The following report was filed by my alter ego, Dr. Freddy Fearless, disciple of Gonzo Journalism, in April of 2001. I am re-running it in memory of Hunter S. Thompson.
"There is nothing in the world more helpless and irresponsible and depraved than a man in the depths of an ether binge."
—Hunter S. Thompson, Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas
The first thing I discovered upon entering the cabin on Sunlight Shores was that there was no beer. I don’t know how these degenerates expected me to report on the proceedings of "25+01" without the proper synaptic lubricants, but they weren’t available, so I would have to cope. Luckily, there was a plentiful supply of Scotch. Jake poured me a glass and I began drinking at once.
"The proper way to serve Scotch is in a parabola," Jake told me. It was his birthday and his cabin, so I nodded my head in agreement.
"That’s why I didn’t give you very much," he continued. "You have to start out slow. Then, as you keep drinking, the level of Scotch you’re served raises. As you drink even more, the level you’re served starts going back down. That’s how it’s done at the casinos."
It made perfect sense to me. I would just have to ensure that my parabola was very narrow. Without the proper mind loosening effects of beer I would have to depend on the heavy-handedness of the 18-year single malt. The more I took in, the more apt I would be to discover the truth behind this "25+01" party.
Ostensibly, this was a simple get-together to celebrate a mutual accelerated descent into decay. But I sensed there was something more, something sinister. Something, dare I say, evil. The absence of beer only furthered this belief.
I stepped outside to the campfire to observe the other celebrants. There was Jon, a more wretched and depraved individual than one could ever hope to meet. I saw that he was already mulling over the numerous ways he could work anal sex into the conversation. Dan relaxed in a lawn chair, a contented grin on his face, for he was the only one who knew EXACTLY what we would be eating this weekend. Jake swaggered out behind me, his parabola already ahead of mine. My wife, Angie, was also there to bear witness to this disturbing soiree. Others were yet to arrive, but would be there soon enough. Perhaps they would bring beer, I thought, realizing it was already too late for that. The Scotch was taking hold.
I don’t know when darkness fell, but I noticed that it had when I noticed my glass was empty.
"Do you have any more Scotch?" I demanded my host.
"It’s in the kitchen," he replied. Odd, I thought, that he didn’t have any out here with him. Why would the precious hooch be inside, while the guests were outside? I ventured into the dilapidated shack that passed as a cabin and wandered into the kitchen. I noticed a strange odor as I located the Scotch. I forgot about the smell when I noticed the bottle of Glenlivet was nearly gone. I filled my glass, leaving just enough in the bottle that I couldn’t be accused of taking it all. Ah yes, that was one narrow parabola.
"Hey Tyler, does Mike drive a black Honda?" Jake asked as I returned to the campfire. I wondered at this question. Jake should know Mike’s car—was this a test already? It was so early in the evening.
"Yes," I said. I was looking for a place sit. The chairs at the cabin were known to be malicious, collapsing on unwitting occupants. I sought one out of the smoke. As I sat, Mike and Mary appeared from around the corner of the cabin. Mike was garbed in the clothes of his trade—was Happy Airlines sponsoring this event? No, no the implications were too horrible, I pushed the thought from my mind. Mary stood behind him. She could be the X-factor. She was unknown, untested. I sensed we were perched on a razor’s edge, and her influence could throw everything out of balance. I saw they had no beer.
My notes become garbled at this point. I have pieced together the following events, but I warn you, they may be inaccurate. Glen was strangling my brain and the linear flow of time somehow became warped. Perhaps this was the work of Mary. Perhaps Jake knew something he wasn’t telling the rest of us. Perhaps Dan knew too much about our food. Perhaps Jon’s testicles had hypnotized me. Whatever the influence might have been, reality altered.
I was warming myself by the fire when a group of young men appeared behind me. I did not recognize them. These were strangers. A grip of fear clenched at my bowels.
"Hey what’s going on? Having a party?" Their ringleader spoke. Who were these miscreants that they dared trespass on the sacred happenings of 25+01? Why did they not look old enough to drive? Fear and loathing strangled me to silence.
"Uh, yeah," said Jake.
"Hey, so are we. We’re across the street. We just wanted to check out what’s going on over here."
I had to leave. I feared I would strike the boy. I stumbled into the kitchen, wondering if he was responsible for this sudden difficulty with gravity. In the kitchen I found Others. I didn’t recognize them, except that they were familiar.
"What the fuck." I said. I found I was having trouble NOT speaking. "What the fuck. Who are these assholes? Why don’t they go to their own party? Motherfuckers. Fuck."
Jon tried to relax me by showing me his testicles. I’d already seen them, so their ponderous size didn’t effect me as much as it could have. I turned to the only solace I could find, the bottle of Scotch on the counter. The bottle was nearly empty—and I saw we’d moved on to the 12-year old scotch. My parabola was tapering off.
Shortly after Jon put his testicles away, one of the morons from across the street wandered into the kitchen. I restrained myself from physically assaulting him. It was then I noticed that he appeared to be drinking a can of poison. I peered closer. It WAS poison! Despite his miscreant status, I had to warn him.
It was important that I do it calmly. "Augh!" I said, pointing at the poison in his hand. "Augh! Augh! Look what he’s drinking!"
He only stared at me blankly. I would have to rally my compatriots for his own protection. "He’s drinking Busch Ice!"
Jon fought back a wave of nausea and tried to help. "Here’s some Scotch," he said, offering the drink from his own glass.
"Oh, I don’t touch that stuff," said the miscreant. "I’ll stick with this, thanks," he said, waving the can in his hand. I saw it was too late. The poison had already destroyed his young mind. It wouldn’t be long until he was sneaking into frat parties and attempting date rape.
"Busch Ice," I said, shaking my head. Jon joined me in a moment of silence for his lost soul.
Later, or maybe it was earlier, I was sitting at the fire talking to Mary. I realized she was unhappy living in the finest state in all the union, so I attempted to reform her. As far as I could tell, she had only seen Angle Lake, Des Moines, Public Transportation, and Southcenter—the cultural sinkholes of Washington. The state had so much to offer. However, I failed to adequately express this, I mostly apologized for accusing her of state bias. She is from Hawaii, so that bias must be hard to throw off. Perhaps she was the underlying evil of this party—she did drive me to inarticulate stuttering.
Perhaps the evil lay in Jon’s nipples. I did try to pinch them off. I don’t know what they did to offend me, I just recall retaliating. Later, I tackled him, throwing him from his chair. He spilled his precious Scotch in my hair. I’m sorry for that, but not for the tackling. I’m sure he deserved it. I also tackled Jake. He was guilty of holding back the secret of "25+01." I tried to wrestle it out of him—make him spill the beans. The only thing he spilled was Scotch.
Later, or maybe it was earlier, Rich and Juli arrived—at least I think Juli was there, but I don’t remember speaking to her. Rich had mead. I thought mead didn’t exist, so I had to try it. The mead fought with the Scotch and I lost. I think it pushed me over the brink. Perhaps this was the evil I was looking for, Rich and his mead.
At some point I tried to tell everyone the truths they were missing out on. I don’t remember what those truths were, as they can only be found at the bottom of a Scotch bottle. Knowing I would forget them later, I tried to explain them to anyone who would listen. No one wanted to listen. Seeing my wisdom was falling on deaf ears, I started railing my spectators.
"Blah, blah, blah," I shouted. "Blah, blah, blah." I tried to bite those who would clasp their hands over my mouth. If they wouldn’t hear the truth, they would hear this. "Blah, blah, blah!"
I don’t remember seeing Greg, but I know that he was there. Perhaps he was the evil, he did spent the entire evening invisible.
* * *
I woke in the morning under a table. No it wasn’t a table, it was the ceiling, but why was it so close to my face? I realized I was in the top bunk of a bunk bed. I needed to pee. I gingerly climbed down to do that. I discovered someone had hit me in the head with hammer. I don’t remember this happening, but judging from the pounding at the base of skull, it had to be the only explanation.
I started a chain reaction. Everyone else needed to pee, too. After that there was nothing else to do but start the day, despite the early hour. Breakfast was made. Coffee was made. I sat on the couch holding the back of my head on.
"Damn that kitchen stinks," said Jon.
"There’s something stinky in that kitchen," said Greg.
"I think we might need to clean the kitchen," said Jake.
The maligned kitchen was determined to need cleaning. A cleaning party, led by my wife, charged in. The cupboards were thrown open revealing a vast wasteland of mouse shit. Knowing what I was smelling, I moved outside.
"Oh my god! Oh, no! That is nasty!" The Mouse Jar had been found. Someone had left the cap off of a jar of olive oil, turning it into a tomb for a dozen mice who were too small and too slippery to crawl out after falling in. It was more than I could take. I began vomiting.
"Damn it!" Jake shouted at me. "Puke in the Lagoon, not in the grass."
I did as he said, and crouched miserably at the edge of the Lagoon until the cleaning was finished. After that, Jon shared his vast collection of pornographic magazines with the group—we had a reading from "Dirty Bedtime Stories"—then we broke into groups for the daytime activities.
I took a break from my duties as a journalist to participate in Beach Golf and, later, Arobee, then returned to the cabin for dinner. The entire group trickled in as Dan prepared "food" on the propane grill he’d brought with him. It was time to try finding the underlying evil of "25+01" again. This time, however, I would keep a clear head. I returned to my journalist obligations.
Since Glen couldn’t sink his evil Scottish talons into my brain that night, he went after Mike instead. He had found the truth at the bottom of the bottle and tried to impart it to the rest of us. Unfortunately, his message was garbled. It had something to do with "Lesbian Cooze," that’s all I can determine.
Not soon after, his chair collapsed. He retaliated mightily, rending the chair into small pieces and mocking it in front of the other chairs. This was foolish, because the chairs attacked him again, collapsing as he relaxed his nearly 300 pound bulk. This time he was content to rest on the remains of his fallen enemy.
Jon was also the victim of a chair. The seat gave way on him. In his anger he threw it on the fire. Greg tossed it to the side before it had a chance to explode and cause harm to us all. For his valiance a bench attacked him. Truth be told, he was abusing a chair when it lashed out, tripping him. Later, it did the same thing to Jon.
I moved inside to find a beer. My mission was finished, the evil was found. It was the Lawn Chairs, and their friend the Bench. If Jake had told us earlier, it would have saved a lot of pain.