Fuck the Well, Dearest Gonzo God

You shot yourself in the head? How appropriate. I would be sad except that I have no idea who you were, yet every key stroke you punched out landed square between my eyes. And fuck you for it. You grinch of journalism. You fucker of ferrets. You god. You. You, boy howdy, how I would have liked to have listened to your ethered evening rants. How much could we cry for you? The pain gripped the gun, obviously, not your hand. Your hand had long ago been flattened like a sand rat on 66 south; flapping sun crisped rat rump like a road kill flag; flapping as spasdic words that never stay glued to the page. Fuck you, you, you beautiful Gonzorilla, merchant of nonsense. Killer of stupidity. Fuck you and your tearing down paper walls. Rager through reference books. Uncageable mind. Fuck your beautiful passing. A bullet through a mind that cannot be killed. And God love you, Hunter. God love you on your leaving of us, stuck in this mad ball of blue mud and wonder. God love you, you eternally unleashable fuck.