, stuffed the brassiere in one back pocket and from her front pocket extracted a battered pack of cigarettes. She lit one and just stood there waving in the direction of Bobby Jittman, who by this time had made the next turn and disappeared.

The Reverend Thomas, who had stopped his small gray economy car, sat there for a moment watching the girl enjoy her cigarette. He sighed. Even from here, he could see that the backside of her white jeans was stained green from grass and even he had a fairly good idea what that meant. He sighed again shaking his head. He recognized that young lady, he could tell from the way she stood there, hand on hip smoking that cigarette looking just like she had the last time Reverend Thomas had caught her smoking in the church boiler room during Sunday school.

Give you a lift, Sally Sue? the Reverend asked just as the young lady was sort of trying her best to get back into her bra without exactly taking off her t-shirt.

Son of a bitch! she yelped taken completely by surprise but the instant she noticed it was the Reverend Thomas Bell and not some dirty old horny potato farmer, she smiled. She liked the Reverend who was kind of cute for a preacher even if he did always bore the shit out of everyone with all his god talk and goody two shoe ways. Why Reverend Thomas, fancy meeting you here?

I suppose I could say the same, Sally Sue. Why don’t you get in? I’d be happy to see you safely home. Sally Sue regarded him dubiously. Had he seen her cop a smoke which probably meant she was going to have to suffer a long lecture about the evils of smoking again and how smoking led to smoking pot which of course would lead to even worse and she was certainly facing the possibility of roasting forever in Hell.

Look Reverend Bell, I know I promised to quit. It’s just hard, you know, I’m addicted to it.

You are? the Reverend exclaimed thinking she meant addicted to Bob Jittman who was known far and wide throughout the valley as a guy who couldn’t keep his thing in his pants and would most surely end his days shot in the back by an angry husband, an even angrier ex-girlfriend or even Mrs. Jittman, who might just eventually crack.

Yes, sir, and you’ll be proud to know I’m now down to five times a day, five, Reverend, Sally smiled. That’s a big change.

Five? Oh, my Lord. Sally Sue, get in the car now, your soul is in mortal danger.

You think? Sally Sue said taken aback. I didn’t think it was that serious.

Sally Sue, the Reverend said in the best hellfire and brimstone tone he could muster, get in this car or I will have to speak to your mother.

Oh, jeez, you can’t do that, you’ll ruin the whole plan. Sally Sue had just successfully conned her mother, Sue Elly, that she wasn’t really missing all those cigarettes, Sue Elly was just smoking them up faster.

That’s exactly my intention, young lady, said Reverend Thomas with grim determination. Sally Sue sighed, she got in the Reverend’s battered old Ford Escort-property of the church-and the Escort rattled down the road.

You know... Sally Sue said as the Reverend, clearly worked up, took the next corner just a hair too fast, having five a day is really not such a big thing. That Priscilla Smith, your prissy organist, she goes through a pack a day.

‘Why Sally Sue, how dare you say such a thing about Priscilla Smith?" said the Reverend who was single. He had never married, but he hoped to one day.

‘I can say it because I’ve seen her."

You can sit there and honestly say you have seen Priscilla go through a whole pack of men?

Men? Sally Sue laughed. I don’t know, maybe; what I meant was cigarettes. I was hanging out at the Polack Inn one night and I not only saw her go through a whole pack of Marlbergs, I saw her drinking. She said they were Shirley Temples but I know the smell of rum.

Priscilla, right there in front of God and everyone? And just what were you doing in the Polack Inn which is, I know, a den of alcohol and sin?

I wasn’t drinking Reverend, honest, I was just playing that cool old pinball machine. Old Macky lets me in because he’s always trying to get in my pants but I’m never gonna let him because he smells funny and I know he’s got herpes-but that’s just between you and me.

Oh, my Lord! the good Reverend howled braking the Escort so hard it spun around and now dangerously close to a deep ditch and facing south.

Wow, Reverend, cool wheelie, can you do it again? Sally Sue grinned.

I-I-I, the Reverend stammered, his face dangerously red and as he seemed to be struggling for breath, Sally Sue shrugged and did what she always did when Jamie Perkins got too excited after a big basketball win, she reached over and grabbed his thing.

There, there, Reverend, you just calm down. Are you having a bad day? The Reverend sat there panting away clearly beside himself. What was wrong with him? Normally, he was always calm with the spirit of the Lord but Sally Sue and these awful things she’d just said, why he felt like he was right at the edge of the everlasting pit looking down at the blazing fires of Hell? This could be, he had to pray, he had to-

Ahhhhwwww! the Reverend suddenly cried out as something had just exploded right out of him well south to the general vicinity of his soul. He looked down to see Sally Sue’s hand grasping his red and fully erect member.

Wow, Sally Sue grinned, her fingers and a good part of the car now spattered in sticky semen, somebody ain’t had a hand job in way too long. I thought Priscilla was supposed to do that. The Reverend sat speechless in a complete state of shock.

You sure, you don‘t want one? Sally Sue asked once she got her cigarette lit as the Good Reverend sat in stunned silence staring down at his wilted dick. I always like a nice smoke after I bang one out. There’s just something about tobacco and sex. Hey, you know what else would be great? A cold beer. Come on, move over, I’ll drive us over to the Booze Barn over in Wasilla and you can get us a suitcase (carton of four six-packs).

It wasn’t easy but Sally Sue got the Reverend sort of cleaned up and his thing back in his pants and he sort of stumble-walked into the Booze Barn still in a trance. Because Sally Sue was sure he’d mess it all up, she’d scribbled down a note for him using church stationary: one carton of Lady Luckies Filtered and a case of Milsocket Schmitz-pounders if they had ‘em; twelve ounce bottles if not.

Tastes good, huh? Sally smiled perched on an old picnic table half hidden in the brush. They were about ten miles north out of Palmer at a closed down state campground called Moose Creek. Because it was close to town and unsupervised, lots of the kids like to come here for underage smoking, drinking and maybe bang off a quickie in the bed of a pickup truck.

I am a lost man, said the Reverend. In one hand he held a cold Mike’s Malt-they’d had a run on the Schmitz and in the other a smoldering Lucky Lady.

Oh, you’re not lost, silly, Sally Sue