Fear and Loathing in the Mystery Machine

Excerpts from the never-aired 1973 Scooby Doo episode with guest star Hunter S. Thompson

We were ten minutes south of San Clemente when the putrid green daisy walls of the van started closing in. I recall the fat four-eyed lesbian sweater girl saying something like "are you okay, Mr. Duke? We've got a mystery to solve..." when suddenly the gullet of the garish chartreuse steel beast began to spasm, as if a digestive track readying itself to vomit. I began clawing at my hamstrings and when I turned my head I was looking into the irridescent eyes of a grotesque animal screeching "Ruh Roh! Ruh Roh!" in a hoarse irritating dog-accented gibberish. That's when it things began to turn weird.

I fought off the ether hallucinations and fly swarms and fumbled through my medical bag for my 9 millimeter and another shot of absinthe. I pushed off the safety and casually popped off three quick rounds, through the shag carpet stomach lining of the nauseous steel beast that was consuming all of us, and it began thrashing angrily. The lesbian was screaming, and the two Aryan Hitler Youth were screaming, and the grotesque talking dog jumped into the arms of the whimpering hippie boy. Holy sweet Jesus Christ, I thought, don't these people realize we're about be eaten alive by poorly-drawn Chevrolet? "Nevermind," I said. They would see it all soon enough, after the nightshade cookies and Scooby snack kicked in.

****************************

Hanna and Barbera liked my story on hormone doping at the '72 Laff-a-Lympics and proposed that I cover a Harlem Globetrotters game at a haunted Aztec pyramid in Mexico. They called me to their offices in Burbank. "Jesus Christ, you're killing us here, Duke," Hanna complained when I demanded a $1500 advance for the project. "I've got expense," I said. They relented and arranged for a chirpy entourage to escort me into the belly of the beast. There was the lesbian chick, the blond Palos Verdes neck scarf Nixon boy and his frigid miniskirt girlfriend, the gawky soul patch hippie kid and his paranoid Great Dane. Lost Manson kids all, Squeakies and Leslies and a canine Tex in a puke green van hoping for some Mexican helter skelter. All the better reason to pack a few guns, I thought.

"Like hi Mister Duke, ready to solve some Mexican mysteries?" said the hippie kid in a grating singsong. I was simultaneously repulsed and fascinated by the shape of his head. "Fuck that," I said. "We're going to Compton to pick up some supplies."

We backed up the van to the garage of my exploration outfitter, Dr. Tyrone, and loaded the necessary cargo for our insane basketball safari in Baja: twelve mason jars of absinthe-laced Goofy Grape, two pounds of hashish, 450 hits of Wacky Package blotter acid, a tinfoiled brick of pure Mendocino nightshade distillate, a Jif Peanut Butter jar of ether, two gross of amyl poppers, a sandwich baggie of MDMA, seven quarts of Mescal, 112 peyote buttons, two cases of Schlitz, and a new experimental medication Dr. Tyrone called "Tyrone Nitrate." The supension of the vomitous beast groaned under the load and we pointed it toward Tijuana.

*****************************

"Rejus Rist! Rejus Rist!"

The dog started whimpering in paranoid Scooby Smack madness when the two Federales started poking their flashlights into the rear van windows. How long can we maintain? I wondered. How long before one of us starts raving and jabbering and making weird sound effects? The lesbian was swatting away at invisible flies and the hippie was in a comatose peyote stare. The two Nixon youths had gotten into the Tyrone Nitrate and were rooting like animals on the van floor. I could probably shoot the two cops, but it would be just a matter of time until the other Mexican pigs tracked us down and fed our corpses to the Baja condors.

"Ola senor," I said, rolling down the passenger window and motioning to the fat one. I reached out with a $100 handshake. "There's one thing you should know. We're going to the Globetrotters game at the haunted Aztec pyramid. That fat homely girl in back, with the glasses? She's a hitchiker we picked up outside El Cajon, a runaway from a wealthy family. I think she is holding drugs."

We tore off south toward Ensenada, the two fat Federales disappearing slowly in the mirror as they struggled to handcuff the fly-swatting lesbian chick.

*****************************

"Keep digging," I ordered, my Glock trained at the hippie's hairy, bulbous head. The Schlitz-peyote cocktail had likely rendered him harmless, but I wasn't taking any chances -- with him, or any chupacabras that might appear in the desert night.  The shivering mongrel dragged the limp bodies of the two Hitler Young Republicans one by one across the desert floor. It wasn't clear yet whether they were really dead or just in a Tyrone Nitrate-induced zombie state, but I wasn't in any state to explain them to another Federale. The holes were shallow enough that if they were still alive they could dig themselves out and hitchhike back to the border.

Pa-zing!

The hideous dog jumped out out of the way as I popped a round at his feet. "Ron of a ritch! Rut ruz rat for?" it screeched. "Stop walking on your hind legs," I said. "You're a goddam dog, for chrissakes."

*****************************

Madness and rank paranoia filled my mind as I looked down from the steps of the pyramid to the violently stupid spectacle. A team of lumbering Aztec ghosts is leading the Harlem Globetrotters, 82-6 with six minutes left to go, dunking over Curly Neal and Meadowlark Lemon like they were willing victims in one of their ancient blood sacrifices. I half expected the Aztecs to reach into the Trotters' chests and remove their beating hearts. Christ, I hadn't see such a beating since Sonny Barger took a baseball bat to a mouthy Oakland meth dealer in '66.

But the freak circus on the court is only the start of the snarling insanity. Who put a goddam basketball court in the middle of Mexico? And what the hell were Sonny and Cher and Don Adams doing here?

Mama Cass begins choking on a ham sandwich. The hippie gives her the Heimlich while the stupid dog suits up for the Globetrotters, who suddenly start scoring points. Nobody seems to notice.

*****************************

Me and the dog and the hippie started pulling the masks off the Aztec ghosts. "Like, YOINKS!" the hippie screamed, still half-addled from the amyl.

I should have known. In fact, I knew. I had always known. Those weren't ghosts. They were monsters, the flesh eating monsters of a country half-decayed by greed, stupidity and rot. The Aztec starting five: Nixon, Agnew, Mitchell, Haldeman and Erlichmann.

"We would have gotten away with it if it wasn't for you meddling dope fiends," said the evil Yorba Linda bastard.

"See you at the Bob Hope Hell Celebrity Pro-Am," I said, washing down a handful of MDMA with a bottle of Gusano Rojo. I ate the worm.

*****************************

Saturday morning in the late '60s was a very special time and place to be a part of. Maybe Roadrunner or Johnny Quest or Space Ghost or Lancelot Link Secret Chimp meant something. Maybe not, in the long run ...but no explanation, no mix of words or music or can touch that sense of knowing that you were there and alive in front of that Zenith console color TV eating a gigantic bowl of Quisp. Whatever it meant.

And that, I think, was the handle--that sense of the inevitable victory, and that we were part of it. In the end we would unmask the ghost as the Old and Evil town banker, or kill those evil frogmen in a really cool explosion; our pre-sweetened, vitamin-fortified energy of youth would simply prevail. We were shooting the curl of a beautiful cartoon wave and nothing could stop us, except when our moms would yell at us and then we would have to go outside and maybe ride our minibike around for a while. Now, less than five years later, if you turn on Saturday TV and look at the cheap washed-out backgrounds in a certain way you can see where the wave broke and rolled back, and broke and rolled back, in an endless Xeroxed repetition.

Comments

[bobthebellbuoy]

Dylan Thomas + blotter acid = Hunter Thompson. Hunter Thompson + satire = iowahawk. Coincidence? I think not! This is obviously the work of Carl Rove,damn wait till the DU Underground catches on to this. Way more great adventures!

[Adrian]

That was beautiful, Dave. Just awesome. "The paranoid Great Dane" busted my gut. You're a genius. And a helluva writer.

[skinbad]

rucking rexcellent

[Sheryl]

Wonderful - tinged slightly with sadness that you can write a parody that's about as good as some of his work (better than a lot of it).

Will Scrappy save Velma in the sequel? Just asking. Cheers!

[Pookleblinky]

Holy shit!

You are a hallucinogenic Mozart.

[T Marcell]

A Sonny Barger reference! nice detail, Dave.
Did you consider including a leery Hubert Humphrey appearing out of the pyramid, Lidocaine in one hand, a half-chewed remainder of adrenal gland hanging from his sullen, sweaty jowls?
Right....probably over the top.

[foreign devil]

You forgot the 'partridge in a pear tree' at the end of the laundry list of 'supplies' he packed for the trip. I'm helpless with laughter.

One of the very best and a real tribute to both of you: Dave and Dr. Duke!

[A.R.Yngve]

Whoa! That was WEIRD. I won't ever again be able to watch Scooby Doo...
:)

-A.R.Yngve
http://aryngve.blogspot.com

[Son of a Pig and a Monkey]

Dr Iowayhawk,

As your attorney, I advise you to smoke drug and drink heavily...

/a 25-year old recollection-lashback

[Son of a Pig and a Monkey]

Er, make that drugs and flashback, respectively

PIMF

[John Hawkins]

That's perfect vintage Hunter S. Thompson Iowahawk. Perfect...

[tamsen]

Brilliantly rendered, hats off to you. The Doctor himself I think would have choked out a guffaw in the midst of his Wild Turkey consumption.

[TAZZ]

By God, you're a genius, Iowahawk! Frank J, Ace, all the rest of them are brilliant, but you're work is in a level by itself. This is just a hilarious work of art, here, like all the rest of your stuff. Keep it up.

[Joshua Scholar]

Thompson's writing was always self parody anyway. Masterful self parody in fact. Unfortunately you can't laugh at Thompson nearly as well or as cleverly as he did himself.

Your idea was good, but actual HST is funnier and darker.

[Sloth]

Oh crap, I am having a relapse. It was worth it.

[Jeremy]

As I read this, I swear I heard my mom yelling at me to clean my room. And, I'm 33 years old! Excellent work. It reminded me of many many Saturday mornings watching Scooby Doo.

[Jeff]

Still laughing. Maybe it's the peyote.

ron of a ritch..no way...

[Tim P]

It was just after 3a.m. when the I noticed the blog had just been updated and just then the phone rang. I stared at it for a moment, then jerked it off the hook and said nothing. Three o'clock in the morning is not a late hour for some people, but they're usually not the calm ones. Folks who write and update their internet blogs at this early hour are a special breed. So are people that call you then. When a blog's updated at three, you know it's not anyone with a straight job. That's how I knew it was that mad-cap genius of parody, Iowahawk. Christ, he'd been on quite a run lately. 'Chuch', 'what happens in Davos' and now this twisted phantasmagoric kaleidescope of pure parodic genius. There was no sound on the other end of the phone, but I could hear someone breathing.
"Whata ya want?" I finally screamed.
"Luke, I am your father" said the voice, trying to immitate Darth Vader and laughing at the same time.
"What is it!" I screamed.
"Did you see the Scooby Doo piece Iowahawk just put up?" he said.
" Yea, I just read it. Unbelievable isn't it?"
"Heard that bro. So what now?"
"Hell after something like that, you just gotta send him a kudo" I said.
"What's a kudo?"
"F****in Freak!!" I screamed as I slammed down the phone.
Kudo indeed, this was going to have to be a special hat tip to the Madman himself. But what?
This was no time for dithering. If a suitable complement was to be found, it would take at least a case of Grain Belt and two hits of blotter. No time to waste!

Great parody !!!!!!

[travelinman67]

Best thing I've read in years...

Time for 4 fingers of Chivas on the rocks...

Just brilliant, Iowahawk!

[profligatewaste]

When's the movie coming out?

[Tim McNabb]

Oh boy, was that ever funny.

Interesting how one can write like Thompson without the drugs.

It is without the drugs, right?

[paul]

Gonzo-rific Hawk! You must have Hunter's recipe book....

[Dave L]

Who's Scooby Doo?

[Carridine]

...and I'll send kudos
after these cloaked, vampiric soul-bats
stop fluttering round my head...

[capitano]

"He who makes a Scooby beast of himself
Gets rid of the pain
Of being a man."

Dr. Iowahawk