...There he goes, one of god's own prototypes. Some kind of high powered mutant; too weird to live, too rare to die....

**Note - This little ditty was published in a few online zines and blogs on or around the 15th of March, 2005. **

...There he goes, one of god's own prototypes. Some kind of high powered mutant; too weird to live, too rare to die....

I went to bed early last night because I knew today was going to be long and bloated with long-hours of waiting around for things to get over with. I've got to wait through work, take the train home, wait until 9:30, and then sit through a band practice so that I can interview the band for an article I'm supposed to write about them for a music magazine. I hate my job and I hate this band and I'm beginning to hate writing because they all require a sort of charming cleverness that is about as appetizing as licking a full ashtray after a night of heavy drinking. So anyway I went to bed early, maybe 10:15, and so missed the news when it broke.

I woke up at about 4am to the radio announcer saying "...Thompson, a legendary journalist and icon of the 1960's and 70's "New Journalism", died of an apparent self-inflicted gunshot wound at his home in Woody Creek, Colorado. He was 63." I sat up in bed and waited for a gut reaction. Was I glad? What sort of news was this? Bad news? Was I dreaming again? I got no answers and turned on CNN. Nothing. MSNBC, Nothing. No news channels were covering this. I was convinced it was a farce. I checked the New York Times webpage as a last resort and found the headline there, right above "Secret Bush Tapes Imply President Tried Pot" and right below "Sandra Dee, 'Gidget' Star and Teenage Idol, Dies at 62". Could this really be happening? What kind of cruel and sick minded fascist had taken control of the New York Times webpage? But the news was true and, at best, fit to print.

I honestly don't have much to say. 'Shocking' is a word that comes to mind, but is it really? Perhaps 'Ominous' is a better word. Right now I look at this news like someone who just witnessed a stampede of animals running out of a forest; bracing myself and staring at the trees, looking for the beast that drove them out. Maybe that thing won't come. Or maybe it has been coming for a long time, and we were all too giddy and drunk on the fumes of everyday life to notice the pounding of hoofs as they approached. All I know now is that if the Doctor decided to get out of the way then I'm pretty sure I don't want to see whatever the hell is coming out of that wood.

I have questions that I want answered, for now I am guessing they'll not be. But I imagine that, just before that bullet passed through the man's brain, he was thinking about that great rubber sack he talked about in The Rum Diary - and how he'd run from, struggled with, and fought against it his whole life; and how you can't win a foot race against the tics of a stopwatch. Maybe this was his last chance to get out. Either way, wherever he is now, I'm sure he'll wish he had that extra bullet in the chamber.