the last book I ever read (Fear and Loathing on the Campaign Trail ’72 by Hunter S. Thompson, excerpt twelve)

from Fear and Loathing on the Campaign Trail ’72 by Hunter S. Thompson:

“What’s that noise?” the pilot asked.

“That’s Frank,” I said. “I think he just bit a chunk out of his own liver.” I looked back to make sure Mankiewicz was still strapped into his seat—which he was, but his face was grey and his eyes seemed unable to focus. He was sitting with his back to the window, so he couldn’t enjoy the view. And our engine noise was so loud that he couldn’t hear what we were saying up in the cockpit, so he had no way of knowing that our sudden, high-speed power-drive straight down at the vortex of Manhattan Island was anything more or less than what anybody who has spent a lot of time on commercial jetliners would assume it to be—the last few seconds of an irreversible death-plunge that would end all our lives, momentarily, in a terrible explosion and a towering ball of fire in the middle of Broadway.