H.R. Porter

Höger- eller vänsterhänt: Höger.
Humör just nu: Alltid glad.
Favoritgodis: Bra fråga.
Är det nåt du absolut inte äter: Äter nog det mesta, även människokött till skillnad från Helen, haha.
Kläder just nu: Jeans och tröja.
Musik just nu: Dino Crocetti a.k.a. Dean Martin.
Vad sa du senast: Finns det kaffe?
Om du var tvungen att leva i en annan tidsepok, vilken skulle du välja då: Sent 1800-tal.
Sommarplaner: Jobba hoppas jag.
Fisk eller badkruka: Tjock val, hehe.
Saft eller alkohol: Alkohol.
Hur många kuddar sover du med: En.
Favoritväder: Lagom kyla.
Om du var fast på en öde ö, 3 saker att ta med: HPR och en container bourbon; inget mer, hehe.
Spelar du nåt instrument: Inte ett enda.
Morgon- eller nattmänniska: Båda går lika bra.
Sparare eller slösare: Slösare; man ska inte spara pengar.
Bästa film: Finns många, bara det inte är modern romantik med.
Tror på liv på andra planeter: Nej.
Kommer du ihåg din första kärlek: Jovars.
Älskar du henne/honom fortfarande: Haha, bra fråga, men nej.
Har du några homosexuella vänner: Jovars, den mycket snälla Emma.
Tror du på mirakel: Jovars, utan tvekan.
Tror du på att det är möjligt att vara trogen för alltid: Det tror jag.
Ser du dig själv som tolerant mot andra: Nja.
Ser du på kärleken som ett misstag: Nej.
Hur många barn vill du ha när du blir stor: Minst två.
Bio eller promenad: Promenad.
Är du kittlig: Inte så farligt, nä.
Snarkar du? Inte mera.
Stjärntecken? Bryr mig inte så jag skriver inte oxe. Fasens, nu gjorde jag det ändå, haha.
Rädd för insekter? Nej.
Äckligaste insekten: Långa naglar, haha.
Största svaghet: Hör Helen säga; "du är republikan, dumbass."
Det här är jag bra på: Roa mig själv, haha.
Bästa bok? Allt av Hunter S. Thompson

Om du fick välja en superkraft, vad skulle du välja? Oförstörliga kroppsorgan, haha.

Vad vill du jobba som? Town drunk in some early Irish novel.
Chips, morötter eller godis? Ostbågar.
Pizza eller hamburgare? Pizza tror jag, svårt val.
Skriver du dagbok? Nej.
Tänker du någonsin tatuera eller pierca dig? Var nånstans? Är redan tatuerad, mer blir det. Piercing är dock inget för mig.

Stökigt eller välstädat? (ditt rum, hus, lägenhet m.m.) Stökigt, det ska märkas att någon bor där.
Gungar du på stolen? Ibland, ja.
Skulle du någonsin få för dig att hoppa bungy-jump? Varför inte?
Vilken hand håller du gaffeln i ? Höger.
Är du rädd för blod? Nej.
Saltar du på maten? Salt och peppar går åt, ja.
Gillar du att sjunga? För mig själv och för nära vänner.

Anser du att du är stark? Nix.
Brukar du sola? Helst inte.
Vad gör du om du får hicka? Väntar tills det går över.

Röker du? Händer.
Snusar du? Dagligen.
Använder du knark? Nej.
Kaffe, te eller inget? Kaffe.
Har du en besatthet? Många, haha.

Helen och jag började med bloggar ett tag sedan. Ni vet adressen till våra nuvarande men vi hade båda en gammal som vart helt på engelska med. Lite konstigt läsning men okej antar jag. Min då. Adressen till min kan ni få, den är http://hrporter.blog.com/. Helens ger jag dock inte, vet inte om hon vill ni ska veta om den, haha.

MEN för tiotusen dollar i omärkta sedlar kan ni få den på direkten. Det hela är diskret, hehe.





So long,

Dr. H.R.P.

"Om en sosse erbjuder dig godis håll hårt i plånboken och spring."

Due to a chain of events out of Henry Ray Porter's control he was beat up by no less than 16 local Nazi cops and they did their best to make him sign a paper that made HRP acknowledge the lie that WW2 never happened and Hitler was a Good German.

HRP managed to escape by the means of hard liquor and a stolen moped. HRP is right now undergoing serious treatments for his injuries at an undisclosed location. The doctors are carefully optimistic and there is a lot of talk of "syringes filled with bourbon" and "cerebral injections." To the average Joe this terms mean nothing but they are not as omnious as one might suspect.

HRP is soon back in working order, rest assure.




W. Hawthorne
Henry Ray Porter's "Attorney at Large"

"I'm getting wasted with my country heroes" is what Hank Williams III sang once upon a time.

Don't flatter yourself, we both know that you ain't the fuckin' reason why I'm getting wasted. Or maybe you don't know, maybe you think I'm Charlie and you're my love. Well, if you do that is both untrue and the truth! A paradox? You bet your ass it is.

You're tired of people who are filled with mystic but still you wish you were one of them (us?). I've never seen myself as one of them. I rather like to think that I'm one of those simpletons; the kind of people everyone understands at once. Easy as pie, as advanced as duplo. But hey, we're all different and we're all the same, ey?

This is confusing and it makes my head hurt and I'm the fool who keeps on writing and writing and writing. But yeah, you killed that last best hope for me. No more of that jealosly fine smile, no siree. From now on it's only fishing in the creek and drinking in the afternoons. Why? You drove me to that place, yes you did. I think it was T. S. Elliot who said "a woman drove me to drinking and I didn't even have the courtesy to thank her." Well, now I thank you; THANK YOU. All those broken promises came together and kicked me low down.

So I raise my glass to you, destroyer of all good and creator of all better. If you could have had an open mind then I could even have been Right. But no, that's all moot. You knew me but I never knew you. But hey, thanks for convincing me to choose surgery; that was a good idea even if it failed ultimately. But I just gotta try again, fool me once... You know the drill. Thanks for the surgery, that was the point of it all.

So, I learned about life and that was fine. I climbed a step but fell back three steps. No more women, no more magnum bottles, no more Hope, no more religion. See? You know what I mean. Well, keep watching, you'll know who gets killed; poor Vic.




So long and 'til we meet again,


Dr. H.R.P.

Du vet väl att du pratar om dig själv i denna text? Du är inte så smart som du tror. Du är själv besatt av Hunter, Bogart etc etc etc. Du blir t.o.m besatt av vanliga människor.

Du läser Hunters böcker som han skrivit om sig själv... "Yes, why indeed. Why would you want to worship some celebrity who does drugs, drives drunk, looks pretty, makes a million dollars a month, fucks around and ignores you and the rest of the world?". Sug på den du.

Du är precis som alla andra Henrik, du kan bara inte inse det.
Dessutom är det kul att läsa skvaller. Det är intressant att läsa om både kändisars lycka och olycka för att roa EN SJÄLV. Ingen annan. Världen skulle inte vara ett skit utan dessa kändisar. Dem gör våran musik som vi älskar, filmer och allt. Dem är konstnärer och många tjänar bra. Men många hjälper andra med dem summor dem får ut.

Iallafall.. det är dig själv du beskriver i din text.. dig själv och alla andra. För du är precis som alla andra.

I have a problem. Or no, I could have a problem, but I know how to control it. Most of the time. It's a beast, yeah, a beast within me. A beast within; how's that for a name? Yeah, the Beast is large one and it never shows any mercy, IF unleashed. But I know better, after several mistakes, that it can't be let loose. As long as I know how to control it I survive, for good or ill. Some say that it would be easier for everyone of I gave into the pressure and let the Beast consume me and finally finish me. Well, I don't believe that, I like a good struggle. Fighting to the bitter end.

But it is true, sometime the Beast will get unleashed and it will start to wear down my defenses. First it will be subtle and no one, not even me, will notice it; the Change. But then, like a swarm of locust, it will be a sudden bolt of energy and the Beast reaches critical mass and explodes. After that point there will be no doubt about the fact that I'm a marked man with a limited lifespan. No more will people wonder what's wrong with me, what's eating my away, no, fuck that. No they'll KNOW and they will be proved that sometimes it better NOT to know. But it will be too late, they have seen the Beast.

For me there will also be no hope since I've passed that point where I've fueled the Beast within and now it needs more; too much for me to provide. It's only logical to assume it will turn to people around me, my friends and family, and look at them for suitable host-material. It will not find any though, I have seen to that. They are shielded from the Beast, the Virus, and they have my last acts to thank for that.

But because they are not proper hosts doesn't mean that It can't harm them, oh no. It will, believe me, it will. It already has, through me. The Beast is smarter than us all.

My God, what's wrong...?

In a dark alley the former hero lies

Passed out and forgotten by all

Smelling of that cheap bourbon again

A man has been robbed of his pride

Two years ago there was no whiskey, no

For our man there was only his love

He had someone he loved and missed

But years went by and she never loved him back

"From bar to bar, alley to alley

He stumbles, looking for peace of mind

She sees his pain but ignores it

She's to afraid so he floats away"

Streams of whiskey made him distant

His friends know him no more they say

His love cries some nights, always late

Her bed is shared by someone else

"Chorus"

She misses her lost friend but yet

She can't lie to herself or to him

Lovers the two will never be, oh no

He knows this too and talks only to the bottle

Every night, all alone

"Chorus"

For how long can you try and replace

Love with bourbon without failing?

Our former hero knows, sorry

He finally found his peace, alone

In an all too familiar alley he falls

His mind murky and hazy

His last breath utters the name of his love

She will never hear that but he did

"Chorus + first 2 sentences from the chorus"

His pain is finally gone, as is his soul

She cries at the casket, one last time

Good bye, friend, good bye

Tuesday afternoon and what a Tuesday it was. Woke up late since I got to bed late; that's how the story goes. A quick breakfast/lunch, bread really, and then I was ready for the meeting. I got on the infamous bus to town and soon this freak stumbled out and started looking around. A café maybe? Yeah, that seems like something that could lure people to it and (alas) I was right. I go to the counter and order a beer, which they strangely enough had, and I set a beeline for the table with the promised dignitaries.

Two cups of coffee, some napkins, a cultural attaché from some eastern European country and the de facto ambassador from Germany; that was my diet for today. Oh, and the beer too. I sit down and at once the cultural attaché gives me a blazing look when she sees the beer and smells my bourbon-breath. I introduce myself, shake hands and the usual, and then without a further word I down the beer and at once call for the waitress to bring me three more. The attaché looks nervous now, not angry; what kind of a crowd has she gotten herself mixed up with? The German ambassador smiles nervously and tries to comfort his friend. I can see tears starting to well up in her eyes; the horror!

But then comes her salvation! Or maybe my salvation? I'm not sure of that, yet, I think I need some time analyze the whole thing. But enough of that, back to the salvation at hand.

As the ambassador is smiling and trying to comfort her the editor of Gloss Magazine suddenly appears and with a hearty laugh he sits down at the table and at once sees the predicament I'm in (or maybe the one the attaché is in) and turns on his charm. A couple of minutes later she is giggling like a little schoolgirl and all is well. My beers are long gone and I excuse myself and head for the toilet. Damn those pay toilets, you need money to get inside and you're drunk, your wallet is in some pocket you never knew you had and your hands are shaking badly. I wait and I see a mother with a child put in coins and open the door to the toilet. With lightning quick reflexes I rush in and close the door behind me, only hearing a couple of curses and a child crying.

Inside I open my kitbag, a camera bag really, and look for the sealed test tube I know is in there somewhere. I find it and an exclamation of joy passes my lips before I break the seal and take a quick sniff, then another one. I look in the mirror and remove any traces before getting outside again. The mother and child are gone and no one seems to notice me as I stumble back to the café.

What a scene; the ambassador is drinking cheap domestic beer, the editor has charmed the attaché and the attaché herself is seducing the editor.

***

Somebody at the door, the damn taxman of course. Gotta run, final showdown with the evil soul.




So long,

Dr. H.R.P.

Dear Lifesaver,

Or Rachel Forester thy name is. Well, this is what people call "a letter" and the purpose of such a contraption is generally to convey something to the reader/receiver. But not my letters; fuck no. My letters are for my private amusement and nothing else. Of course a common side-effect of my letters is that the reader also gets some amusement/rage/sorrow from them. Sometimes. Sometimes even all three sentiments at once. But that's neither here nor there.

Ah, we sure had a swinging good time at Hennessy's a couple of weeks ago. (Weeks? Has it been so long since we shared a pint or two of a premium brand of Irish beer? Alas, the calendar confirms my nagging suspicion.)

***

Sorry about that, I had to use "the facilities." When I got back to my room the song "Walking with a Ghost" was booming from my speakers (hope the neighbors don't mind; it's after 2 AM over here now) and somehow it got me thinking of you. Even though I'm already writing this letter the song made me think of you in another way than you just being the receiver. Well shucks, we can't all be winner, ey?

My room is anxious to meet you and to be honest, so am I. It's been far too long since we had those brewskies and shared a couple of private laughs at the pub. So, if the Great Confusion hasn't hit you too bad yet and if the strange music still pulls you to better places I suggest that we get together and get drunk. Don't worry; I guess that I can afford to help you getting there. Oh, not that we need to be drunk but in the spirit of yesteryear I think it's a good idea to do just that. Maybe not kosher but then again, we are Heavy Rollers, aren't we?

 But enough of that eternal drink, let's talk about you. How are the shadows tonight? Here they are not looming but rather gentle. They seem to caress my restless soul and I can swear the wind is telling me that it will all be okay. At least for now and what more can we hope for?

Damn it, I can't keep myself on track today, I seem to be doing all these detours. Maybe it's too early to write this letter, you know I work better when the early risers wake up. Let them live their life, I'll live my werewolf-life. Sort of. On to funnier things, maybe a short story?

If you haven't taken a ride on the bus to my place then I suggest it strongly. Where else can you find Frenchmen with wild menacing eyes that seem to be out for you? Maybe the old timer was a former French legionnaire, I can't really say. Or maybe he was just a former socialist that couldn't understand that the joy of life is not to bake bread but rather plant the rye for it? But let us not waste rye on bread. How's that for late night wisdom?

On the bus you'll also find people challenging your views on the sexes. It sounds weird but somehow it seems fitting that my bus would be the transvestite express. Well, not really, that was a lie, but then again; I rarely apologize for fun overstatements. There is this interesting looking girl on the bus, I've seen her a couple of times, and she must be the prettiest girl I've ever seen or the funniest man ever. Not that she resembles a man but her jaw suggests something familiar, something close to and old vicar in some early English novel. How the vicar fits together with transvestites and pretty girls is probably too weird to go into right now, I leave that for the educated. I can't be bothered with things like that and neither can you. We are both Freaks with no hopes of surviving on their terms so we have to create our own.

Yes, I'm proud of having met a Freak, a fellow Champion of Fun, like yourself. Strange how the wild boar can bring with it news of something greater than your own hubris. By the way, have I told you about the Wild Boar that stalks my nights? If not, just tell me and I'll retell you the encounter in great detail. I'm proud of being the beast on the back of the Wild Boar (yes, with CAPITAL W and B) but I suspect you know about that beast too; you're friend with that scum sucking pirate Suzy Sands. Believe me when I say that I use scum sucking with the outmost respect. Sometimes I think that Suzy and I would make a rather lovely couple if it weren't for the simple, yet insurmountable fact, that we are the same but opposite. Yeah, you know the old story; boy meets girl, boy likes girl, boy ends up with a fractured hip. Not that I blame her, it was my fault for trying to wrestle with a quart of bourbon, a sheet of acid and three blonde onlookers. I should have left that geek alone and wrestled with another tree instead. Oak is oak but so is white oak, ey?

Weird, very weird.

You know, they took my license plates earlier this week. How's that for a magazine caption? Some greedy democrat with a pair of boltcutters must have had a blast while he stripped my car clean and then decided to leave everything but the plates. I almost envy him if it weren't for the fact that the skidmarks suggest that he was a paraplegic. Living close to a major hospital does that for you, you become numb at the same time as you become open minded.

Do you have a set of license plates to sell for an affordable price? I don't care about the letters and numbers, but I do think the car needs an alphabetic and numerical touch to make it sellable. Of course this leaves me in a very awkward position when it comes to explaining but there's always a loophole for hired geeks and dumb muscle.

I long forgot why I started this letter but you probable noticed that. The only real point made in this letter (and only sentences of profound wisdom) regards bourbon and license plates. I have to get going since the sheriff in the guest room is starting to move again and I must check that I bound the pig's feet securely enough. We wouldn't want to have the gun go off, would we? Jesus, did I unholster the gun? So, once again, come over for a drink or two and bring Suzy; I'll manage to scavenge some rum to satisfy her needs too.

Yours for excelsior,

Henry Ray Porter