The King is dead – Long live The King
It’s just before midnight.
Ring – Ring
“Hullo?”
It’s news of Hunter S. Thompson’s death.
“At first I thought it was some gag. But, I googled it. It’s news all over the place.”
There is a call on the other line from Baby Arm Joe. I let the call go to voice-jail. I listen to Joe’s message later. It’s more news of the Good Dr’s demise.
I say G’night. It’s past midnight. I’m alone in a dark room on the fourth floor of a seedy little hotel room in downtown Santa Cruz, California. It is a rainy night. A blue glow from a black light, left to me by the Late, Great Right Reverend Don, illuminates the paper I write on. I’m smoking a hand rolled cigarette. I exhale a swirl of smoke, paisley against the blue glow of the only light in the room, and I pick up my phone and dial James Inman’s phone number.
Inman’s phone service has been discontinued. I know he is sleeping on Banjo Randy’s sofa in Kansas City. So, I call Banjo Randy.
“He lost his cell phone on a greyhound bus ride out here; yeah, I’m pretty sure that he’s heard the news.”
It’s three in the morning in Kansas City as I listen to Banjo Randy fix and eat dinner. I tell Randy the story of how my fish came to eat only tuna. Banjo Randy reciprocates with a story of how he came to take a bath in a tub full of tepid water amid shaving foam and the stubble from Inman’s bald head.
We say Good Night.
I roll another smoke.
Earlier this evening, I had called Hinty and listened to Hinty speak about the theft of electronic devices from his home. This occurred within the past couple of days and the day after Hinty’s birthday.
“I had a dvd player hooked up to every television in the house. Everything is gone, along with a half bottle of whiskey.”
The thieves had helped themselves to drinks while cleaning out Hinty’s home. They had left the half bottle on the living room table.
When there was nothing left to say we said our good-byes.
“Generation of Swine” the Good Dr. had called us. I find nothing in my experience to refute that.
In receiving the news of the passing of Doctor Hunter S. Thompson I feel a shift in the wind.
I stand up from my chair in the dark of my room and walk to the open window. I look to the street, through the yellow of the street lights four stories below me, and I see laid out at my feet a generation of Pure Fucking Evil.
I glance to the clock. Well past midnight. The mourning has come, as well it should.
Morning / Mourning
Maudlin? yeah.
Morose? Uh huh.
Depressive? Sure.
Why not? What the hell, Hillbilly Gonzo lives no more. And all that remains is the fear and the loathing.
I gently slide the window shut against the rain, and walk back across my room and sit back down.
Alone.
And in the dark.
And I listen to the rain come down.
