Tribute to Hunter.S.Thompson

(My wise Brother Andrew and several consultant psychiatrists I work with pleaded with me to not make this public - I honestly don't see why).


It was 1000 hours when Harry arrived. Hurtling through the gate and putting the beast into a 180 slide sending deadly gravel shrapnel towards the tourist buses.

Buses with Asian sightseers milling around.

Harry never got over the war and at 25 had an unusual capacity for hate that normally takes a man decades to compile. My own reasons for being at this raped location were probably multiple but at this hour confusion and blurred memories would have to suffice. A certain hazy argument coupled with caked blood (blood I assumed was mine) augmenting my hair color seemed to be essential components with regards to my current situation.

So here I was watching with a certain mirth camera loaded peoples scattering like so many who didn’t have the chance at Pearl Harbor – nor Hiroshima or Nagasaki for that matter.

Harry is a good driver. His system for ‘Reflex Diminishing Factors’ appeared to create a certain safety margin and kept him out of ditches, though not always court. For every dozen drunk he would knock off 20kms an hour; so by running this equation I figured him sliding through the gates at 140kms meant 2 dozen had been inhaled.

Naturally he had made a high speed pass by my house and bouncing on the front seat where I was presently to reside was the golden hue of Jack; another good and faithful friend.

The first stop on our (to be) drunken adventure was to the Hardware Store. Harry grumbled, too much a reminder of work he said, and it was after all the weekend.

Wednesday in fact. But arguing with a degenerate Skinhead who has a penchant for burying cats up to their necks and practicing with the One Iron whilst pursuing a dramatic course is certainly not advisable and adds no value.

The Hardware Store is a haven for tool junkies; they understand my need for high impact and quality examples of farm equipment. It’s also the only store that will extend me credit more than that of 2 beers and a chaser.

Back in the Beast Harry’s countenance beamed as I commanded a suicidal reverse into the flowing main street, this achieved he slapped the bastard into first and we fish tailed our way to the local bar. No one should misunderstand that menace was a-coming, but I wanted it fast – the shock value of quick hard noise should allow for that 2 second stunned advantage which fucks most defenses.

Rumbling into a space alongside the Local I did a quick recap.

Nothing surfaced so I decided to go on gut instinct. This method never normally fails me and on the odd occasion it has, well, there is always a scapegoat.

Walking into the bar was comparable to observing the results of a natural disaster, or war, or both. Glass everywhere, tables and chairs had become matchsticks. Perhaps a natural progression though me thinks not in a time frame intended by bar management.

Slowly hazy recollections were forming by my mere presence; the eyes again saw past action and lips curled into a smile.

My lips anyway.

All present last night I managed to insult – this by usual method of proving those present had no minds to insult, which they took as an insult.

Ironic no?

The high pitched squealing of the Barkeep brought me back to the present. His manner was panicked and pathetic in one hoggish picture. His jowls wobbled, even though his face was still.

But now I remembered; now I understood.

Seeing him smile and look to the right, I glanced.

The bouncer, complete with chuckling eyes and gleaming smile.

(Hmmm. The caked blood).

That’s about when I hit him with the spade.

It’s a ‘Newman’ – high grade metal riveted to a solid oak handle and designed to withstand much force and abuse. As stated previously, I appreciate excellent examples of tools of the trade, whatever that trade may be.

But yes, back to the Bouncer.

As you would expect hitting a person with the flat face of a spade whilst swinging with the weight and precision of Babe Ruth causes some discomfort. Notably loss of consciousness, intense pain and an associated amazing pattern of blood to be sprayed over the walls.

Blood that will later be caked.

Perhaps in his hair.

By now the Barkeep was a sniveling mess and not even me sitting talking quietly with a drink in one hand and his balls in the other seemed to aid in composing the poor bastard. Harry was attacking the top shelf with the ferocity of a werewolf whose single source of sustenance was alcohol. He lobbed me the keys when I suggested a quiet country spin with our atavistic friend.

He was busy.

Attaching chain to a human is best achieved either –

- Willingly (and paid for), or
- Unconscious.

So a state of shock suffices and admittedly worked well.

For fun I utilized some self tightening strapping locks. This allows for the rattling of chain and body to slowly build to a haunting crescendo as one hauls the package behind a rusty Chevy at 120kms.

The head come off at 140kms.

The main job being done I remained unsatisfied.

Hardly a day’s work.

A glance into the side mirror showed some anal retentive yuppie weaving over the road in a Neanderthal-like approach of communicating to me he wished to pass.

Please.

The back roads of out of the way Counties are not play things for the new or even old rich. These people need to understand certain truths, certain inalienable realities, and I was indeed feeling like the right kind of teacher.

And like all good lessons, it should be fun.

A long stretch of road. Slow down slightly; allow the illusion of space and the ability to pass.

He drops a gear and floors it, comes broad side and glares at me with contempt, not appreciating my smile, little beads of ‘pissed off’ sweat on his brow.

His pupils dilate as we approach the bend and he sees the truck.

A Scania 143m in fact. A nice piece of machinery which trundles along smoothly at 135kms.

Pulling 30 tonnes.

A Porsche 911 is like a bug hitting a windshield at this speed, even at 160kms itself. Not exactly unstoppable force meeting immovable object.

The truck driver was unfazed by the whole event. Just stepped out of the cab, swept the remnants to the weed covered curb and gave me a casual look.

“Same tomorrow Dave?”

“Nah, perhaps we should take one day off, after all we do have family of sorts.”

“Right you are.”

And off into the distance he rumbled leaving me and the gurgling remains of yuppie man.

Looking down at him I’m sure he was in a huge amount of pain, though this appeared muted by a cloud of confusion.

- How could he be dying tragically in some back County hole?
- How could his Porsche not complete a simple pass past a rotting Chevy?
- How could he, who was all potent and great, end up in this ignominious way?

I saw these thoughts and felt the final nail in his coffin should be driven home by the architect of his destruction.

I told him that the rusting Chevy has a bored out big block installed with a nitro glycerin turbo charger which gives the Beast 2g’s of force and could match a F-11 for speed until take off (which I was sure I could achieve on a down hill course – with the wind behind me). I told him I was only tapping the accelerator of an American machine that chewed the arse off his German piece of shit. I told him that the undercurrent of society is rising up to resist the class system his people wish to impose. I told him the light at the end of the tunnel, which he was seeing, is for him, that he’s on the track and the cannonball is bearing down on him.

In fact.

It’s here.

He groaned back at me, a response of sorts I guess. The confusion he was exuding was increasingly evident.

So I did what you would to any road vermin lying in a growing pool of blood.

I whacked some sense into him with my spade.

As I turned and left I felt he finally understood.

When dealing with tools of the trade at any level you must test them (on occasion) to their limits for two reasons

- When you buy a tool it should be your tool for life. It should last for life.
- Better to fuck the thing within its guarantee date, no point protecting the bastard.

There are probably myriad more reasons though my whisky glass needs filling and the type is getting blurry.


As I’ve said, I appreciate tools of the trade.


Next week.



Sledgehammer.






The Grey Madness