So I've been trying to write more lately to varying degrees of success and failure. Most recently I've been writing a story told from the point of view of Gonzo journalist Hunter S. Thompson as he travels to the afterlife after his suicide by shotgun to the face. Here's what I have so far. Please rip it to shreds. Its not much but its mine dammit!





"I have reached the off season. There goes any chance for more punts or more first downs. All the old pigskin pushers have been put out to pasture. There is only the after party now and the inevitable stench of morning hangover. Welcome to the eternal reception.
It took me a while to settle into my new surroundings. After the initial blast of the shotgun I could only taste metal in the salivary glands and there was a great howling like a fisher cat in heat. I could feel my eyeballs retreating back into the skull until the sockets looked like two white windows in the dark. When you die you can literally feel yourself fall back into the cool embrace of the beyond. Surely, I thought, I would be roused out of my death sleep by scores of naked sweaty virgins ready for the sideways shuffle while I ate grapes on satin sheets and watched angels play baseball. There would be no pain but a constant stream of contentment that not even the best drugs in South Beach could secrete. This was the escape from the daily stomache pains of my living life. It would be smooth sailing and shirley temples from now on. Beautiful.
I woke up on a fucking rusty steamship. Huge. Crawling. Massive. It was like a giant fucking cow tongue licking the back of the water in some strange game of coitus. Holy monkey Jesus. The ferry to farewell town. Ticket bought. Ride taken. Where are my grapes and virgins dammit? This was not part of the contract. Someone was going to answer for this."