The Hippies // By Hunter S. Thompson

The Hippies – By Hunter S. Thompson The best year to be a hippie was 1965, but then there was not much to write about, because not much was happening in public and most of what was happening …

Source: The Hippies // By Hunter S. Thompson

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Revenge is a Dish Best Served With Calculation (4)

She attached the drill bit and moved towards the man. She lowered the drill towards the man’s ears whilst placing a white stiletto on his neck for stability purposes. It’s wasn’t the usual de rigueur of a tradesman, but then again, it wasn’t an average job. She pinned his ear to the floor with the drill as he whined.

“Please, honey, anything.”

“Oh shut up.”

She drilled the screw through his ear and into the kitchen floor and he screeched in pain.

“Oh, you think that’s bad?”

A rivulet of blood began to meander across the lino. He changed his angle of attack.

“You fucking bitch. So this is your payback huh? What goes around comes around baby. The pendulum has to swing back.”

She went to cupboard, grabbing a whiskey tumbler and promptly to the fridge to fill it with crushed ice from the station at the front. She then strolled over to the table to his bottle of Wild Turkey and free poured herself a generous splash.

The man struggled on the floor, still aware of the Glock in her jeans and the conundrum of his ear being forcibly pinned to the floor.

She sipped the whiskey and, not being a seasoned drinker, felt the burn as it torched her throat on the way down.

“The pendulum can’t swing back if I rip it down and shove it up….”

“Just fucking finish me already. I don’t know what you’re so pissed about but fucking finish me.”

Just as she was taking another drink she sprayed the hazel liquor on the darker brown of the kitchen table in disbelief.

“Don’t know what I’m so pissed about?”

For the first time in this calculated episode, she lost her cool. She was sick of the games and remembered the time frame she had to keep to.

She got up and grabbed the man by his jet black hair and yanked him up violently splitting his ear as his blood cascaded into the red ocean that had slowly been accumulating over the course of the evening.

“Don’t know what I’m so pissed about?”

She took the Glock from her waistband and thrust it in his throat. A feeling she could empathise with.

“You think this about me don’t you?”

The man tried to speak, but the obvious obstacle of a deadly weapon holding down his tongue and threatening to blow his larynx into his stomach prevented any coherent sentences.

“Muh-bluh-muh!”

“That’s the smartest thing you’ve said all night honey.”

She took the gun by the barrel and whipped the butt into his two front teeth. She then walked back to her drink, feeling that she had managed to alleviate some of the stress. This was better than any meditation or yoga she thought. Go straight to the source, and wondered what the Dalai Lama would think of her methods.

Revenge is a Dish Best Served With Calculation (3)

She went back to the sink and picked up the lipstick stained glass. She turned the blue marked tap and filled it halfway to the top and took a big mouthful of the heavily fluoridated water. She stood with her feet either side of his head and began to slowly drip the water on to his face. Chinese water torture. She imagined the slow melt down of his mind, the poetic justice of the years of maltreatment she had suffered at his hand.

But she didn’t have days. She had to stick to the plan.

She dropped the glass on the man’s forehead, cracking but not smashing it and drawing out another screech of pain.

“I’m fucking bored of this honey. I’m gonna turn up the heat on this barbeque.”

She left the kitchen, taking care to close the door behind her.

The man began to whimper. If the burgers weren’t even on the grill yet, this was going to be a long night.

He wasn’t a stupid man. For all his faults and flaws, stupidity was not an accusation that would have stood up in a court of law, despite his record. Three years at Vanderbilt University and a cameo role as wide receiver for the Commodores, Vanderbilt’s football team, before his vices had got the better of him.

The Commodores Christmas blowout 2006. Big Ol’ titties and all the shooters you could shake your dick at. How he wished he had stayed in his dorm studying now – fate had pushed her specific big Ol’ titties in his face and the rest was painful history.

The muffled sound of her heels clicking on the laminate in the hallway was as torturous as anything that had happened to him so far. He was still wondering how he found himself laying in puddles of his own blood at 6’o clock on a humdrum Wednesday evening.

The door creaked as she opened it gently. Although his vision was blurred from the initial hit to the back of the head he had taken, he could very clearly make out a drill in her left hand and a box of screws in her right. This time she kicked the door forcefully to close it, again succeeding at startling the man.

“OK. Now remember the time you got drunk and mistook me for your sparring dummy and accidently on purpose tore my earlobe. Well tonight is your lucky night.”

The man began to writhe, like a fish that had just been caught and put on the slippery deck of a boat awaiting its inevitable fate. She had got to him good. He wanted to fight. He wanted to just stand up and reassert himself. Use his Jiu Jitsu training and choke the bitch out. But he couldn’t. Her control techniques were working and as she pulled the trigger of the drill, the man took an enormous gulp of saliva. She wasn’t playing games.

Revenge is a Dish Best Served With Calculation. (2)

She stood over the pathetic figure she had put up with for too long. The late night drinking sessions, where, with a belly full of Wild Turkey he would come crashing up the stairs and turn her from sleeping beauty into his personal heavy bag. The scars of one particularly bad beating were engraved on her left temple.

“All you needed to do was ask me.”

A white stiletto went crashing into the side of his knee. Another shock to his already frayed nerves.

“A-ask you what baby?”

That word baby. She fucking despised it. Especially coming from this piece of shit. She strolled over to the gas cooker, turning the knob before reaching for her lighter again. She flicked open the clipper and lit the invisible gas causing the flame to turn blue. She took out the Glock once again and began to heat the end of the gun.

She had competed in the Miss Tennessee pageant in her younger years before the routine batterings had blemished a once flawless beauty. Eye for an eye she thought. Or at least a temple for a temple. She wasn’t religious after all.

After a minute or two she could barely hold the gun as the metal acted as a conduit and scorched her palm. She could see that the brutal ambush she had hit him with earlier was wearing off, so she moved quickly. Without warning she branded the gun into the side of his head, drawing a blood curdling scream from the dazed man.

“Y-you fuck, you fucking, y-you fuck…”

“Spit it out doll, I’m just waiting for you to hit me where it hurts.”

She held the gun teasingly in his eye line. Seeing the odds stacked against him he let his sweat coated forehead hit the lino, skidding slightly as it came to an abrupt stop.

Her cobalt blue eyes peered over to the knife rack. She thought about carving a pentagram into this bastard, going all Manson family, but then she thought against it – too cliche.

“Haven’t I h-had enough already?”

“We’ve only just started. Then again, you never could last too long…”

She giggled coquettishly. Moving from hard to soft, all the time controlling his already frazzled mind. Long had she planned for this, studied the art of vengeance in all of its most callous forms. She was a big fan of cold-blooded irony and had even considered finishing the show with the Iron Maiden – his favourite band – but there was a recession on and the courier delivering the device might have had a few questions before signing off the package.

The Grammar of Magic

cakeordeathsite

sigellum+dei+Aemeth[1] Sigilium Dei Ameth-John Dee Writing and magic have always been closely associated. The Egyptian God Thoth was the inventor of writing and the patron of every magical art. The considerable cultural contact and resulting overlapover the centuries because of conquest and trade between Egypt, Greece and Romeled to the deities Hermes and Mercury who shared many of the same attributes as Thoth before they all further blended together,creating the composite figure that was to later a immeasurable influence in the history of ideas, Hermes Trismegistus. At a later date and further north in what Roman writers christened as Ultima Thule, Odin, wasthe God of Seid (Sorcery) and, as described in the strange scene where Odin sacrifices himself to himself in Havamal, the inventor of runes which it is suggested throughout Norse mythology as being an alphabet with an inherently magical purpose. Even in modern day English the connection remains…

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Revenge is a Dish Best Served With Calculation.

She twisted the knife, as the side of the steel scraped against a vertebrae leaving a small shaving of bone on the blade.

“You won’t be doing that again you fucking pig.”

His limp body lay in crimson puddles on the lino, gasping for air and twitching occasionally. She slowly raised a stiletto and knowingly stamped it down a hairs width away from his face. She reached over awkwardly to the draining board, picked up a glass and filled it with water.

Her pink lips touched the side of the glass as she took a sip before throwing the rest of the water onto her victim.

“Stand up you fuck, ain’t such a man now are you.”

He frantically spat blood from his mouth trying to speak.

“P-please, I apologised, please.”

She paced around the kitchen savouring the shift in power. The thump of her heels against the lino was slow and purposeful.

“Life is full of ironies ain’t it.”

She quickly drew for the Glock 9mm tucked down the back of her jeans, releasing a shot into the roof to startle the man and fuck with his mind a little more. It was his personal favourite and sadistically chosen. As the familiar crack of bullet leaving barrel reverberated around the kitchen, the body on the floor flinched violently.

“W-what, please, please.”

She pulled a chair from the kitchen table, pulled it close to the man and sat down. She began to explain in her southern drawl.

“You see honey, everyone wants to play by their own rules, do what they want, not thinking about the consequences to others. But as soon as they are implicated in somebody else’s wild games – the tables turn, they don’t like it so much.”

The statement beat the man harder than any bat or knife that had been used so far. He had expected retribution, but not like this.

“J-just one cigarette baby, please, the pain, i-it’s the pain.”

Her cherry red tipped fingers stroked around her pocket before expertly pulling out a packet of Marlboro red cigarettes and lighter with the same hand. She placed the cigarette in her mouth lit it up and gulped the smoke down her long, pale neck. She held it between her thumb and index finger aiming for the man’s mouth before, at the last minute, moving it down below his ear and stubbing it out on the thin skin of his neck.

He yelped in agony.

“What you did can’t be forgiven.”

She stood up and strolled over to the door, closing it gently.

“Shall we begin then sugar?”