R.I.P. Hunter

The Doctor is dead. He shoved a Smith & Wesson against his tonsils and left the mess for the grandkids.

I read he'd been in pain with a broken leg. I guess the fog of too many wonder-pills finally stopped lifting. Hinky choice: death or a broken leg. Good thing the NFL doesn't put players down for that. We'd have a real shortage of volunteers and some very weak plays.

Full of juice he was unique. Not a role-model for adjusted youth, but a rogue genius. It's hard to figure when gonzo went play-dough. Age is no excuse. It's no place for sissies, but what long-term reprobate meaner than a .45 wouldn't salivate over the special dispensations of age?

Hit somebody with a silver-handled cane at 35, it's a felony. At 80 it's curmudgeonly, and the cops call your daughter or drive you home. You can do all the things they used to bust you for, and be home every night for supper.

When the bad shit goes down, warriors spit nails and hit somebody, but the burn-outs go wet and weepy. And a burn-out with a gun is balancing on the edge of a knife. It's a perishable skill. If you don't maintain your chops, you blow your brains out.

Maybe the world got harder than Hunter Thompson. I thought he was an iron spike, but maybe an iron spike can't bend enough to change with the world. Enough pressure and it snaps with a shattering and explosive finality.

R.I.P.

(He DID shoot the bastard!)

The Gunslinger