Jenny Everywhere: Bat Country
Aug. 13th, 2023 07:54 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
scott_sanfordHappy Jenny Everywhere Day, everyone!
Hunter is laying on the floor in a men’s room in Las Vegas.
“I’d ask what you’re doing, but I probably don’t want to know.”
“Snebley wet?”, he asks, looking up at me.
I make a guess and say, “Of course I found you. You’re, well, you. You stand out, you leave a trail. People remember you.”
And I’m me, I don’t tell him.
A less stoned man would be wondering why he didn’t hear the door open – but a less stoned man wouldn’t be Hunter Thompson, and might not be lying on his back in a casino bathroom.
“Grimlick top nard,” he comments, blinking owlishly at me through his tinted aviator shades. In the moment I’m not sure if he sees me.
“Oh, it’s like that, is it?” I prod him with one foot, but I soon see it’s going to take more than the pointy toe of a cowboy boot to get him vertical again.
“Membo trep nad,” he tells me. “Plemp greep.”
“Sure, Hunter, whatever you say…” I crouch down and check him over; he’s okay, considering his lifestyle.
(Yeah, considering his lifestyle he should be pickled and maybe dead; compared to a normal person who tried to live like this, he’s doing great.)
To be honest I’m a little worried, because even stoned he’s usually more eloquent than this. Garbled noises are one thing, and it wouldn’t be the first time he was too stoned to speak, but limiting himself to short declarative sentences isn’t his usual style. His articulation is good, which makes me think he's speaking in tongues because his brain is fried. Again.
“Sniznip glit plimps. Hembeck trill quomple,” he tells me, his hand moving unsteadily over his chest. I realize he has something in his shirt pocket.
“Oh? What’s that?”
Investigating with no care for his personal space, I find that he’s also laying on a small snubnose revolver, which I pocket for myself, and the lump in his shirt pocket is a plastic bag filled with small lumpy objects. Mushrooms, by the look of them, but what kind? I hope it's not anything lethal.
“I don’t think this is what you wanted to take, Hunter. Magic mushrooms are fun but psilocybin shouldn’t do this do you.”
“Sneezle grep!”, he agrees, possibly.
I work open the zip lock on the bag and take a sniff, then close it quickly. The rich fungal odor is very familiar but also not, and it takes me a moment to work it out. I’d hoped he’d just gotten magic mushrooms some clown had doped with something else, but they’re not the entheogens I was hoping for at all. I’ve never smelled that scent before, except that I have – in other lifetimes I’ve smelled it often. I’ve been to Yuggoth.
Hoping I’m wrong, I slip my goggles down and look again. No such luck; these shifted dimensions recently, probably no more than a few weeks ago. I shove my goggles back up and wonder what the hell I’m going to do with the lunatic on the floor.
“Hunter! You should not be eating these. Snorting them? Never mind, whatever you did, you shouldn’t.”
I sigh and add, “And, yeah, I know people have told you that before about other things.”
“Beeble freck?”
“We are damn well going to have a talk about where you got these. When you come down – if you come down – you’re damn well going to answer some questions for once. I am not one of your filthy assistants, and I am willing to find a real psilocybin mushroom and give it to you as a suppository.”
“Skez nimp! Angthimp op bingle gronk?”
“Never mind. You can’t stay here. Can you stand up?”
“Grebnel crep! Homple stamp nemnel pronker…”
He rocks a few times, rolls over, and tries to get to his feet. I bend down and lift, then get under his shoulder and wrap his arm around me.
Offhand I wonder when I became the responsible one.
“You’d better have a room here, because I don’t want to have to drag you out of a cab. Can you find your hotel room?”
“Plimpson!”
I hope that means yes and point him toward the door.
< Back to Jenny Everywhere Day >
< See all of Scott Sanford’s Jenny Everywhere stories >
The character of Jenny Everywhere is available for use by anyone, with only one condition. This paragraph must be included in any publication involving Jenny Everywhere, in order that others may use this property as they wish. All rights reversed.
...."I hate to advocate drugs, alcohol, violence, or insanity to anyone, but they've always worked for me." - Hunter S. Thompson
Hunter is laying on the floor in a men’s room in Las Vegas.
“I’d ask what you’re doing, but I probably don’t want to know.”
“Snebley wet?”, he asks, looking up at me.
I make a guess and say, “Of course I found you. You’re, well, you. You stand out, you leave a trail. People remember you.”
And I’m me, I don’t tell him.
A less stoned man would be wondering why he didn’t hear the door open – but a less stoned man wouldn’t be Hunter Thompson, and might not be lying on his back in a casino bathroom.
“Grimlick top nard,” he comments, blinking owlishly at me through his tinted aviator shades. In the moment I’m not sure if he sees me.
“Oh, it’s like that, is it?” I prod him with one foot, but I soon see it’s going to take more than the pointy toe of a cowboy boot to get him vertical again.
“Membo trep nad,” he tells me. “Plemp greep.”
“Sure, Hunter, whatever you say…” I crouch down and check him over; he’s okay, considering his lifestyle.
(Yeah, considering his lifestyle he should be pickled and maybe dead; compared to a normal person who tried to live like this, he’s doing great.)
To be honest I’m a little worried, because even stoned he’s usually more eloquent than this. Garbled noises are one thing, and it wouldn’t be the first time he was too stoned to speak, but limiting himself to short declarative sentences isn’t his usual style. His articulation is good, which makes me think he's speaking in tongues because his brain is fried. Again.
“Sniznip glit plimps. Hembeck trill quomple,” he tells me, his hand moving unsteadily over his chest. I realize he has something in his shirt pocket.
“Oh? What’s that?”
Investigating with no care for his personal space, I find that he’s also laying on a small snubnose revolver, which I pocket for myself, and the lump in his shirt pocket is a plastic bag filled with small lumpy objects. Mushrooms, by the look of them, but what kind? I hope it's not anything lethal.
“I don’t think this is what you wanted to take, Hunter. Magic mushrooms are fun but psilocybin shouldn’t do this do you.”
“Sneezle grep!”, he agrees, possibly.
I work open the zip lock on the bag and take a sniff, then close it quickly. The rich fungal odor is very familiar but also not, and it takes me a moment to work it out. I’d hoped he’d just gotten magic mushrooms some clown had doped with something else, but they’re not the entheogens I was hoping for at all. I’ve never smelled that scent before, except that I have – in other lifetimes I’ve smelled it often. I’ve been to Yuggoth.
Hoping I’m wrong, I slip my goggles down and look again. No such luck; these shifted dimensions recently, probably no more than a few weeks ago. I shove my goggles back up and wonder what the hell I’m going to do with the lunatic on the floor.
“Hunter! You should not be eating these. Snorting them? Never mind, whatever you did, you shouldn’t.”
I sigh and add, “And, yeah, I know people have told you that before about other things.”
“Beeble freck?”
“We are damn well going to have a talk about where you got these. When you come down – if you come down – you’re damn well going to answer some questions for once. I am not one of your filthy assistants, and I am willing to find a real psilocybin mushroom and give it to you as a suppository.”
“Skez nimp! Angthimp op bingle gronk?”
“Never mind. You can’t stay here. Can you stand up?”
“Grebnel crep! Homple stamp nemnel pronker…”
He rocks a few times, rolls over, and tries to get to his feet. I bend down and lift, then get under his shoulder and wrap his arm around me.
Offhand I wonder when I became the responsible one.
“You’d better have a room here, because I don’t want to have to drag you out of a cab. Can you find your hotel room?”
“Plimpson!”
I hope that means yes and point him toward the door.
< Back to Jenny Everywhere Day >
Hunter S. Thompson, against all plausibility, was a real person. “One of God's own prototypes. A high-powered mutant of some kind never even considered for mass production.” He inspired Doonesbury's Uncle Duke.
