Hunter Stockton Thompson
Born: Prickle-Prickle, Confusion 53, Year of Our Lady of Discord 3103
Died: Sweetmorn, Chaos 51, Year of Our Lady of Discord 3171
Born in Louisville, Kentucky, as a child, he quickly grew into adulthood in a mere eighteen years. After a brief stint in Jefferson County jail, and a not so brief tour in the Air Force, Hunter wrote for several newspapers from New York to San Juan.
In 3132, YOLD, Hell's Angels: The Strange and Terrible Saga of the Outlaw Motercycle Gangs was published. This provided a stark look into the twisted lifestyle of California's Premier outlaw gang.
In 3136,YOLD, Hunter ran for sheriff of Pitkin County, Colorado on the "Freak Power" ticket.
After his first article for Rolling Stone, "The Battle of Aspen", was published, the Republicans and Democrats (in a shady backroom deal) conspired to steal the election as polls showed Hunter to have a slim lead in the three way race.
Stung by the Two-Bit-Whorishness of both parties, Hunter returned to journalism with a new found edge. Gonzo journalism was born and although brief hints were present in Hell's Angels, his article, "The Kentucky Derby is Decadent and Depraved" is considered to be the first full flowering of his new style. Manic, desperate, a stream of consciousness writing style blurring the lines of subjective and objective, fact and fiction, fueled by adrenaline and whatever drugs were to be found.
This savage new school of journalism was to propel him to fame in his seminal book on the death of the American dream...
Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas.
A drug filled romp through Las Vegas in 1970, (3136, YOLD), showing the dark underbelly of "The American Dream", a reoccuring theme in Hunters work.
"The Wave Speech"
"Strange memories on this nervous night in Las Vegas. Five years later? Six? It seems like a lifetime, or at least a Main Era — the kind of peak that never comes again. San Francisco in the middle sixties was a very special time and place to be a part of. Maybe it meant something. Maybe not, in the long run . . . but no explanation, no mix of words or music or memories can touch that sense of knowing that you were there and alive in that corner of time and the world. Whatever it meant. . . .
History is hard to know, because of all the hired bullshit, but even without being sure of “history” it seems entirely reasonable to think that every now and then the energy of a whole generation comes to a head in a long fine flash, for reasons that nobody really understands at the time — and which never explain, in retrospect, what actually happened.
My central memory of that time seems to hang on one or five or maybe forty nights — or very early mornings — when I left the Fillmore half-crazy and, instead of going home, aimed the big 650 Lightning across the Bay Bridge at a hundred miles an hour wearing L. L. Bean shorts and a Butte sheepherder's jacket . . . booming through the Treasure Island tunnel at the lights of Oakland and Berkeley and Richmond, not quite sure which turn-off to take when I got to the other end (always stalling at the toll-gate, too twisted to find neutral while I fumbled for change) . . . but being absolutely certain that no matter which way I went I would come to a place where people were just as high and wild as I was: No doubt at all about that. . . .
There was madness in any direction, at any hour. If not across the Bay, then up the Golden Gate or down 101 to Los Altos or La Honda. . . . You could strike sparks anywhere. There was a fantastic universal sense that whatever we were doing was right, that we were winning. . . .
And that, I think, was the handle—that sense of inevitable victory over the forces of Old and Evil. Not in any mean or military sense; we didn’t need that. Our energy would simply prevail. There was no point in fighting — on our side or theirs. We had all the momentum; we were riding the crest of a high and beautiful wave. . . .
So now, less than five years later, you can go up on a steep hill in Las Vegas and look West, and with the right kind of eyes you can almost see the high-water mark — that place where the wave finally broke and rolled back."
After many attempts, made into a movie.
"The Light at the End of the Tunnel Speech"
"All those pathetically eager acid freaks who thought they could buy Peace and Understanding for three bucks a hit. But their loss and failure is ours, too. What Leary took down with him was the central illusion of a whole life-style that he helped to create...a generation of permanent cripples, failed seekers, who never understood the essential old mystic fallacy of the Acid Culture: the desperate assumption that somebody-or at least some force-is tending the Light at the end of the tunnel."
Finally becoming a meme.
"We had two bags of grass, seventy-five pellets of mescaline, five sheets of high-powered blotter acid, a salt shaker half full of cocaine, and a whole galaxy of multi-colored uppers, downers, screamers, laughers and also a quart of tequila, a quart of rum, a case of Budweiser, a pint of raw ether and two dozen amyls. Not that we needed all that for the trip, but once you get locked into a serious drug-collection, the tendency is to push it as far as you can.
The only thing that really worried me was the ether. There is nothing in the world more helpless and irresponsible and depraved than a man in the depths of an ether binge. And I knew we'd get into that rotten stuff pretty soon."
And tragically, but inevitably, a lolcat.
"We were somewhere around Barstow on the edge of the desert when the drugs began to take hold. I remember saying something like "I feel a bit lightheaded; maybe you should drive..." And suddenly there was a terrible roar all around us and the sky was full of what looked like huge bats, all swooping and screeching and diving around the car, which was going about a hundred miles an hour with the top down to Las Vegas. And a voice was screaming: "Holy Jesus! What are these goddamn animals?"
Promoted to Saint, 2nd class, by
The Temple of Eris, Great Lakes Cabal, First Church of the Pineal Gland.
Hunter being literally cannonized and canonized at Owl Farm, his home for many years.
Many, many thanks to Johnny Depp for making Hunter's last wishes come true.
"Call on God, but row away from the rocks."