hydrocondor
Greenlighter
This is a portion of a paper I wrote for fun, trying to mimic Hunter Thompson's style, none of it is true, as far as I know.
Two and a half weeks ago I found myself in the bum-f*ck "town" of Ambrose, North Dakota. By “find myself”, I do not mean in a romantic or philosophical sense, I simply realized my location with no recollection of how I arrived there. As it turns out, the Canadian Border guard had apprehended me as I attempted to cross over the border from the U.S. to Canada, apparently raving at the time about the inevitable slow and painful death of the American dream, and expressing my sincere desire to leave the country permanently. For illegally crossing the border into Canada, one gets slapped with the equivalent of an American misdemeanor; however this applies only when the individual has committed no other crimes, and not in the case of weapon or drug possession.
The report written up by my arresting officers went like this: Patrolman Acosta and Sergeant Steadman observed a man struggling to make his way across Highway 606. The man had no pants—he appeared completely naked from the waist down, except for a mismatched tube socks and purple Converse shoes. The orange-tipped barrel of a Red Ryder bb gun protruded from under his baggy jacket, but he surrendered it without hesitation. When approached by Officer Acosta, the man—who identified himself as Raul Duke, muttered incoherently, and became increasingly aggravated, until he learned from Sergeant Steadman that he had, in fact, made it to Canada . He explained that the American dream had died and would take everyone down with it, so he had chosen to escape while he still could, before the “whole goddamned country went to shit”. The report goes on and on, first examining my motives and seemingly senile behavior, and then moving on to the actual crimes I committed in my attempt to make it out of America.
While sitting in the nearly empty police station, I began to return to the state that some may describe as normal, sane, and sober. Unacceptable. My jacket, by that time just a lumpy mess of cotton, nylon, and broken zippers, hung on the wall, only a few feet from me. Between the jacket and me stood a burly cadet, whose IQ and age seemed to have recently passed each other, going in opposite directions. I explained to the brute that I had a horrid migraine, and needed my pain medication from the coat. He quickly obliged, and requested some for a “real horrible” ache in his left leg. I reached into the pocket of my coat and stuck my hand into a diverse collection of pills, pellets, and capsules, retrieving four bright pink, square tablets—two for the cop and two for me. He looked dumbly at me, obviously perplexed by the unusual shape and color of the pills.
You sure that these will work for my leg?
Yeah, they should—some sort of fancy new quick release kind, so they made them pink instead of white, I think.
Alright, thanks.
The idiot actually believed me. We both downed the little tabs—neither of us needed any water. This guard had just unknowingly signed up for the ride of his life. The extensive assortment of controlled substances in my coat pocket consisted mainly of mescaline, various amphetamines, a whole galaxy of psychedelic tryptamines, and three dozen amyls. The pink pellets contained somewhere around two-hundred milligrams of mescaline, an excessively potent hallucinogen extracted from the peyote cactus. You must understand that this little deviation had little to do with an escape attempt from the police station; I just felt that I should at least try to let the apparently mentally deficient guard experience a higher level of consciousness. The mescaline came on slow—the pure stuff always does. After about an hour and a half of waiting (by this time, the guard had taken me into a holding cell, the only one in the tiny police station) I could feel it beginning to infringe the outer reaches of my mind. We both sat on a small, uncomfortable cot and watched television, which, for some reason had gotten placed in the cell, along with some beer and a bottle of Wild Turkey 101. As it turns out, that jail cell doubled as a hangout for the officers when they had little with which to occupy themselves. Needless to say, they spent copious amounts of time there. The two of us sat quietly, watching paid programming for some stupid juice-making machine. This held our attention for a decent thirty minutes—the drugs had started to take their effect. My oblivious trip partner radiated only positive vibes, which shocked me, considering that the poor bastard didn't have the brains to know what had started to occur in his mind—most people in his situation would have already entered into some devilish, psychotic f*cking freak-out.
At some point near the start of the experience, my memory went blank. I later found myself in the sad joke of a town that Ambrose embodied. Someone had put me up at a seedy two-room motel, and had paid for three nights stay and some food. It seemed that my body had sustained quite a beating, and the whole left side of my body had mysteriously gotten covered in dark green paint. In my pocket, I found a letter of apology from the Canadian National Border Guard, Unit 122, expressing extreme regret for the outrageous actions of its newest recruit, and my wrongful arrest. Along with the letter was a plastic bag containing 100 American dollars in cash, labeled “travel money” and about half of the drugs that I originally carried with me across the border.
What do you think? does it seem like writing he would produce?
Two and a half weeks ago I found myself in the bum-f*ck "town" of Ambrose, North Dakota. By “find myself”, I do not mean in a romantic or philosophical sense, I simply realized my location with no recollection of how I arrived there. As it turns out, the Canadian Border guard had apprehended me as I attempted to cross over the border from the U.S. to Canada, apparently raving at the time about the inevitable slow and painful death of the American dream, and expressing my sincere desire to leave the country permanently. For illegally crossing the border into Canada, one gets slapped with the equivalent of an American misdemeanor; however this applies only when the individual has committed no other crimes, and not in the case of weapon or drug possession.
The report written up by my arresting officers went like this: Patrolman Acosta and Sergeant Steadman observed a man struggling to make his way across Highway 606. The man had no pants—he appeared completely naked from the waist down, except for a mismatched tube socks and purple Converse shoes. The orange-tipped barrel of a Red Ryder bb gun protruded from under his baggy jacket, but he surrendered it without hesitation. When approached by Officer Acosta, the man—who identified himself as Raul Duke, muttered incoherently, and became increasingly aggravated, until he learned from Sergeant Steadman that he had, in fact, made it to Canada . He explained that the American dream had died and would take everyone down with it, so he had chosen to escape while he still could, before the “whole goddamned country went to shit”. The report goes on and on, first examining my motives and seemingly senile behavior, and then moving on to the actual crimes I committed in my attempt to make it out of America.
While sitting in the nearly empty police station, I began to return to the state that some may describe as normal, sane, and sober. Unacceptable. My jacket, by that time just a lumpy mess of cotton, nylon, and broken zippers, hung on the wall, only a few feet from me. Between the jacket and me stood a burly cadet, whose IQ and age seemed to have recently passed each other, going in opposite directions. I explained to the brute that I had a horrid migraine, and needed my pain medication from the coat. He quickly obliged, and requested some for a “real horrible” ache in his left leg. I reached into the pocket of my coat and stuck my hand into a diverse collection of pills, pellets, and capsules, retrieving four bright pink, square tablets—two for the cop and two for me. He looked dumbly at me, obviously perplexed by the unusual shape and color of the pills.
You sure that these will work for my leg?
Yeah, they should—some sort of fancy new quick release kind, so they made them pink instead of white, I think.
Alright, thanks.
The idiot actually believed me. We both downed the little tabs—neither of us needed any water. This guard had just unknowingly signed up for the ride of his life. The extensive assortment of controlled substances in my coat pocket consisted mainly of mescaline, various amphetamines, a whole galaxy of psychedelic tryptamines, and three dozen amyls. The pink pellets contained somewhere around two-hundred milligrams of mescaline, an excessively potent hallucinogen extracted from the peyote cactus. You must understand that this little deviation had little to do with an escape attempt from the police station; I just felt that I should at least try to let the apparently mentally deficient guard experience a higher level of consciousness. The mescaline came on slow—the pure stuff always does. After about an hour and a half of waiting (by this time, the guard had taken me into a holding cell, the only one in the tiny police station) I could feel it beginning to infringe the outer reaches of my mind. We both sat on a small, uncomfortable cot and watched television, which, for some reason had gotten placed in the cell, along with some beer and a bottle of Wild Turkey 101. As it turns out, that jail cell doubled as a hangout for the officers when they had little with which to occupy themselves. Needless to say, they spent copious amounts of time there. The two of us sat quietly, watching paid programming for some stupid juice-making machine. This held our attention for a decent thirty minutes—the drugs had started to take their effect. My oblivious trip partner radiated only positive vibes, which shocked me, considering that the poor bastard didn't have the brains to know what had started to occur in his mind—most people in his situation would have already entered into some devilish, psychotic f*cking freak-out.
At some point near the start of the experience, my memory went blank. I later found myself in the sad joke of a town that Ambrose embodied. Someone had put me up at a seedy two-room motel, and had paid for three nights stay and some food. It seemed that my body had sustained quite a beating, and the whole left side of my body had mysteriously gotten covered in dark green paint. In my pocket, I found a letter of apology from the Canadian National Border Guard, Unit 122, expressing extreme regret for the outrageous actions of its newest recruit, and my wrongful arrest. Along with the letter was a plastic bag containing 100 American dollars in cash, labeled “travel money” and about half of the drugs that I originally carried with me across the border.
What do you think? does it seem like writing he would produce?
