Hunter S. Thompson, the king of Gonzo, shot himself in the head last night.

Thompson was the author of many books and short stories. The most well known among them, of course, is Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas. Being the author of Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas, that also makes Thompson the author of the best opening to a book that I've ever read:

We were somewhere around Barstow on the edge of the desert when the drugs began to take hold. I remember saying something like "I feel a bit lightheaded; maybe you should drive...." And suddenly there was a terrible roar all around us and the sky was full of what looked like huge bats, all swooping and screeching and diving around the car, which was going about a hundred miles an hour with the top down to Las Vegas. And a voice was screaming "Holy Jesus! What are these goddamn animals?"

Then it was quiet again. My attorney had taken his shirt off and was pouring beer on his chest, to facilitate the tanning process. "What the hell are you yelling about?" he muttered, staring up at the sun with his eyes closed and covered with wraparound Spanish sunglasses. "Never mind," I said. "It's your turn to drive." I hit the brakes and aimed the Great Red Shark toward the shoulder of the highway. No point mentioning those bats, I thought. The poor bastard will see them soon enough.

Michael Patton, my Philosophy 101 professor and a huge Hunter S. Thompson-head, eulogized his "last counter-culture hero" by reading those two paragraphs. Then, as if we didn't believe in Patton's true love for Thompson's work, he then showed us the tattoo on his leg:



Yeah, this was a bad day for Patton. So bad he let us out of class early. So, there you go.