Free Proud Highway:Saga of a Desperate Southern Gentleman by Hunter S. Thompson Page B

BIBB III :
    His status as sports editor of the
Command Courier
appealed to Thompson immensely. Suddenly his “voice” was being read by thousands. Enamored of the power of the printed word, he declared journalism his vocation.
    December 1, 1956
Eglin AFB, Florida
    Monsieur…
    Yes … if you’ll forgive the repetitiousness of your own phrase, the “gap was rather gaping.” As a matter of fact, it has been almost seven or eight months since I’ve been favored with one of your unique examples of the much-slighted art of written communication. However, you hit a sore spot when you launched into this “you aren’t the only one” kick. For the past four months, I’ve made an intensive and amazingly successful effort to convince everyone around me that I’m Hunter S. Thompson, the Sports Editor of the
Command Courier,
and am definitely not to be included in
any
group. So far, I’ve individualized myself to the point that people don’t quite know what to make of me anymore. I wear blue button-down-collar shirts instead of Air Force shirts, I keep my own hours, I’ve turned one corner of the
Courier
office into my own private den—book shelf and radio-phono included—which makes night work quite pleasant, I pull
no
detail or KP, I’m
Sergeant
Thompson to any and all publicity seekers, and, in short, I’ve turned into a conceited, arrogant bastard! So you see that your including me in the mob, which has breathlessly awaited some word from one D. P. [Porter] Bibb, was more of an insult than soothing balm for an injured ego.
    No more than an hour ago, I laid the framework for what—if it is successful—will be the most incredible of all the Thompson coups to date. For the price of two new footballs and weekly publicity—I will be made an honorary member of the Eglin NCO [Noncommissioned Officers’] club. 16 Naturally, the publicity will be for said club. You’d have to be in the air force to actually understand the full meaning of such a triumph. At the moment, the only thing which would compare to it would be for the Hon. Mr. [Gamal Abdel] Nasser to be appointed to the Order of the Garter. It will mean that I will then enjoy almost all the privileges of a Master Sergeant, save pay. As sports editor, I already have far more prestige than any Master Sergeant cook, mechanic, clerk, or any other such lowly occupation.
    The whole secret of this sort of thing seems to be tied up in the old saying, “one good turn deserves another.” And being in a top position on the staff of the only official publicity organ on the base puts me in the position of having a ready-made “good turn” at my constant disposal. Soon I’ll be so crooked that I’ll have to screw my pants on in the morning. Seriously though, some of these people around here would make Boss Tweed look like an amateur. This word “politics” damn sure applies to more than the presidential elections.
    Right now, I’m just getting over an afternoon of drinking at the NCO club—at the entertainment manager’s expense. I’m trying to get into a productive mood and whip up a story or so for this week’s sports section, but I’ve become entranced with the possibilities of more Saturday afternoons of the same alcoholic nature and find it impossible to concentrate on the constant and miserable failures of the base basketball team.
    Now that I’ve tooted my own horn in the best egotistical fashion for a full page, I’ll get around to what I started to say in the distant beginning.
    In the first place, just what is this thing I saw in the
Courier-Journal
about you broadcasting the election returns four hours before all the major networks? Secondly, fill me in on your activities with the
Yale Daily News.
(I didn’t know that Eli had a daily, but that’s beside the point.) First I find out that [Joe] Bell is working for