The end result of reading way too much Hunter S. Thompson

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Philabuster
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Joined: August 27th, 2011, 3:47 pm
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The end result of reading way too much Hunter S. Thompson

Post by Philabuster » December 1st, 2011, 2:37 pm

This is so Gonzo I don't even get it...and I wrote it...

I’ll never forget Marty Richardson. The man had a knack for sticking in your mind, even with a head full of acid. He looked like a clown without makeup. Prominent cheek bones formed a smile that extended for miles. It stretched all around his face like a balloon warping under stress. His chardonay blond hair long, hanging down to his shoulders in greasy clumps. He was an animal among animals and we all lived in a zoo. Not literally of course. How could a group of grown men live in a zoo? That’s preposterous. Figuratively we all lived in a zoo. The cages of cubicle walls which lined the bull pen from north to south and east to west. Motivational posters were as fragrant as “do not touch signs” and just as overlooked. Outside, thirty stories below, laid an ant colony of workers and migrants who fled from one building to another, toting blueteeth and attaché cases. Flashing red and blue lights formed a circle of heads which gravitated more ants around the newly created celestial space. The zoo was in full force, and Marty Richardson was our star attraction. A man, no not a man. A machine...no not quite machine either. An alien, sent from some other worldly planet with the hope of sampling our cuisine and mating with our women. Marty always said that there were three things in his life that would never escape him...

The delicious pheromone of a woman in heat
The delirium associated with ingesting too many drugs
...and the inevitable conclusion of death

Or maybe it was me who always said those three things. No matter now, even with these disciples of vice neither of us ever expected such a tragic outcome to occur in reference to the third mention. Namely why it was such a shock to discover that on this 1st of December, just after lunch, Marty Richardson’s body was discovered thirty floors down pancaked on the sidewalk. The fall from our floor out of a broken window which was fractured by his own bloody hand.
“Well shit,” I thought reaching for the flask of irish whiskey hidden in my left breast pocket. “I guess he wasn’t an alien.”
“Maybe not,” replied the levitating tiger sitting to my right. “Unless he was...”
“Unless he was indeed,” I added, leaning over for one more quick look. Suddenly I was disturbed by the increasing possibility that my life may very well end the same unpleasant way of Marty Richardson. My fruitless ambitions of hanging on to a rockabilly past in a dreadfully corporate present with an ant colony future.
“To Marty!” I proclaimed raising the flask in the air before pouring the sweet nectar onto my tongue. The flask fell from my hands, plummeting thirty stories into the lifeless mouth of my former comrade. “To Marty.” I proclaimed once again.
Silence filled the air and time slowed down, long enough so much to notice the blood dripping down my wrist and the glass shards reflecting off my skin. Footsteps were coming up the stairwell. I peered back over the ledge. I’ll never forget Marty Richardson.

gganate
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Re: The end result of reading way too much Hunter S. Thompson

Post by gganate » February 22nd, 2012, 9:02 am

I like it, very much in his style. "Chardonney hair" is interesting, as is the mention of smelling a woman's pheromones.

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