Unless you've been living under a rock located in the dense greenery of some isolated Amazonian jungle (and maybe even then only if you've managed to avoid text alerts on your cell phone) you've heard the devastating news. Another violent twist in the timeline of creative humanity has occurred.

Hunter S. Thompson - Chemical Cosmonaut Extraordinaire - is dead.

Thompson fans are a strange lot. Generally unpleasant and/or under the influence of some sort of chemical, they tend to drift around in ragged packs. They're sunlight-deprived cyberdrunks who find each other in chat rooms; wry-smiling marathon drunks in small n' smoky bars no one in their right mind would linger in for too long; pill-popping ravers slipping each other sly smiles when "Fun With Drugs" starts booming through the speakers. The disturbing looking man lingering over the produce section in the convenience store at 2 am, the disillusioned 16 year-old sneaking a joint behind the gym, the bored looking housewife zoning out in Bed, Bath & Beyond, the journalist with a secret, nagging ache.

They're as welcoming as they are diverse. After the Hollywood-Commercial success of "Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas" HST fan-sites and email group ranks swelled like an alcoholic's liver.

But it never seemed to matter how many posts I read that began with "I just saw Fear & Loathing…" No matter how the fans were born the existing fans welcomed them with open arms. It was a refreshing change from the Nirvana Days - hardcore and long-time fans who would sniff condescendingly at newfound fans who hadn't seem their hero through the lean times. Thompson fans happily embraced anyone who identified with his signature voice.

And, in the end, I can't help thinking it was that signature voice that did him in. Thompson created Gonzo Journalism - a style that, while mired in chemical abuse, was deeply rooted in a firm foundation of "proper" journalism. It was a style quickly duplicated by anyone and everyone - a sort of casual storytelling style completely un-publishable until Thompson broke and nurtured it.

And once you've created something, there's nowhere to go but down. Thompson could write - no doubt about that - but, at best, he could raise the bar on Gonzo Journalism. Creating a new genre brands you a God and, to a certain extent, boxes you in.

He chose a Sunday night to take his life. The dawn of a new week, the dusk of a spent one.

I've loved Hunter since I was in high school. I read an essay from The Great Shark Hunt that Mark Something-or-Other copied into his American Civics notebook. (Off-topic side note: he also lent me his dog-eared and heavily annotated copy of Brett Easton Ellis' American Psycho which was disappointing, but still worth reading)

I got a taste of Thompson's irreverent style and simply couldn't get enough. I devoured everything I could find. As I grew older I collected his books, downloaded the occasional essay, article or caricature online. I made contact with other fans, exchanged links and the occasional drunken email.

And then he died.

I've never thought twice about the death of a celebrity. Lurid headlines decrying the demise of some spotlight-junkie never made me think twice. But when I walked into my office Monday morning and saw the Subject and headlines sitting in my InBox and online I just couldn't believe it.

I made an extra strong cup of coffee, checked the clock and cursed the fact that the local Co-Op shop wasn't open. This occasion called for Rum. Lots of it.

I dug out every book of his I owned and began re-reading favorite passages. I trolled through an archive of essays and articles I've downloaded over the years. I reminded myself of the voluminous body of work Thompson left behind. I savoured the passages that showcased his unique voice so well and smiled at the ones that fell a bit flatter.

It's always nice to be reminded that even the King of Gonzo Journalism occasionally had his share of off-days.

And as I was reading snippets of stories and the occasional three page rants, I lit another joint and leaned back, surveying the spread of books and papers in front of me. They say a chain is only as strong as its weakest link. The career of an artist is similar. No matter how good they once were, the moment they falter they're labelled a has-been. Washed up on the shores of Used-to-Be Island and left to rot.

But I don't think Thompson shuffled off because of any fear of being shipped off quite yet. His work is a motley stew of the great, the insane and the ill-advised. Whether or not Thompson's writing career was in any real danger of long-term suckage is up for debate.

Regardless, Hunter wouldn't bow out over that. He worked hard for his career and pushed himself but I doubt he ever really cared whether or not his critics outnumbered his fans.

My joint was a smoldering ember by the time I reluctantly tamped it out and began mulling over other possible motives. I spent a few days reading everything I could about Hunter's life and death. I searched in vain for all the usual hallmarks of a suicide in the making. But they just weren't there. No long term depression, no career nosedive, no chronic and debilitating disease other than Life.

I struggled to understand. On Thursday it all finally came together. I read an interview with his surviving family. They publicly mourned their loss but made no claims to be confused. Hunter's son, Juan, knew how his father would die.

Juan was reported as saying, "It was just a question of when. This was a big surprise and I didn't expect it to be now, but the means was exactly as we expected."

So that's it. No mysterious illness plaguing the good Doctor, no crippling depression that was in the process of leaving him a shell of a man. Just … done.

But why is that proving to be so hard for people to accept? Reporters and fans alike are still grappling for last minute details that will paint Thompson as either a desperate man crying out to the world or the victim of foul play.

But maybe - just maybe - his son has it right. Or at least has it partly right. Hunter Thompson always struck me as one of the blessedly cursed few who know their purpose in life. At first glance, you might think he'd accepted his purpose in life was to test-drive any chemical or combustion engine based form of enhancement life had to offer; to shock the public and push the limits of journalism. But, again, I think that's just part of it.

Thompson was more than a wild-eyed Drugstore Cowboy with a typewriter. He was a well-trained writer with a keen eye for detail and an amazing knack for getting inside people's heads. He spent his career questioning the status quo and doing everything in his power to rile his readers - to get them motivated enough to get off the couch, unglued from the television, disconnected from the monitor and outside living life. He cast an unblinking, glaring spotlight on anything he felt was wrong - from politics to murder trials.

He wanted us to think - to question and wonder, to argue and rave. To step up to those who would wrong us and shake the finger of righteous indignation, all the while screeching, "You, Sir, are a liar and a cheat and I'm not going to stand for your bullshit for even one more second."

So perhaps his exit was just his final gift to us - one last bone to gnaw on. Is it ethically acceptable to kill yourself? Does a person need a reason to do with his or her own life whatever he or she wishes to do with it?

The loud answer is, of course, NO! There are those who scream and begin gnashing their teeth the moment you even suggest that someone has that right. They demand a 'good' reason - and typically this is limited to the final stages of a chronic fatal or dramatically debilitating disease. They insist suicide is both selfish and foolish.

The quieter answer - the one many people know in their darkest heart of hearts to be true - is yes. Yes, it's your life and, yes, you should be able to do with it whatever you wish.

It's true that suicide hurts those left behind. To lose someone close to you is, without a doubt, the most horrific kind of pain. It's a wound that never heals because you just can't ever stop picking at it.

But that doesn't make it wrong.

Lacking any other explanation, we have to assume that Thompson did what so many people before him have done. He'd made the final choice. He'd ended his life still in control of its course. He lived his life on his own terms and wanted death on his own terms as well. He always knew suicide was his way of penning his own final chapter and he admitted to being surprised more than once that he'd not fallen victim to some unpleasant accident years earlier. Anyone who's read 'Song of the Sausage Creature' knows that.

Why Thompson chose the moment he did, we will probably never know. But we don't need to understand his motivations. His actions are not ours to justify or condemn. All we can do is simply accept them, mourn the loss of a pioneer and move on.

Hunter's done being our cowboy. It's time for us to pick up our heads, wipe the drool from our chins and either get on with living … or get on with dying.

Cheers.