World Press gonzo Style (sorta long) (355 hits)
Category: NoneLabels: Gonzo
Rating: 1.33 on 3 reviews (Rate this item) (V)
Submitted by Skatch (View user info) at 2006-07-05 20:20:24 EDT
Hunter S. Thompson perfected a style of writing called Gonzo Journalism in which he wrote exaggerating the truth to make the story more interesting, incorperating not just the story, but the experience, the people and the surroundings. I now give you World Press, a place I made up.
And in the spirit of Mr. Thompson, I've been drinking, so there are errors in spelling and syntax.
World Press: And alcoholic's night time anger
My editor gave me leave a few days ago, citing my brash rationalism and IV line of rum running through my arm as "difficulty adjusting." Upon my return from Tijuana from a business trip with a man named Pedro, the editor decided I could use an easy fluff project at a place called World Press, nestled out in the heart of the whitest place known to man. Fenton, Missouri, where the only thing ethnic is the black cars and the landscapers. It was a place of fear and anger, heavy machines and calloused hands, hard eyes and sharp ears, alcoholics and abusers. A place I though I would fit in.
I disguised myself as a possible new hire. Their ad in the paper said they were looking for someone who knew some kind document designer. I though back to when my last roommate went out of town for a week and I decided his room needed a more Jackson Pollock feel to it. I invited a few friends over and after a few PBRs and some very high grade, we decorated everything in his room by throwing pain on the walls. He came home and yelled something about putting down newspapers. I attacked him and threatened to douse him with lighter fluid and offer him up to my gods.
Upon entering the place with fake resume in hand, I was greeted by one of the front secretaries with a plastic smile. "You must be Francis," she says, her lips hardly moving. I Think back to a moment of consciousness while watching Batman and seeing Jack Nicholas with white paint on his face laughing uproariously, his face contorted into a smile that said 'please fuck me up' I chucked an empty beer can at his head while screaming that the president shouldn't allow foreigners in movies about American heroes, and promptly fell into a deep slumber, dreaming about the ultimate fight of DC and Marvel. X-men all the way bitches.
Maybe it's wires, I think as I am whisked away down dreary hallways of sunken eyed employees and sputtering computers, there is a faint mumbling from one of the low lit desks as the woman I come to refer to as 'Kim' whispers a faint mantra while listening to Alice in Chains at deafening levels. Apparently, the heroin soaked lyrics of a dead man keep her steadily ingrained in her sales calls and spreadsheets. I meet the rest of the sales team. Bob, a kind hearted man who talks low and stutters a bit, but always has pornography on his computer. Kelly, a married woman who seems to be the butt of most of the cruel ribbing in the sales area, and Matt, a hard faced man who golf's as much as he drinks. Though he only drinks beer, he has been known to wreak havoc on many of the public courses, at least the ones he is still allowed on. He has a loud laugh and can always tell you the latest Mexican joke, which is always received with laughter and hearty slaps on the back.
The wired face lady leads me back to a large office with many binders on shelves and military memorabilia on the walls and desk. A bronze helicopter sits poised to take off and raze small villages of brown people in the name of God, and empty brass casings from artillery rounds sit menacingly next to a computer, whispering to me the numbers of people they killed. A large man sits behind the desk and extends his hand, the grin on his face is filled with sharp teeth and a pointed tongue that snakes out and catches flies, something that even I find a bit rude and unnecessary.
"MR. HORTON!" his voice booms out. A hand extends toward me and I nervously place mine into his. Meaty fingers wrap around my wrist and I feel the bones grate against each other. I shrink back against the pleather chair and try to keep my cool. I call up the semester of drama I took in High School and remind myself that I am here for an interview, and nothing else.
"I LOVED YOUR RESUME, HOW GOOD ARE YOU WITH PHOTOSHOP?!" I was busted and I new it. I knew nothing about where to buy photos. Damn there needs to be better commercials on the Home Shopping Network. I jump up, ripping out my press credentials use them as a shield against their grins and spittle. The boss' rough hand shoots out and pulls my face close to his, and I smell the hops of cheap German beer on his breath. It is ten in the morning, and I am laughing on the inside. Beer for breakfast? So he wasn't really a man underneath it all, just someone who wanted to be me. Many people were like this, as I started every morning with a few glasses of Orange Juice with vodka swirled in. My editor told me that my morning drinking would be a problem, as well as informed everyone to stop accepting doughnuts and orange juice from me in the morning. I thought it made the day a bit better, especially seeing one of the chief layout women taking it from behind in the dark room with Willie the mail boy.
"I'm here to do the story on your company," I say quietly, trying to calm the gasping behemoth that has me in his clutches. "The rise from the ashes piece, since your last company burned down." He looks deeply and me, and then releases me, raising an eyebrow.
"What's with the false pretenses?" he asks, his voice dropping to a normal level.
"I didn't want you to treat me like a reporter, but more as an employee," I say. "Nice bluff with the photoshop question though, you must have known who I was."
He laughs this off, and I learn his name is Adrien. He guides me around the office, showing off his many military memorabilia, citing them all from his time in the Air Force Reserve. I think to the current president, but the smell of alcohol on his breath makes me keep my mouth closed, remembering my own anger when someone told me I wasn't a journalist because I was in the Army. I tell him about my own military experience, and he laughs hard enough to make the helicopter shake on the desk. "Let me show you my team," he said, jumping up and grabbing me by the arm roughly, stopping only to take a long drink from a coffee cup filled with beer. He reaches under his table and tops the cup off again and sips the foam off.
We go back out to the dimly lot fluorescent hellhole that was the sales area, and he brings over all of the sales team and we sit at a conference table. Adrien drains his coffee cup again and everyone sits down. Confused looks meet my own gaze as the lizards stare at me with strange vision and a feeling of hunger that is portrayed in their scent. The boos lizard tells them the story of who I am and what I do, and they all start to narrow their eyes at me. I turn to Adrien and tell him this isn't exactly what I had in mind. Rather, I needed to be Jane Seymore and them my gorillas. Maybe I used the wrong name or they didn't like being referred to as gorillas, but there was a definitely a feeling of angst as they left the table and returned to their respectable desks. I hide behind a plant and wait
Continuance will be dictated on how well this is recieved. I didn't want to make this too long and have people get all pissy.
User Reviews
Submitted by JonnyX (user info) at 2006-07-06 17:27:39 EDT (#)
Ranking: 0
it's CLOSE to HST, but only a little bit.
Needs more drugs and irrational behavior
"As your attorney, I advise you to drink heavily"
Submitted by Spacegrass (user info) at 2006-07-06 09:31:07 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
I'd keep reading.
Submitted by hour_man (user info) at 2006-07-06 04:35:16 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
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