I was talking to Bob Dylan last night, and there was not a hint of Violence as we got down to our discussions. ‘We may never be able to defeat these swine,’ he told me, ‘but we don’t have to join them.’

Yes sir, I thought. The too much fun club is back in business. Let us rumble.

–Hunter S. Thompson, Kingdom of Fear

The revised plan of action was a lengthy extension of my “summer hiatus” that would stretch well into November, until after the elections.

Returning to the deadline grind had little appeal, especially during the final wretched months of Decision 2012.

Over the summer, I had become a man of Science. I had grasped the essentials of Pure Research and Development.

I always knew I had the freakish genes necessary for prolonged scientific inquiry. Mistakes were made, but they were Fun.

Someone else would have to write the sentences. I had Projects.

I had, for instance, planned to wrap Bob Johnson in aluminum foil and subject him to gamma rays. A precise bombardment of naturally occurring radioisotopes would grow Bob Johnson to the size of a city block, and who doesn’t want to see that?

Never mind. That is for Later. I will sell tickets to that one, and then Bob Johnson and I will join the other Big Dogs in the playpen of cash …

Those of us who called the election six months ago should be feeling the glow. But the fix is in. There is no Honor to be found in this greasy charade … Even the dolts have it scoped.

The GOP needed a Loser and quickly signed off on Willard Mitt Romney of Massachusetts, or some damn place. Campaign insiders report the candidate is fed tuna straight from the can, and, up close, resembles a golf bag stuffed with venomous spiders.

But it is too easy to make sport of Romney, a second-rate money pimp with Ambition. He is clearly a Company Man who enjoys Bing Crosby’s Christmas catalogue and sipping decaf from the skulls of infants. . . . And what’s wrong with that?

A few weeks from now, after he has taken his high-speed beating, the handlers will towel Mitt down thoroughly and assure him nothing much really happened.

They will be right. The Incumbent, a beer-drinking baller from Chicago, has thrown nary an elbow for four years.

And what of it? You would loiter around the three-point line, too, if you could shoot treys like the Prez. There is no need for The Big O to go Downtown – not yet.

We will need him, or someone like him, when the grid starts winking out and the whole circus reaches the tipping point.

The nights will be dark and Ugly, with a few new twists. Gigantic mutant dogs will roam the boulevards, lapping blood from the gutters.

“Stock up on batteries and do some pushups,” the Old Gunslinger advised me.

He was calling from a whorehouse in Commerce, Texas. In the background I could hear Freddy Fender, accompanied by a woman’s screams. It sounded Horrible, even for East Texas.

“The Republicans already have their guy for 2016,” he said. “They’re growing the fucker in a huge test tube. Trust me, it’s real End of Time stuff.”

“I’m ready,” I said. “I have Provisions.”

Meanwhile, The Beatles are the new Dorsey Brothers. There is nothing left to do except wait for the Thing we all know is coming.

__________________________________________

John Hicks maintains a vast array of satellite dishes.          

John Hicks lives outside the city limits, where eagles dare.

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