Elton John goes hunting
( Some times there are things you come across that you just have to stop and stare at....this is one of those things found on Warren Ellis's livejournal under the alias of sleepless man)
I have in my possession a manuscript which begins:
"As the sun goes down, all bloody and stained, I am reminded of the time I hunted humans with Elton John."
This has been knocking around the internet for years. I first saw it on Usenet in 1998. It's an OCR scan of a typed manuscript, so some of the spelling is a bit crappy. I don't know if that's an excuse or not. The ms purports to be by the reporter Carl Bernstein, who's been pretty much retired for at least ten years, as far as I know.
It was 1997. I was in San Diego, staying at the Hyatt on the harbour. I had just finished breakfasting on fresh wolf flown in from northern Norway, and was leaving the restaurant just as Elton John was waiting for a table. His skin was grey. His friend Gianni Versace had been found dead that morning, murdered by serial killer Andrew Cunanan. His nylon hair shone in the diffused glow of the fogbound morning light. I showed him my teeth and said hello. He saw something in my smile, I think. He leaned in and grinned. 'Let's find this fucker,' he hissed. I was a man with wolf on his breath.
In real life, Andrew Cunanan was found dead on a Florida houseboat, having apparently blown his own brains out eight days after killing Versace. The book tells the "true story" of Carl Bernstein and Elton John finding Cunanan in San Diego (unlikely, since Versace was killed just two and a half miles from where Cunanan was found) and hounding him back across America towards Florida and his death.
The security men shifted nervously as Elton John produced two needle guns from his Vuitton luggage. "Tungsten needles, gas-fired, tipped with toad venom," he laughed, snapping a silvered magazine into the butt of one pistol. "I bought my first set in 1974, for bar fights. That old Mrs Bowie, he doesn't talk shit to me anymore."
He passed me the gun and leered. "Muhammed Ali hasn't got fucking Parkinson's Disease. He has toad venom damage. So has Rod Stewart, but you wouldn't know it until he goes to the toilet."
I have in my possession a manuscript which begins:
"As the sun goes down, all bloody and stained, I am reminded of the time I hunted humans with Elton John."
This has been knocking around the internet for years. I first saw it on Usenet in 1998. It's an OCR scan of a typed manuscript, so some of the spelling is a bit crappy. I don't know if that's an excuse or not. The ms purports to be by the reporter Carl Bernstein, who's been pretty much retired for at least ten years, as far as I know.
It was 1997. I was in San Diego, staying at the Hyatt on the harbour. I had just finished breakfasting on fresh wolf flown in from northern Norway, and was leaving the restaurant just as Elton John was waiting for a table. His skin was grey. His friend Gianni Versace had been found dead that morning, murdered by serial killer Andrew Cunanan. His nylon hair shone in the diffused glow of the fogbound morning light. I showed him my teeth and said hello. He saw something in my smile, I think. He leaned in and grinned. 'Let's find this fucker,' he hissed. I was a man with wolf on his breath.
In real life, Andrew Cunanan was found dead on a Florida houseboat, having apparently blown his own brains out eight days after killing Versace. The book tells the "true story" of Carl Bernstein and Elton John finding Cunanan in San Diego (unlikely, since Versace was killed just two and a half miles from where Cunanan was found) and hounding him back across America towards Florida and his death.
The security men shifted nervously as Elton John produced two needle guns from his Vuitton luggage. "Tungsten needles, gas-fired, tipped with toad venom," he laughed, snapping a silvered magazine into the butt of one pistol. "I bought my first set in 1974, for bar fights. That old Mrs Bowie, he doesn't talk shit to me anymore."
He passed me the gun and leered. "Muhammed Ali hasn't got fucking Parkinson's Disease. He has toad venom damage. So has Rod Stewart, but you wouldn't know it until he goes to the toilet."