I woke up on my bathroom floor. The first thing I saw when I opened my eyes was an ant crawling over an empty toilet roll. The last thing I remembered was taking my fifteenth tab of acid during the elimination section of “Miss Popularity” (Who got kicked out? Was it An-Ya?).
Scribblings in my notebook suggest that at sometime on Monday I briefly visited Gore, but this does not explain the receipt for Shell Pukete in Hamilton showing a purchase of a mince and cheese pie and Mountain Dew at 3.49am on Sunday morning. Nor does it explain the apparent shopping list written in my notebook in someone else’s handwriting – toilet paper, yes; dog food, no.
I consulted my next-door neighbour, Marvin the Psychic. He knows things, so I thought maybe he’d be able to shed some light on what happened to me over the last few days.
“Yo, Marvin,” I flirtatiously purred, “What’s up? What happened to me?”
“Oh, baby,” he said, putting his hookah down. “Ain’t you heard the news? Hunter S Thompson, he be dead.”
Wiping a solitary tear from my mascara-streaked eye, I looked up on the wall behind Marvin and saw a framed piece of embroidery. Marvin took the embroidery down and handed it to me along with a 40oz of malt liquor. The simple cross-stitch read:
“I’ve always considered writing the most hateful kind of work. I suspect it’s a bit like fucking, which is only fun for amateurs. Old whores don’t do much giggling.” ~ Hunter S Thompson, 1937 – 2005.