Bring Me the Head of Hunter S. Thompson

Reynaldo, the World’s Smallest Circus Bear, knew by a hair’s-breadth presentiment whenever she was about to ring him up. There was a certain warm, giddiness-inducin pulse on the other side of the call that signified one name and one name only: Gaga.

“Caught in a bear romance” blared from his circus-bear customized smartphone, with subliminals meant to curdle brains of eavesdropping FBI agents through the use of a sophisticated encryption system Reynaldo himself had conceived with the help of the LucasFilm people. 

“Rey Rey here,” he said. Only Gaga was privileged to employ the sole nickname he allowed anyone to use. They’d had each other’s back for many years, and their friendship had even survived the whirlwind courtship and devastating breakup on the Spanish island of Ibiza, only a few hundred yards from the site of Nico’s death in a Bizarro bicycling accident.

“You miss her too, huh,” Gaga had said, her words trailing off.

“To be honest, I never really knew her,” said the bear wistfully. He was speaking partially of Nico, of course, but he could have been talking about himself. The whole thing had gone by in a blur, on an alternate timeline. Reynaldo once researched bear lifespans and found to his astonishment that his had somehow expanded 30 years past the demise of 99.9% of bears–except, of course, for the fabled ‘Bear Methusaleh’ of lore and legend–and the fact that he had actually known the deep-voiced Teutonic actress/singer/vampire pussybat during his undergraduate years at Brown (Bear) U. was something he simply accepted the way he accepted the fact that he could juggle chainsaws while negotiating a unicycle over a sometimes Nietzschean abyss. 

He wasn’t about to swap out this timeline for another that, however more ‘normal,’ and lacking in danger, was sheer Snoozeville. Reynaldo wasn’t a risk-averse bear; in fact it was precisely that sterner stuff of which his particular flesh was heir that led to his longtime interstectine departmental war. 

The Company had employed Gaga off and on since her debut, after they groomed her as a Julliard student, the same way they’d done Conan O’ Brien and countless others. She was flattered that the spooks believed the Germanottas were on the data dotta as far as having certain interspecies psychic mindlink skills, which was how she first encountered Reynaldo. 

“I just got the call,” Germanotta said. The tension in her voice was poignant to Reynaldo, who’d known her in happier, simpler times and climes where/when the two cavorted like primal woman and bear, he sporting an enormous red chub, her nude except for her LED-enhanced mirror shades. 

“Steadman?”

“Y-yes. And he sounded…”

“He sounded in a bad way. I know.”

“You always know, Reynaldo!” She sounded like a petulant Elvira, Mistress of the Dark.

“Because a smol bear is an ordained magus in Thee Order Ov Unholy Flesh.”

“Well so am I, but my esp powers aren’t quite as developed as yours,” Stephanie said after a thoughtful pause. Or she had nodded off thinking of Nico and the lovely French language.

“If Nico hadn’t been an Amazon style Germanic blonde femme fatale, she would have reminded me of a young boy,” was what Reynaldo decidedly did not say. “Anyway the Russians want to derail this precise conversation, and where the Russians are, MK-Ultra can’t be far behind.”

“Just fuck that Zander creep,” said Gaga. “He kept calling me, wanted to interview me for that stupid magazine of his. So I consulted with Willem Dafoe. Willem told me to charge him. Now Zander’s gotten a second mortgage so he can get a loan to pay me for the interview, and I fucking told his dumb ass…”

“Gaga, focus, dammit. Look into my eyes and see who I am.”

“Lucifer, obvs, but ok, I see what you’re saying. Yes, Steadman was in a panic. Some Russian gazillionaire had Thompson’s head stolen. Again.”

“Dammit to hell,” burst out Reynaldo. “And I had a golf date with Bull Clownton. Hold on, I need to tell my secretary.” Reynaldo terminated the call, then texted an message to a well-worn address.

Ten Hours Later, FBI Field Office, Detroit, Michigan 

Special Agent Lance Johnson had folded himself into several idiotic shapes examining the security footage. What sort of game was that bear or bearlike individual playing now? Everybody knew that Hunter Stockton Thompson had had himself…or the particulate matters of pure gonzo fiction that remained…shot out of a duo-thumbed fist clutching a peyote button. There was no whole head to have brought in a diplomatic pouch to a Russian gobsmackillionaire anyway. But he suspected that half the time Reynaldo and his pal Germanotta were up to metafictional shenans. At least, that’s what his instincts told him. Of course, his instincts were mostly wrong as shit.

“Let’s scramble some breakfast choppers aaaaand…” Johnson was on the nod again, drool-drilling himself into epic widescreen dreams of motorboating Nico like a madman while she slurred the words to “All Tomorrow’s Parties” in his ear as she transformed into a genetically modified vampire pussy bat.

Reynaldo, the World’s Smolest Circus Bear, fortified compound, Taos, New Mexico 

“So what did you discover?” asked Reynaldo after an eternity.

“I think Hunter’s brain is fucking with us,” she said, snort-laughing. 

“I would tend to agree,” said Reynaldo. “He’s good at that. I think that’s why we got along so well. Simpler, purer, less complicated times. Oh Gaga…”

“Oh, bear…the unbearable hotness of your being a smol circus beast who exploits himself for hard cash…”

“I’ve performed before royalty and reeking New Orleans gutterpunks alike,” said Reynaldo, his smol, furry body suddenly shaking with sobs as he realized that his youth would never return. “Hunter knew exactly what was about to happen to our world after 9/11, which was why…”

“Why he had himself cloned by German doctors,” said Germanotta, completing Reynaldo’s sentence.

“I miss the fuck out of Nico,” said Reynaldo. “Yes, she was an asshole, but she was OUR asshole, you know? She cared about nothing but her dripping black candles and turning her skin all butter n’ creamy soft from soaking in the dark tub all day…wrinkled as she was, she was our bitch.”

“I’m a free bitch, baby,” said Gaga. “And I choose domination by my favorite circus bear.”

“The world’s smolest,” said Reynaldo with a grin.

“Indeed, love, you make me weak in the knees.” Her phone buzzed. “Sorry, I need to take this,” she said. 

“Hello, Beyonce? What’s shackalackeling, baby? I’m here with Smol Bear…oh, you got the call from Steadman too? Yeah, I agree, he needs to get out more. Hunter S. Thompson is dead. Long live Hunter S. Thompson, his clones, his brains, Nico Pussybat in her various incarnations…”

From somewhere in the far distance they heard the sound of a harmonium and a wet, queefy sound approximating a Germanic accent in bubblin’ tones. 

“Thees song was Jeeem Morrison’s favorite song…eet’s called ‘Thee Ent.'”

THEE ENT

Meat the Messiah: s01e06 – The One with Tyler Durden

bukowski and elvis are in a bar, drinking turpentine. there is no laughter or small talk. there is only the sound of liquid swallows, the occasional belch, and the slow ooze of a languid jukebox.

the phone rings like a fire alarm and startles a few people who are alert enough to react.

bartender: hank? hank bukowski?

bukowski: what.

bartender: phone.

bukowski: fine.

he puts the phone to his ear.

tyler durden: hank. i need to tell you the story of the wafflehouse at the end of the world.

bukowski: make it quick.

tyler durden: the waffle house was empty save for ross from friends, margaret (the waitress), and demetri (the cook). ross sat at their old booth, on this last day of earth. margaret approached, ‘haven’t seen you in years.’ ross said that it was too painful to come back here. ‘can i get you some coffee?’ ross heard gunshots off in the distance. no sirens. monica walked in, 67 years old, dressed like hitler. she walked over and sat across from ross. ross said, ‘i thought you would ditch the getup for the last day.’ monica said, ‘this is who i am now.’ he said, ‘but we’re jewish! is this some sort of commentary on how wealthy jews disproportionately support the genocide in gaza?’ she frowned, ‘no… he likes it when i’m hitler.’ then it was ross’s turn to frown, ‘oh you had to bring him up. that’s just great.’ ‘ross, you need to get over it.’ the waitress came back for their orders. ross said, ‘i’m not hungry anymore,’ and left. ‘don’t ruin the last day, ross!’ she shouted after him to no avail. rachel/hitler looked at the waitress, who didn’t seem to care she was dressed as hitler. ‘can i ask you something? why did you come into work today?’

‘waffle house never closes.’

bulowski: i’ve heard that one before, asshole!

he hangs up the phone.

***commercial break***

in yellow font the title text reads 50 romantic classics, while schmaltzy orchestrations play and song titles scroll up the screen, with vasseline-smeared footage of sunsets and a happy couple walking along an idyllic beach in the background.

the most romantic music you have ever heard, sure to rekindle any romance. fall in love all over again with 50 romantic classics. glide across the room with her, dancing on a river of silk. you are still the most beautiful people of your high school class, some 40 years later. sure she’s fucking the gardener and you inflict your hatred of women onto your employees, particularly your secretary, who has endured your leering and gropes and dismissals for years. she lives alone in an efficiency apartment with one cat. she would prefer a dog, but she couldn’t maintain a dog with the hours you make her work. edna is her name and you call her eddy, despite the fact that she despises that nickname and hasn’t told you that for fear of reprisal. she had dreams of moving to the big city and meeting meet another lesbian to spend her life with, but you never paid her enough to save up. in two years she will die of an aneurysm and you will not go to her funeral. but none of that matters with 50 romantic classics. you’ll feel the divorce papers melt away with this carefully curated selection of only the most romantic songs. 

***

the smoke at the bar hangs low. ever since the death of the wind machine, the smog doesn’t seem to go anywhere. elvis and bukowski drink in silence. the bar phone splits the silence again.

bartender: hello? …is there an elvis here?

elvis costello: which one?

bartender: presley

elvis: yeah man.

tyler durden: pov: you’re staring down the length of the limo’s interior. you look over at your studio-mandated wife and finish your watered down scotch. you know you’ve never brought her to climax and you see the flashbulbs through the tinted window. it’s showtime and you both put on your public faces. the door opens a flood of light hits your eye. you accept it with grace. your every move is hypnosis, well practiced and gilded. you step on the red carpet to a storm of bulbs. you smile and your teeth shine back like high beams on a country road. you take your wife’s hand, knowing your hands are clammy. you can feel her slightly recoil from your touch, but not in way that’s visible, because she’s a pro and you’re a pro, and you go out there and turn on the charm.

interviewer: in this fast paced modern world, how do you stay so fit?

you: i eat healthy and have lots of sex with this hottie right here.

interviewer: who are you wearing?

you: kmart tuxedos.

(everyone laughs because kmart is for poor people.)

interviewer: when are you and your wife going to be in a movie together?

you: there’s something in the works. stay tuned. think eyes wide shut but sexy.

you move inside and watch the movie you’re in and it’s awful. just agonizing slop. you don’t care. you already got paid. you’re the biggest actor in hollywood and this will make a billion at the box office easy. the limo drops your wife off at her house before dropping you off at your house. you don’t have the energy for after parties tonight. waiting behind the bush is the ceo of kmart and he smashes you in the face with a morning star spiked mace, then runs off into the night. half your jaw is gone and you lay in your driveway breathing bloody foam–no one around to help. before you pass out, you let out this plaintive prayer:

dear lord,

what is the weekend? everybody’s so mean.

elvis: i don’t get the point of this.

***commercial break***

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***

at the bar, the smoke is so thick, there’s 3 foot visibility. bukowski’s on his 11th whiskey; elvis on his 9th.

bukowski: if that asshole calls again, i’m gonna kick his ass.

elvis: i think he’d like that.

the phone rings again. the bartender answers. he says this call is for everyone at the bar and puts it on speakerphone.

tyler durden: marty shambles, author of MEAT THE MESSIAH, is fabulously wealthy from all of his book sales, and lives in beverly hills. we sat down with him in his palatial home to talk about his work, his life, and what the heck makes him tick.

rolling stone: your book has been described as a self-indulgent heap of filth. what do you say to these detractors?

marty shambles (field dressing a dear in his drawing room, pauses to show his coffee mug that reads world’s best author): you think amazon would sell that to anybody?

rs: right wingers hate you because they say you’re woke. left wingers hate you because they think you’re a racist.

ms (posing for a portrait with regal stature): no matter who hates me, i support the immortal science of marxism-leninism.

rs: what about mao?

ms: who?

rs: what’s your next book?

ms (mixing himself a cocktail of morphine and dextromethorphan): i’m thinking a sequel to the great gatsby where gatsby’s manor is haunted by all the ghosts of the booming 20s. gatsby has huge ghost parties every night, hoping daisy will return.

rs: that sounds awful.

ms (girating to a spicy latin rhythm): thanks.

bukowski: you son of a bitch! i will end you!!!

credits roll.

***

Marty Shambles

Marty Shambles

Marty Shambles

Marty Shambles

Marty Shambles

Marty Shambles

Pussypower Reloaded: A Fucked-Up Fairy Tale

Princess Cherrypop idly pet her pussy by the side of the River of Sparkling Goodness, fantasizing about the day a charming, handsome prince would appear before her, offering to chastly marry her and. carry her to his palace where extremely vanilla proceedings would take place and little to none of the “kink,” except for perhaps a mild spanking. 

“Oh Twatzapooner,” she cried, youthful tears spilling down her cheeks,” my heart yearns for him. When will he hear my pleas, and manifest my desire?”

But answer came there none. Instead, an eyebird came and began to peck at the berries of a Broomjumb tree that went up and up almost beyond the visible, with its top plunged through a labial fold in the clouds…which vaguely reminded her of something.

“Twatzapooner will never hear you, I can assure you, my pretty,” boomed a dark, oily and evil voice within her head. It seemed to expand and expand, the pressure awful and enormous, and every word like a knife stabbing her brain. Cherrypop screamed. 

“What do you WANT with me, Nair? I’ve never troubled you in the slightest!!! Why must you be so CRUEL to me, you heatless…words that rhyme with other words disallowed me by decree of my father, King Hubert Longwood XII, King of Euphoria?”

The Baroness Cuntingham, Queen of Nair, then laughed, and the laugh was hideous, and the knives redoubled with stabbing frenzy, and the Princess Cherrypop wished for death.

She wished to be felled on the spot by the ax of a stray woodsman, specifically, the pain was so bad.

Suddenly she heard the voice of the goddess Twatzapooner herself inside her head, masking Nair’s.

“My dear Princess Cherrypop, do not fear, my child. I will requite your faith in me. Do but use the pussypower I have invested in the maternal line of the royal lineage of the Kingdom of Euphoria from time immemorial. Remember, that is the power that Baroness Cuttingham, Queen of Nair, wishes to take from you, by force if necessary.”

“I know it well, dear Twatzapooner…I know her plans too well!” cried the princess. “She has sent many a gremlin with cutting tools to excise my precious pussy; she has sent bands of awful mutated beasts to drag me off into the woods. She has bound me and stopped me my mouth with plugs of rubber–a sensation not unpleasurable, which didst cause me pussysquirt. But what she wishes, I cannot provide.”

“I cannot provide this either, child,” said Twatzapooner, manifesting beside the princess beside the River. She was wearing a puffy pink dress that followed the divine camel lips, a crown inset with diamonds, a pink leather bustier and a d-ring, and long pink leather gloves. “I am bound by the same laws as thee, and all the other creatures within my domain. For it is well said that even the gods cannot subvene where law exists. 

“It pains me much that the only means I have available to rescue you from your plight–the stabbing of the dreaded Raven’s Claw weapon wielded by Nair, by Cuntingham, is to indeed summon the aid of the woodsman, Rudolpho.” She waved her wand and instantly by her side appeared the woodsman, Rudolpho.

Unfortunately, Rudolpho was of a beastly and brutish cast and understood little, including the skill by which better woodsmen kept their axe blades sharp af. As a consequence, when the goddess Twatzapooner bid him swipe off the princess’s head, it was not in a single smooth motion, but in a ghastly series of whacks that caused her head to sag partially off at the neck. The feeling of the dull ax blade at her neck caused the princess great pain, which, coupled with the stabbing sensations caused by the magical weapon the Raven’s Claw, made things far worse for her.

“Merciful Twatzapooner,” cried the princess, “i am in utter agony the likes of which this young body cannot long endure.” So saying, the princess sagged down, her eyes rolling up towards the back of her head, exposing the whites. Gussets of blood foamed from her neck and spilled from between her lips. She placed her palms together once in supplication, then closed her eyes forever.

Cuntingham screamed. “Twatzapooner, whatever happened to our agreement. the Wednesday Friday Henne Accord?”

“My dear cunting Cuntingham, you must have been at the jubjub juice, because thou makest less than no sense. Why, knowing that my powers are vastly superior to yours insofar as I created you and can snuff you with a thought, do you wish to incur my wrath?”

“Oh piss off, Twatzapooner,” cried Nair. “I”m the new power in Euphoria, and have been for a lon–“

The words had scarce exited her peeling, sore-encrusted lips when a pain of awful dimensions suddenly stabbed deep within her head. 

“How do you like the Raven’s Claw within thine own skull?” chortled Twatzapooner.

“I fucking HATE it,” roared Cuntingham. “Stop these shenanigans immediately! I’m warning you for the…”

But this time the words were stifled immediately. The flesh of her lips sealed in on itself with lightning speed, effectively gagging her. Her throat felt swollen, as though she were choking endlessly and would never be able to eject the foreign object now permanently embedded in her throat. The agony of the Raven’s Claw renewed itself over and over and over, as, beside her, the Princess Cherrypop’s soul left her body and ascended to a heaven as rapturously beautiful and pain-free as the body she had abandoned was full of torture and pain.

Then Nair felt something kick her in the chest like a mule. She tried to clutch at her chest, but the woodsman had returned from the tree he had been hiding behind, shitting himself in terror as he watched the goddesses’ wrath unfurl. With the seat of his britches stained, dripping and smelly from an awful load, his ax-wielding grip was forced to raise the blade against Nair this time. He whacked and he whacked and he whacked, opening up huge bloody wounds in her chest. 

“I wish I could die like that bitch Cherrypop,” thought Nair. 

“WHAT DID YOU JUST SAY?” roared Twatzapooner.

“I said…I WISH I COULD JUST…”

With another wave of her want, Twatzapooner silenced Nair’s inner voice. 

It was the worst feeling imaginable. Nair was now twice muted, in pain that rose to a level she had never once experienced in her life. She was beset within and without with excruciating torment, yet due to Twatzapooner’s power she remained terribly conscious, locked within her own head.

“You keep forgetting that the Wednesday Friday Bwak Bwak Bwak Accord was purely a figment of your cuntish imagination,” said Twatzapooner with a girlish giggle. “Now you will spend eternity…or until I release you for good behavior, which you will never be able to achieve due to the state I’ve placed you in…suffering all the hellish cruelties of heaven over and over and over again. Truly it was once said that we are here to hurt each other, and even a goddess must play by the rules ordained since time began. Sucks to be you.”

And with those words, Twatzapooner joined Cherrypop in heaven which was like Euphoria only transcendental and sublime. Twatzapooner gave the Princess the option of returning to Earth in her own form, which she accepted, and within seconds she found herself tumbled once more to the side of her beloved cat, Mimsywroth, who meowed in welcome of her mistress.

From very far away, Cherrypop thought she could hear the sounds of a cuntish Queen screaming. “But then again,” she said to herself, “it’s probably the wind.”

THEES EES THEE ENT