I was genuinely floored.

I phoned Jane, who was at work so didn’t answer, so is the possessor of another one of my patented nonsensical rambles on her messaging. Then I phoned Jim. And then I booted up the computer and to write… something.

Only have one story about Thompson which connects directly to the man rather than the influence of his work. When I was living in Denver, in Thompson’s neck of the woods, a friend of mine claimed that Hunter S. Thompson hit on his wife on a distant bus-route. Which is a good way to picture him. Of course, I always suspected this friend was an inveterate liar, but I choose not to let that detract from the story. Lies were part of the fun with Thompson. Little lies that got you closer to bigger truths.

Suicide sticks badly when thinking with Thompson, though conspicuous anger and quiet despair are often bedfellows. As Jim idly speculated, him fucking around drunk and accidentally killing himself fits better with the image of The Man. As more news emerges, we’ll know.

It feels like an important passing. Like all too many writers, I owe Thompson too much to easily describe. Not least that fact the people who I initially appropriated my voice from took from him, making him – well – sort of a literary Grandfather, and the sort of family elder who you might suspect fucking your mom and making the link a little more direct on the quiet.

Hunter S. Thompson. Quite literally, a man who wrote a lot of words, took a lot of drugs and owned a lot of guns.