A “Very” Exclusive interview with Dr. Hunter S. Thompson

By Danny R. Phillips

Authors’ Note: This piece of fiction is based on a dream I had and is a product of my twisted imagination. Feel free to email me with thoughts relating to this or any of my other work but please, do not state the obvious. I know Hunter Thompson is dead and therefore he is extremely difficult to reach for comment.

On February 20, 2005 the great Doctor of Gonzo journalism, Hunter Stockton Thompson spent the day with his son Juan and his grandson Willie, and after giving Juan some cherished family heirlooms, Hunter put a .44 Magnum to his 67 year-old-head and well, let’s say “checked out of the hotel.”

In light of these strange circumstances, this interview was a giant pain in the ass to line up. Fighting my way though multiple layers of stupidity, slashing a wide path through the PR jungle, I finally tracked down the good doctor with the help of a Yogi, some “medication,” and a little Transcendental Meditation. Our sit-down was strange to say the least.

DP: Dr. Thompson, it is an honor and absolute pleasure to have this chance to talk with you.

HST: Yeah, yeah, great! And by the way, you can call me Hunter. You want a drink? It’s an open bar up here, all the best whiskey. Anything you can think of. None of those despicable hangovers to contend with, either.

DP: No thanks. Maybe later.

HST: Just say when and we’ll do it up right. We’ll get downright ugly drunk. They’ll have the dogs after us.

DP: Hunter, you basically invented a completely new approach to journalism called Gonzo journalism. Why?

HST: (pausing for a drag of his ever-present Dunhill cigarette) Why?! Why?! Hell man, because I could. In so-called “real” journalism, the author is expected to leave him or herself out of the action. That’s too boring for my tastes. Gonzo means “big or large.” Go big or go home, ya know. The old guard journalists, the Cronkites, the Murrows, the fascist Joe McCarthy types in the papers and TV were all too damned dry and excruciatingly boring. I really wanted to bring the story to life. Throw myself in the mix and damn the torpedoes!

DP: Fascinating. Let us cut to the chase. We’re drugs an essential part of the writing process for you?

HST: I was a creature of the times. I was a non-conformist in the 60s before it was cool to be a rebel. A non-conformist beast that just happened to take drugs. I can’t say they were essential to the writing, just one of the many benefits that came with the job. (laughs)

DP: Your most famous book, Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas, appeared for the first time as installments in Rolling Stone. Why RS and not, say The Saturday Evening Post?

As I am asking this question, Hunter shuffles over to his personal Wild Turkey stream, choosing to forgo the highball glass, plunging his entire bald head in for a drink.

HST: The Saturday Evening Post?! Are you fucking kidding me? Have you read the book? The corpses that read that magazine would be having massive strokes, the mag would be flooded with lawsuits or at the very least, the old fogies’ angina would act up. Wouldn’t be all that great for sales, would it? Hey kid, Lester [Bangs, the world famous rock critic that died of a drug overdose in 1982] gave me some really good smoke. Want some? I think he got it from Hendrix. [Author’s Note: If I have to explain who Hendrix is, you have no business continuing reading this article.]

DP: No thanks, Hunter. I’m on the clock.

HST: There’s one thing you need to learn. We’re ALWAYS on the clock. No matter what we’re doing, no matter where we’re headed, we’re always on the clock, kid. The time that you think is yours to waste isn’t, it is all predetermined. Kerouac explained that to me when I first got here. He was my aide, so to speak. Ya know, showing me around, getting me accustomed to my cloud, all that shit. . .

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