Buried somewhere deep in the heart of New York State is the Institute for Journalism Veterans. The Institute is a haven for journalists too old or too tired to carry on the fight. It is a little publicized place, with high walls to keep out the public and…well, journalists. Unwanted journalists, that is.
One morning, a number of psychologists and syndicated columnists (and combinations of the two) were touring the Institute. At their head was Bernie Finklegarb, who pointed out journalists of interest. After a couple of hours, they came to the last patient, the centerpiece of the Institute. He was referred to only by the cryptic name Dr. Gonzo.
“I’m sure you’re all familiar with Dr. Gonzo,” Dr. Finklegarb expounded, “and know that he used to write while drunk, high or a combination of the two. While his writing has an amusingly paranoid aspect because of his lifestyle, it obviously has taken its toll on him physically…”
“He was a great opponent of Richard Nixon, wasn’t he?” one of the doctors asked. At the mention of Nixon’s name, Dr. Gonzo’s eyes momentarily caught fire, and he raised his head.
“Nixon…?” he asked, then dropped his head again.
“Please!” Dr. Finklegarb angrily admonished the crowd. “Don’t excite him that way!”
Later that evening, strange noises started coming from the room where Dr. Gonzo stayed. The night nurse, used to such commotions, let herself into his room. She was not, however, prepared for what met her there.
Dr. Gonzo was standing on his bed. At least, it looked like the patient, but he was jumping up and down with an energy that Dr. Gonzo hadn’t exhibited in years. In one hand, he held a bottle of Grizzly Beer, in the other, an unidentified bottle of pills. Of course, he wasn’t allowed beer or pills or a combination of the two!
“Where am I? What year is this? Never mind -” the apparition said. “Not important. Nixon – is that whipped dog still around?”
The nurse, who noticed that the person standing on the bed was bathed in the slightest glow, looked at him plaintively. “Mr. Thomp -” she started.
“What?” the apparition cried. “What did you call me? You must have me confused with that hulk – that husk of a man lying on the bed there. Call me Dr. Gonzo.”
The good doctor took a healthy swig from his bottle.
“Look, Dr. Gonzo,” the nurse said, trying to be reasonable. “You can’t do that -” Being reasonable was to prove to be a costly mistake.
Dr. Gonzo leapt off the bed and, throwing a rainbow of pills into his mouth, grabbed the nurse with his free hand. “Do you know what bikers do to women who talk back to them?” he asked, his voice barely a whisper. “Do you, my lithesome lass?”
“N…no,” the nurse was barely able to reply.
“It’s not very painful,” Dr. Gonzo thoughtfully admitted, “But it can be extremely embarrassing, especially if you’re not used to barking like a dog.”
“What do you want?” the nurse whispered.
“Nixon – what’s that old pirate up to?”
“I think he just published a book,” the nurse, trying to be helpful, told him.
“Living off the avails of his ill-gotten gains, I see,” Dr. Gonzo said, drinking lustily. “What was the book about?”
The nurse hesitated. This was going to end badly. Should I kill her now, or wait to see if she can tell me anything else? Dr. Gonzo thought idly. But, then: “I think…I think it was about the Vietnam War.”
“Aah. The poor President’s Second World War.”
There was silence for a moment, then Dr. Gonzo let the nurse go. He prowled the room, throwing the bottle to one side when it proved empty. “Will I ever be allowed to rest?” he mumbled loudly. “Will I ever rest?”
“You…you seem obsessed with Mr. Nixon…” the nurse ventured. “Why is that?”
“Can you be trusted?” Dr. Gonzo replied. “I mean, I mean, you don’t work for the CIA, do you? Of course you don’t. Listen, I’ve known you a long time, so I’ll tell it to you straight: do you know what nemesis is?”
“I don’t think so…” the nurse responded, hedging her bets by inching her way towards the room’s door.
“Young people wouldn’t know,” Dr. Gonzo explained, “and old people will soon forget. Or, worse: forgive. But, I remember. I remember who he was and what he did. And…” Dr. Gonzo lowered his voice, “he’s mine.”
The nurse fled the room. When she returned, Dr. Gonzo was lying flat on his back, virtually incapable of movement. The male nurses she had summoned refused to believe her story, although one did pause for a moment when he had to shut a window.
Now, how could that have gotten open?