In memory of Hunter S. Thompson.

With sadness in our hearts, trouble on our minds and booze in our blood we knew what we would have to do for Hunter, and we knew the feds might know what we were plotting.

As the shots went down and the beers almost came back up we left a glass of Wild Turkey just in case he stopped by. He hadn’t called in a while but that didn’t mean anything. Maybe we could expense the tab? Our bets lost and lives quickly degenerating we moved on. I should have known not to bet on the Colts.

It takes a certain mentality to get drunk on a Tuesday night, run around in the snow and cause trouble. We were the kind of people who did such things. Along with my lawyer Mr. Young we decided the most fitting tribute would be to go destroy some state property in a drunken stupor and give the finger to the man one last time for our pal.

As we began our slow stumble in the middle of the road a red Honda Civic careened down the road and nearly clipped my lawyer before we jumped into the relative stability of a snow bank. We wondered what kind of depraved individual would be driving at that hour on a night like that. Mr. Young wanted to chase the lousy bastard down and teach him a lesson but we had to stay on course. The lunatic in the red car would get his someday.

We pressed on knowing full well that the Federalis could be on our tail. So we continued to a place we were familiar with.

As we approached we saw our fears were true. The feds were around. Those lazy bastards were no match for wily characters on a mission like me and Mr. Young.

As the presence of the government was smashed into a million pieces we could see Hunter smiling down, Wild Turkey in hand, aviators on and cigar in mouth. As we walked back we tried to call our friend and tell him we were down for a game of shotgun golf. We would bring the 9-iron and he could bring the whiskey and shotgun. He didn’t answer. Guess he wasn’t home.

My poor imitation is no match for the words of the man who invented and perfected the style. For him, it was not an effort, it was who he was.

RYAN GAINOR IS A JUNIOR PHILOSOPHY AND NEWSPAPER MAJOR. E-MAIL HIM AT RMGAINOR@SYR.EDU.

Published on February 22, 2005 at 12:00 pm