[ WP ] After someone dies , they must be interviewed before it is decided how they will be reincarnated . You are the interviewer .

I tapped my pencil on the desk. Figures. I'd had a *fantastic* lunch, with the lovely Sarah in Constellation Management, and she'd laughed at my jokes, and touched my hand at the end, as we'd reached for our wallets, there was this long, warm silence- 
 
 -And now, I had to deal with *this fucking guy*. 
 
 Sitting in the other chair, was Hunter S. Thompson. 
 
 He'd found a cigarette somewhere, and *somehow*. He blinked, coolly, then breathed smoke in my face. 
 
 `` Did n't think you fuckers *existed*. Angels, *huh? * Fucken' *angels? * You got some.... wings somewhere?'' He peered at me, over the sunglasses he had also, *some-crazy-how*, found in his way over to my office. 
 
 `` Ca n't see'em, can I? That gives me a tingle, down in my investigative underparts. Could be, you're a *devil*. Could be, you're a *reptiloid. *'' 
 
 He stopped, took an impressive pull on the cigarette that ate it halfway to ash, and started again, his words fuming out as a dragon's gullet. 
 
 `` Do n't think so, gave'em the slip in'83. Probably still waiting for me to come out of that peep-show, but you never know. That *donkey* might've *squealed*, after all. Tipped my hand. Hoof. *Hand. *'' 
 
 The cigarette rapidly switched from one side of his mouth back to the other, his face looking feverish, a thick blob of sweat starting it's quivering way down his cheek. 
 
 `` I-'' 
 
 `` -Dammit, speak up son! What the devil do you have me here for?! I'm a writer! I have important things to write! I did n't have'em blast my ashes down the valley with a cannon so I could talk to a dumb mute for eternity!'' 
 
 ``... Well,'dumb' and'mute' mean the *same thing* in this context, so-'' 
 
 `` No they damn well do n't, boy! I know words, I *secrete* them! Every one of my pores, a *teeming hive* of *'em*! Buzzing and shoving, jostling under my skin! Careening through my *brain*, like *coked-up bats*! But I let them out with *care*!'' 
 
 ``... You did n't *just find cigarettes* up here, *did you*?'' 
 
 `` *Christ*, no! Angel dust! Seemed **apropos**!'' 
 
 `` Jesus...'' I looked down at my pad of questions, and checked a few boxes. When I looked back up, I realized that he'd snapped off one of the arms of his glasses, and was frenziedly scratching an editorial about the Iran-Contra scandal onto the smooth white surface of his desk, the bald pate of his head radiating intensity like an oven. 
 
 ``... What the *hell are you doing*?! Stop that!'' 
 
 `` I ca n't! Never could! I have to write.'' 
 
 His voice seemed strangely even and measured, a shocking contrast to the near-mania of a moment ago. 
 
 `` I know what you do. Read the form, read the door. You'll send me back. Means no more reporting. No more interviews. *No more questions*. No more getting the truth.'' 
 
 He inhaled again, and this time, the cherry burned right to the *filter*, releasing that stinging tear-inducing fume. A thick log of ashes fell across his still left hand, and his eyes were watery. 
 
 `` So, long story short, *fuck your desk* then. Pardon my French. Graffiti it is! To be seen by all the other blue-binned bottles and cans! I damn well stayed *true to the end! *'' 
 
 ``...'' 
 
 I let him keep scribbling, while I looked at his file.... Everything aside he had been a hell of a journalist. But what the hell could he be, other than himself?! We were n't allowed to do recursive reincarnation, after that disaster with Rasputin, yet... *Heh. * 
 
 `` I've got an idea, Mr. Thompson.'' 
 
 `` Eh?'' 
 
 `` *Take my job. *'' 
 
 He let the battered piece of wire go still, and he looked at me with the most direct stare since he'd been brought in. 
 
 `` Interviewing people, until the end of time. Getting the truth of them. Do it how you want. Go Gonzo to your heart's content. But *get the truth*.'' 
 
 His eyebrow raised quizzically. `` This a trick to get me to behave?'' 
 
 `` No.'' I smiled. `` I've been thinking about putting in a transfer to Constellation Management, anyway.'' 
 
 Hunter rubbed his chin. As he sat there, a small green gecko crawled under the door, dragging an unlit cigarette in it's mouth, clambered up the table leg, and deposited it next to his hand. 
 
... I did n't ask. 
 
 He puffed it to life from the still-smoldering butt of the first, and said, in a careless tone, `` Anyone interview *Nixon yet*?'' 
 
 I shook my head. `` Not yet. There were some... *irregularities* with his records.'' 
 
 He grinned like the Cheshire cat. 
 
 `` *I bet! *'' He leaned back, and kicked his legs up onto the table. `` Tell you what, Dumb-Mute. *It's a deal. *'' 

