Death of a Poet by Hunter S. Thompson (from Screwjack)

OK, I know: another crazy Thompson story. It’s a short one.

Quick background: Death of a Poet by Hunter S. Thompson was previously published in his collection Screwjack. The story is about a chaotic night in a Green Bay trailer park after a Packers loss, focusing on a friend’s breakdown. The Packers have lost, and the author’s friend―”a bad drinker and a junkie for mass hysteria”―has come unhinged. It’s just as crazy as his other works, just not widely known.

Hunter Thompson’s last poem:

“No More Games. No More Bombs. No More Walking. No More Fun. No More Swimming.
67. That is 17 years past 50. 17 more than I needed or wanted.
Boring. I am always bitchy. No Fun – for anybody.
67. You are getting Greedy. Act your old age.
Relax – This won’t hurt.”

That was no poem; that was his suicide note.

Anyhoo. On with the show…

…………………….

Dear Maurice:
Hello. Have a nice day. Yes. Mahalo. Stand back. I have finally returned
from the Wilderness, where I was chased & tormented by huge radioactive
Bobcats for almost 22 weeks. When I finally escaped they put me in a
Decompression Chamber with some people I couldn’t recognize, so I went
all to pieces & now I can’t remember anything or Anybody or even who I
was, all that time—which was exactly since Groundhog Day, when it
started.
Anyway, that’s why I fell behind in my correspondence for a while. I
could not be reached except by the Animals, and they hated me. I never
knew Why. There was no explanation for it.
* * *
So what? Who needs reasons for a thing like that? Escape is all that matters
—except for the horrible scars, but that is a different question. Today we
must deal with The Book, which requires my total attention now.
A brainless whore would not say this, Maurice. The Truth is not in them.
But I am not a brainless whore—and if I was, I don’t remember it. Who
cares? Shit happens. On some days I don’t miss my memory at all. . . . Most
days, in fact. It is like knowing that you were a Jackbastard in yr. Previous
Life, then somebody tells you to be careful not to scream in yr. sleep
anymore. You start to feel afraid. . . . But not me, Maurice.
As for the ORDER, I think Screwjack should be last & Mescalito first—
so the dramatic tension (& also the true chronological weirdness) can build
like Bolero to a faster & wilder climax that will drag the reader relentlessly
up a hill, & then drop him off a cliff. . . .That is the Desired Effect, and if
we start with Screwjack it won’t happen. The book will peter out.
* * *
Okay. That’s about it, for now. We can wrap this thing up very quickly, I
think. . . . Indeed. And so much for all that. I have to go out in the yard to
murder a skunk—and if I fail, he will murder me. Some things never
change.
In closing, I remain—yr. calm & gentle friend,
Hunter
In the coffin of ice, I sleep naked
In the tunnel of fire, I drink
—F. X. LEACH
It was dark when we dropped into Green Bay, and the airport was deadly
calm. The whole town was in shock from the disastrous beating inflicted
that day on the hometown Packers by the Kansas City Chiefs. . . . Their
confidence was broken; the Magic Man had failed, Mighty Casey had
struck out.
The girl at the Avis counter was weeping uncontrollably in her booth as I
approached. My heart was filled with joy, but I couldn’t get through to her.
She had lost her will to live. “Take any car you want,” she said. “I don’t
care anymore: It’s over. I’m moving to Milwaukee on Monday.”
“Who cares?” I said. “Give me some goddamn keys.” She was slow to
respond so I gave her a taste of the long knuckle and she fell to her knees.
“There’s more where that came from,” I told her.
Then I grabbed a set of keys off a nail and hurried outside to find a car. I
was eager to see Leach and celebrate our great victory.
* * *
The address he had given me turned out to be a trailer court behind the
stockyards. He met me at the door with red eyes and trembling hands,
wearing a soiled cowhide bathrobe and carrying a half-gallon of Wild
Turkey.
“You got here just in time,” he said. “I was about to slit my wrists. This is
the worst day of my life.”
“Nonsense,” I said. “We won big. I bet the same way you did. You gave
me the numbers. You even predicted Kansas City would stomp the
Packers.”
F.X. tensed, then he threw back his head and uttered a high-pitch
quavering shriek. I seized him. “Get a grip on yourself,” I snapped. “What’s
wrong?”
“I went crazy,” he said. “I got drunk and changed my bet. Then I doubled
up.”
I felt a shudder in my spine. “What! ” I said. “You bet on the Packers?
What happened?”
“I went to that big Packer pep rally with some guys from the shop,” he
said. “We were all drinking schnapps and screaming and I lost my head. . . .
It was impossible to bet against the Packers in that atmosphere.”
It was true. Leach was a bad drinker and a junkie for mass hysteria.
“They’re going to kill me,” he said. “They’ll be here by midnight. I’m
doomed.” He uttered another low cry and reached for the Wild Turkey
bottle, which had fallen over and spilled.
“Hang on,” I said. “I’ll get more.”
On my way to the kitchen I was jolted by the sight of a naked woman
slumped awkwardly in the corner with a desperate look on her face, as if
she’d been shot. Her eyes were bulged and her mouth was wide open and
she appeared to be reaching out for me.
I leaped back and heard laughter behind me. My first thought was that
Leach, unhinged by his gambling disaster, had finally gone over the line
with his wife-beating habit and shot her in the mouth just before I knocked
on the door. She appeared to be crying out for help, but there was no voice.
I ran into the kitchen and looked around for a knife thinking that if Leach
had gone crazy enough to kill his wife, now he would have to kill me too,
since I was the only witness.
Suddenly he appeared in the doorway, holding the naked woman by the
neck, and hurled her across the room at me. . . .
. . . Time stood still for an instant. The woman seemed to hover in the air,
coming at me in the darkness like a body in slow motion. I went into a
stance with the bread knife and braced for fighting.
Then the thing hit me and bounced softly down to the floor. It was a
rubber blow-up doll: one of those things with five orifices that young
stockbrokers buy in adult bookstores after the singles bars close.
“Meet Jennifer,” he said. “She’s my punching bag.” He picked up the doll
by her hair and slammed it across the room.
“Ho,ho,” he chuckled. “No more wife beating. I’m cured, thanks to
Jennifer.” He smiled sheepishly. “It’s almost like a miracle. These dolls
saved my marriage. They’re a lot smarter than you think,” he nodded
gravely. “Sometimes I have to beat two at once, but it always calms me
down, you know what I mean?”
Whoops, I thought. Welcome to the night train. “Oh hell yes,” I said
quickly. “How do the neighbors handle it?”
“No problem,” he said. “They love me.”
Sure, I thought. I tried to imagine the horror of living in a muddy
industrial lot full of tinwalled trailers and trying to protect your family
against brain damage from knowing that, every night when you look out
your kitchen to check out the neighbor’s unit, there will be a man in a
leather bathrobe flogging two naked women around the room with a quart
of Wild Turkey. Sometimes for two or three hours. . . . It was horrible.
“How is your wife?” I asked. “Is she still here?”
“Oh yes,” he said quickly. “She just went out for some cigarettes. She’ll
be back any minute.” He nodded eagerly. “Oh yes, she’s very proud of me.
We’re almost reconciled. She really loves these dolls.”
I smiled, but something about his story made me nervous. “How many do
you have?” I asked him.
“Don’t worry,” he said. “I have all we need.” He reached into a nearby
broom closet and pulled out another one, a half-inflated Chinese-looking
woman with rings in her nipples and two electric cords attached to her head.
“This is Ling-Ling,” he said. “Screams when I hit her.” He whacked the
doll’s head and it squawked stupidly.
Just then we heard car doors slamming outside the trailer, a loud
knocking on the front door and a gruff voice shouting, “Open up! Police!”
Leach grabbed a snub-nosed .44 Magnum out of a shoulder holster inside
his bathrobe and fired two shots through the front door. “You bitch,” he
screamed. “I should have killed you a long time ago.”
He fired two more shots, laughing calmly. Then he turned to face me and
put the barrel of the gun in his mouth. He hesitated for a moment, staring
directly into my eyes. Then he pulled the trigger and blew off the back of
his head.
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Hunter S. Thompson was born and raised in Louisville, Kentucky. His
books include Hell’s Angels, Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas, Fear and
Loathing: On the Campaign Trail ’72, The Curse of Lono, Songs of the
Doomed, Better Than Sex, The Proud Highway, and The Rum Diary. He is a
regular contributor to various national and international publications. He
now lives in Colorado.
OceanofPDF.com

Thanks, Hunter. We miss you.

Hunter S.Thompson was an American journalist and author, and the founder of the gonzo journalism movement. Born and raised in Louisville, Ky, his books include Hell’s Angels, Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas, among others.