Some pathetic attempts by feeble gonzo wannabes
to write like the late, lamented Hunter S. Thompson
You think I was hard up? Hell. I was—and will remain—an altar boy next to that crumbling wizard we called Doctor. No need for introductions, indeed. He was hell on wheels, blah, blah, blah.
The name Canada comes from an ancient Indian dialect. It means "Baby America," and when the Doctor received word that it was the promised land of retroactive politics, strong beer and hunting, he fired a beacon, sent a telegram and landed in my backyard in short order. The bastard was on my turf, which meant nothing to him. As long as there were trees, highways and fun to be had, this land was his land, too.
"Hot damn. You all dress like me up here," he said, tripping on my porch step and dropping his briefcase and strings of oversized Mardi Gras beads he later explained were popular with the ladies. "If you're blood is too thick for Nevada, you'll do fine here," I told him; but what I was really thinking was, "Go away. I need work."
The beck and call of our assignment was as foreign as Thompson was to Canada. The Italians were looking to export major produce directly to Canada via the port city of Halifax, Nova Scotia. A national newspaper wanted Canadian reaction to the potential economic boom paired with a "South of the Border" take on how U.S. foreign policy encouraged nations to shake hands behind the back of America. We teamed up, ate like pigs and got ill. Real cheese is far richer than Kraft, and prosciutto is the most genuine fuck you ever served, once you know the recipe. "Dammit, you're barfing up hundred-dollar bills. Stop that!"
"Are you kidding?" I moaned. "At least it's worth something."
Hip to some miracle cure, Thompson threw an unlabeled prescription bottle at my feet and ordered me to clean myself up. "You don't get that stuff up here, Bub, do you?"
"If we do. it's covered by my medical plan," I said, washing down the pills with some mighty fine Italian red. "Fuck that. You nasally, monotonous ratfink Canadians have it good because you budget nothing for your own national defense and we feel sorry for you and worry what the real world would do to cripple you. That was LSD, by the way."
We bade farewell to Halifax, and he nearly missed his flight out because of his rambling urge to "see every town between here and there." There weren't many, but each one became more vacant. Scary. The population of Canada was only that of California. Thompson was beside himself. "What, man? Goddamn. But You're so big. That does it. I'm setting my permanent second residence here. Hooboy."
Christ, I thought. I'll never get a writer's job again. I can handle competition. Collaboration, even. But not this. It made my skin crawl. "I read they're increasing the land taxes in your neck of the woods," I said. He just stared down the highway, bottle in one hand, cigarette in the other. I had struck a chord. Then he said the words so many of us say in the high-speed spin of a bad drunk. We rarely put any stock into them, but Thompson made them cut like diamonds and shatter like clay. They were fighting words. Proud words. "Get me home."
Springhill, Nova Scotia
It was around 10:30pm when I received a telephone call from a squeaky little pervert at the Holly Creek Social Club, demanding that I get down there and remove my associate from the premises.
"Listen, asshole," he said limply, "he's lucky we didn't just call the police. We wanted to, believe me. Do you know what he said to me? Do you know what he ..."
"Alright, alright," I told him. "I understand. Just feed him something, for Chrissake. He's like an animal. He tastes blood one time and then ..."
"You're damned right he's an animal," he squealed. "You've got ten minutes to get him out of here. Then I'm going to phone the police! He's scaring the guests." He hung up.
This was certainly going to be an inconvenience, but I wasn't at all surprised. My associate, Dr. Morrow, was a rather heavyset, diseased individual who was entirely incapable of acceptable socializing when placed in an environment with free-flowing booze and wealthy, corpulent targets waddling to and fro, so when he told me he would be attending a formal gala in honor of the 75th annual Turtle Pines Golf Tournament champion, I anticipated that some level of violence would probably ensue. My original plan was to stay clear of the whole ordeal. One more late night spent on the losing side of a dispute with vicious socialites who were justifiably seeking to cut my throat did not seem altogether appealing. I had adamantly refused to have any part of it when the doctor initially asked me to come along, and I recommended that he do the same. However, Dr. Morrow was a glutton for mayhem, and judging by the phone call I'd just received, it seemed that he was determined to drag me into the shit with him.
The doctor was a victim of the modern anxiety disease--or, as I prefer to say, he had a crippling sickness which led to massive waves of amorphous paranoia which was prone to strike him down at any given moment.
What most people fail to realize about the condition (especially those living in ignorance) is that its victims are completely helpless from the very beginning, and cannot be held responsible for their own infection. Unfortunately the typical outcome is complete and irreversible depravity and despair, total enslavement, interrupted only by brief holidays into the nauseating psychoscapes and forcibly numbing modes of unadulterated apathy. Every move of the victim is dictated by the condition, every action predetermined.
Coping does not usually come easily for the afflicted. Dr. Morrow had found numerous ways of dealing with his problem, however, namely the ingestion, in truly heroic amounts, of whatever mind-altering substance is at hand. He alone is able to transcend my own adept use of such substances, and he does so with more passion and sheer talent than any one man I've ever known.
I grabbed a few necessary supplies, including a retractable cattle prod I'd obtained from a friend who happens to be a zoologist, and then sped out into the darkness. I was curbside at he clubhouse minutes after the call. The two disheveled valet gimps jumped back in sheer terror as I fishtailed the trusty red shark right up to the door.
"He's at the bar," they told me immediately, correctly discerning my purpose for infiltrating this shiny haven for dimwitted dentists and their bimbo wives. As I rushed in through a worried flock of social penguins on their way to the bar, I became aware of a commotion to my right, and discovered my associate locked in combat with three Polynesian security guards.
"This man is with me," I told them. "He suffers from a rare but incapacitating social anxiety. This madness simply can't be helped. Luckily, I'm his physician. Give me a few minutes in the bathroom alone with him and everything will be right as rain."
"He's been making lewd comments to the help," they said."He told one of the waitresses he'd take her to heaven through the back door, or some such filth. Get him out of here or we're going to call the police."
"Don't worry. I'll set him straight," I replied.
At this point Dr. Morrow began howling and waving his fists at me in a whirlwind of drunken hatred.
"I knew you'd show your rotten face sooner or later," he said. "You can't stay out of my business, can you?"
"You gave these evil weasels my number, you weird bastard! If it weren't for me, you'd already be in jail, no doubt getting violated by some tattooed swine in a dimly lit backroom cell smelling of blood and liquor piss! You're terrifying these people and they want you out of here."
"Bullshit!" he screamed. But quickly realizing he was outflanked, he added, "All right, but let me take a piss first."
I followed him to men's room to make sure things went smoothly. Once inside, the doctor began urinating furiously into the waste basket, creating a considerable mess of wet paper and a foul stinking puddle around his shoes.
"You're lucky they bothered to call me," I told him. "Any sane person would've gone straight to the authorities."
"I gave them your card," he said. "They really think you're my doctor." He started to laugh. "Those rich sons of bitches sure scare easy!"
"Yeah, well you're a goddamned filthy monster of a swine," I replied.
When Dr. Morrow hd finished urinating, he turned to me with a serious expression on his face. "Let me tell you something important," he said. "Do you see that up there?", he asked as he pointed toward the ceiling.
"What?" I asked, as I peered up. Then BAM! A splitting pain shot through my jaw as the doctor landed a fierce uppercut to my chin.
"Scum!" I shouted back as I reached for the retractable taser. I extended the weapon, sending voltage through his lumpy, drunken mass. When he hit the floor, I grabbed his neck tie and tethered him to the support rail in the handicapped stall.
"You'll rot here until morning!", I screamed, as I stormed back out into the crowd. The blood trickling from my mouth seems to have given them a shock, but I assured them they would have no more trouble so long as nobody went into the handicapped stall, which wasn't going to be a problem, because I knew at heart that, other than Dr. Morrow, this Valium-chomping crowd of Chardonnay enthusiasts would never allow a real cripple into their club. I was sure of that much.
I certainly wouldn't recommend anesthetics in a social environment, and this was, I'm sure, a social environment. That type of nasty shit is best left for times of utter seclusion. But I didn't make the choice. Some strange man in a penguin shirt insisted it was a good idea. And I think I just might have been a little too trusting. His eyes had crazy all over them. This nasty stuff hasn't even fully kicked in, and I'm not sure I can handle it now. Grit and determination are the only things that are going to see us through this one. And we're chock full of those necessary qualities now.
Tourism builds cities. And unfortunately it built this one, in the most obscene fashion imaginable. Which, I guess, is the point. A city is founded upon notions of attracting moneyed swine. The swine like it big, and they like it colorful. Neon has to bounce off that wild middle-class skin so as to mesmerize their likes, and thereby creates a land of reflective Technicolor sameness. Or at least that was my theory. Maybe it was just the drugs talking. Or maybe it was just me wanting them to talk.
Who is this strange man, and why on earth did he insist that they were onto us? Who the hell are they , anyway? Such awkward questions can never be resolved when the mind has been taken to an extreme state. It can be love, drugs, lust; these things culminate in a rush that overtakes all rational thought, ending in utter selfishness. By this stage things weren't looking too good. My new friend had insisted we make our way to a bar. He claimed to be thirsty, but I sensed another intention.
If I remember correctly, stairs don't normally require any supplemental appratus, but I could definitely tell that this particular stairway would be a lot easier to negotiate with a winch. In this sort of state, any assistance in ascending would have been all to the good. Let us hope that salvation is on the other side of reason and perhaps even a closer step to something that I'd not thought of before. Utter incoherence had set in by now, and I think it was there to stay. This man tells me he's a doctor, but a doctor of what? His strange remedies do nothing to relieve the anxiety of being human, but instead add complications to the ever-complicated state of being a man. Oh, well. I guess the bell's tolling, my friend (or so the doctor maintains). There is noplace better left to hide than in the obscene, a sort of dark societal-paraphrase that pulls a veil over everything. We had found the land of the nocturnal--the land that had never lost touch with that ever-escaping real--and perhaps we just might find it again.
"Jesus H. Christ!! Did you see that??", I screeched at no one in particular. "Giant goddam lizards are bleeding all over the bar!!"
Hunter leapt from his chair, Samoan warclub in hand, and began to smash the empty shot glasses and peanut bowls, sending shards of glass and bits of nuts flying.
"This is Nixon's fault," Thompson bellowed. "We're doomed. And you can't hold your liquor, you dilettante hack. You should be castrated. There's no room for degenerate swine like you in journalism."
I began to slide slowly from my chair onto the floor. The visions of the blood-bathed Gila monsters had faded into a fuzzy image of Betty Crocker being abused by Karl Rove.
"Christalmighty, I think I've got The Fear," I groaned. "Shoot me."
Hunter stopped his hammering and turned to me with a maniacal grin on his face.
"Get up, asshole. We've got work to do."
I moaned. "I'm dying. Call a doctor. I need medicine."
"Medicine?" Hunter asked, his black eyes suddenly alive with purpose. "Coming right up. I've got just the thing."
He rummaged though his black bag, muttering dark epithets to himself before coming up with a large bottle of pills.
"Here," he said, handing me the plastic vial of blue capsules. "Take a handful of these and you'll feel like a monstrous reincarnation of Fatty Arbuckle."
I looked at the pills through the bottle. What the hell, I thought. They can't make me feel any worse, right?
Right? George W. Bush would know. He's a Man for All Seasons, and we need him right now.
"I need to make a call. I need to call the White House," I said.
"Fuck you!!" Hunter screamed. "You're not touching a telephone, especially not to call that man-child freak. No sir, not today. You're not going to sap the joy in my heart with that bad act."
I slipped more out of my chair. Can this really be the end? I thought.
Port Huron, Michigan
I've had enough. Take me back to the snotty homepage for this inane venture.