Football Season's Over, Hunter Thompson’s Terminal Realization

The dismal state of my surroundings and everything comes flooding back.

Another late night rave, made all the worse via a debaucherous consumption

of every drug known to man or beast,

has left me once again me trapped in some anonymous locale.

It could well be a hotel suite in Vegas

its walls caked with refuse,

or my own damn study at the Owl Farm

where I’ve once again destroyed another typewriter.

I can’t even tell the difference between the two anymore.

Holy hell,

is this really who I’ve become?

Shit man,

I just wanted to be a writer.

To rise up from that dark and bloody ground,

and tell the stories of the downtrodden

in their righteous fight against the bastards in charge.

Yet here I am, the victim of my own persona.

A caricature.

A parody of what others see me as.

A drug addled maniac in an Acapulco shirt

Surrounded by a sea of torn furniture,

looming over a typewriter pock marked by bullet holes,

holding a smoking .357,

framed by pictures of that bastard Nixon

with devil horns drawn on his head in dried ketchup,

And vomit and piss in oozing out of my shoes.

Holy hell man, you can’t keep this up.

You’re on the wrong side of sixty,

Nixon’s dead, and you’re a fossil,

A symbol of how far dreamers can miss their mark

And end up as a caricature portrayed by Billy Murray or Johnny Depp.

That’s what people will remember you for you miserable bastard,

not the dreamer, the activist, the rebel, or journalist,

but a poor fool who rode the ride too long,

who’s doomed to go down through the annals of time

as a parody of your only famous work.

A fucking one hit wonder, oh God.

In that case,

There’s really one thing left to do at this point,

Football Season is over, Time to go out like you always planned,

Shotgun thundering in one last hurrah

In duel to the death. Me versus Myself.

Go out with a bang,

and let them fire your ashes from a multi-story cannon.