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Outside The Box

John Rachel

    I was surprised how easy it was to find the grave, and that it was unguarded.
    I dug up the body, dragged it to just the right spot.
    Then I kicked the shit out of Hunter S. Thompson.
    He didn’t stand a chance. I punched, pounded, kicked, scratched, twisted his limbs, applying the most excruciatingly painful wrestling moves.
    I kept this up until I literally fell over from exhaustion.
    After resting a while, I rolled Thompson back into the grave, then shoveled the dirt back over him and left.
    Of course, no one could know. And without it being public knowledge, I wasn’t sure exactly what advantage my cathardic corpse beating might achieve.
    I guess I was thinking more spiritually – you know, big picture.
    And let’s face it. We really don’t know how these things work. Sometimes we just have to let fly and hope for the best.
    I had always felt a strong connection with Hunter S. Thompson. Especially when I was vomiting from too much to drink.
    But it was deeper than just binge camaraderie.
    I could feel his giddy acid in my veins. I guess my arteries too. I can’t imagine him without a sneer. And I can’t stop sneering.
    So what was with the need for my posthumous pugilism?
    Simple. The old bastard was becoming a thorn in my side. Holding me back. He was like having a brother with elephantitus. Or a sister who fucked the whole football team.
    I didn’t stand a chance. My karma was like belly button lint in an ancient mummy.
    People didn’t ignore me. To ignore someone, you have to know they exist.
    Luckily I figured out exactly what had to be done.
    I needed to settle the score. Level the playing field. Credit where credit is due.
    I needed to beat the shit out of Hunter S. Thompson.
    Think I’m crazy, right?
    Well, suck on this: It worked!
    It was like the Beatles ... the fall of the Berlin Wall ... MTV ... 911 ... Trump.
    Everything changed!
    Well, for me personally it did anyway.
    I stopped at the dry cleaners to pick up my laundry. A shirt and a beach towel. I gave the lady a ten. She gave me change for a twenty. I kept it. Not my problem.
    I noticed in my rear view mirror I looked conspicuously more handsome than usual. Others noticed too. A pretty girl, maybe mid-20s, pulled up next to me at a stop light. She looked over, smiled, winked, then made a jacking-off motion with her free hand. A come on. I just laughed. I would have loved to but too many STDs around these days. Never know where something like a simple hand job might lead.
    Then I got a text message. Aunt Elizabeth – poor old soul – finally kicked the bucket. We’d been waiting forever. I already knew I had over $23,000 coming to me from the long-past-her-expiration-date spinster. She’d been in the hospital for over a year-and-a-half. What a relief!
    The real life-changers were in the inbox of my gmail account. I could see on my iPhone I had messages but waited to read them on my computer at home.
    Holy shit!
    Three literary agents were interested in my novel, 50 Shades of Pubic Hair. They even attached contracts to their messages.
    Granted, I have much better novels than this gratuitous piece of garbage. But you go with the flow. Maybe a little commercial success would grease the skids for next year’s Booker or maybe even Pulitzer.
    I’ll skip all the rest of the glory details for now. It’ll just make whoever is reading this envious.
    Besides, I’m running a little late. I’m speaking tonight at the Washington Press Club comedy roast of Julian Assange.
    Never saw that coming. But why not?
    All thanks to you, Hunter S. Thompson. And my taking charge of the situation.
    Sorry about caving in your eyeball socket. Not that it should matter.
    You were never much one for glamor and glitz.
    Never a member of the glitterati.
    Me neither.

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