Final Memo from the Sports Desk:
Fear and Loathing in the D-Wing

A Rude Awakening… Hell is Other People… There is No Rock and Roll Heaven…The Return of Big Ed…

February is a hell trip for anyone. I don’t care what kind of constitution you think you have, those days coming at the end of a long tunnel of godforsaken winter can suck the spirit out of the strongest bastard out there. You’ve read the reports by now, I decided to take The Big Ride out and chose the Hemingway style… only a bit less ugly than the slow, twisting death rattle of the NHL.

Why? Not important right now and frankly none of your damn Business. Those who know will know and those who don’t will be able to go on just fine.

I’m mostly scribbling this down to tell the good readers what it’s like over here on The Other Side. I know that’s what you all want to know… the palm sweaty anticipation of the Doctor’s account of the hereafter. The flaming pits of piss and vomit, the blinding white glow of purity and goodness, the ethereal swirling energy, everyone holding hands and singing Kumbayah until the End of Everything. That’s what you’ve come to hear, right?

Ho-ho. You would be so very wrong. There was a nice burst of Nothing then I woke up here. Where? Here…every dormitory and mid-range overpriced chain hotel in which I’ve had to sweat out bad Trips my Professional life. Beige carpets, beige wallpaper with beige flowers, beige everything until you want to get ahold of the fiend who designed this place and ask him what in the name of god were you thinking man? It’s either some sort of lethargic hell, or it’s run by committee.

Oh hell I almost forgot, they assigned a roommate to me, too. A copy store manager from Chicago named Ray. The poor bastard dropped dead of a massive coronary at fifty. He’s a nice enough sort, used to read his older brother’s early issues of Rolling Stone and agrees that those greedy swine blew what could have been a truly Good thing.

Also, Wenner- you owed me about fifteen grand and I owed you twenty, but we’ll be Gentlemen about it and call the whole thing even.

Part of me was hoping there would be some old friends here, or even an illustrious celebrity-type or two, but a lot of people cash in and the numbers just aren’t on my side. Last night, though, I was creeping around, looking for a vending machine, I swear to god I saw a big hulking Bastard that looked just like Ed Muskie by the elevator. I felt my first cold sweat and ran like I had been gripped directly by the Fear itself. If I have to spend eternity down the hall from that…

You’re probably wondering if your Doctor will be able to medicate effectively during his stay; my roomie informs me that certain substances are just fine here, but since some Bad Craziness in the main cafeteria here awhile back, there’s been a crackdown on pursuits of a pharmaceutical nature. Not to worry, though- my new friend has a connection over in the gymnasium who can keep things Moving.

Lots of downtime, otherwise. Ray says I’ll be processed officially in two weeks or so, things move slowly here, like some kind of goddamned spiritual DMV. So, there’s plenty sitting and waiting, just like the good old days in this man’s Army. But, there’s a typewriter here in the room, a crate of Mescal and a bucket of limes, so I’ll keep busy.

- by RJ White, with apologies to Hunter S. Thompson.