Hunter S. Thompson, famous American journalist and author, died 20 February 2005. He is credited as the creator of Gonzo journalism, a style of reporting in which the reporters involve themselves in the action to such a degree that they become the central figures of their stories.
In drug culture, he is best known by his novel Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas which documented a drug binge with “...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... also, a quart of tequila, a quart of rum, a case of beer, a pint of raw ether, and two dozen amyls.”
Thompson died at his self-described “fortified compound” in Woody Creek, Colorado, at 5:42 p.m. on February 20, 2005, from a self-inflicted gunshot wound to the head. The following story has been submitted by a reader...
I used to know Hunter S Thompson, and I talked to him the night he died. My husband introduced us online. Only Hunter would go into a chatroom with the nick name Dr Hunter S Thompson. It fitted in with is particular sense of humour. My husband told him who he was ( or used to be known as) asked him what he and Hunter did on the night they were on the Cilla Black show together and why they were late.
Hunter and my husband were shooting up in the mensroom of course. Only four people knew that story until now, Hunter, my husband, and the production assistant who was bitching at them for being late for the great Cilla Black, and of course me!
So anyways his identity confirmed as the genuine Hunter and not some crazed
fan. Hunter and I became fast friends for years. We often chatted about
this and that. Mainly about my writing, he liked some of my stories and
gave me pointers. Philosophy, religion and assorted crap, life the universe
and everything. Nice Bloke. Anyways this is about him not me and the night
he died.
We were both going through some personal shit.
His problem was with all his money and fame and power and position, he was a sad and lonely guy. No one loved him for him, my problem is hubby and I had had one of our not so rare splits. So here I was loving this hopeless ex rock and roll junkie with all my heart and soul and here was Hunter, who had everything society tells you is important but not a single soul who even wanted to know who he really was inside and loved him for him.
Sure everyone wanted a piece of him, but no one wanted the package. They didnt want his pain and hurt, they just wanted his money and position. Everyone needs to love and be loved, it’s a human neccessity, for rock stars and book authors and every single human being.
Anyways we sat in this depression chatroom on msn. We talked for hours and hours. I cried, he cried and we realised the plight we were both in was sad and pathetic I loved too much, him too little and both hurting so we ended up working each other up rather than calming each other down. The chat room got pissed at us for being so depressed and kicked us both from the chat. Hunter put a gun to his head and pulled the trigger. I took all my pills.
How could I be writting this story? Because Hunter and I had online friends in common, he told them what I was up to online, he thought I had everything to live for, and they knew or found out enough about me collectively to call an ambulance in Australia from America.
The police traced my phone number from a common friend in America and broke
into my house 20 shots of narcane (I read my chart) and two days later I
came to in the psych ward and Hunter was dead on the radio.
And that, Ladies and Gentlemen, is how the great Hunter S Thompson died.
He was my friend.
GO TO THE HOME PAGE
Please note personal stories do not necessarily reflect the policies and attitudes of www.saferinjecting.net or the sites that allowed reproduction. This article has been reproduced from http://www.quihn.org by courtesy of QuIHN who hold copyright.