Add a comment

Hunter S. Thompson died of severe lead poisoning... in his bwain you see... trough his head like... a bullet train dude!

Sweet Jesus, it was almost too much to stand. Watching the looping odyssey of those two freaks, driving forward into the venus flytrap of that town was sickening enough, but with Barry Gibb screeching interminably on top of it... well, I did the only humane thing possible under the circumstances. I lowered my .38 special to the monitor tube and squeezed the trigger. The box I took into the backyard, tied it to a stake and put 12 pellets of buckshot through it. As it stands, I'm now writing this from the cargo hold of a hydroplane headed for Guatemala on a decade old laptop using a wireless modem I picked up from a drifter in Silicon valley. This rat bastard attorney of mine refuses to tell me where we're going. I think he may be in the throes of another especially bad acid trip, probably fleeing the country to escape from the gila monsters and moray eels on every street corner in every city. My cigarette has gone down to the filter. Dante was right, Abandon all hope ye who enter here.