Ernest Hemingway. Writer, raconteur, and amateur fisherman.
His mysterious death. They said he went out to catch that damn fish but never come back. Now we can tell you the truth. We killed him.
And the why.
Ernie. He went missing one September morning from his Havana hidey-hole.
A Cuban Assassin.
The reasons were mountainous. They stood out like proverbial dogs balls; numerous actions and lies by Ernie led to sending him out and off on his little boat on the Caribbean. Never did catch that fish did he? No, he fucking didn't.
His lies. His racism. His hatred of men in a dress. His Machismo. Basta!
Maybe we should have called it: "Why Shouldn't We Kill Hemingway in Cuba?"
Face it. Fidel had had enough. The cleaning woman had had enough. And in a way, Ernie also had had enough.
No complaints from Washington though. What's another dead, lost, washed up drunkard American writer? As far Uncle Sam was concerned he was persona non grata as soon as he got off the plane at Havana. So... fuck him.
Oh dear... What's a poor boy to do?
Let's go back, way back, to the early story of Ernie.
To start with, he wasn't even born in this century!
He had lot's of women. And I hear he had some daughters too. So pristine they were, and at an early age even Woody Allan was interested.
He would unscrew the lid from the rum bottle to open the day.
Inside Ernie's steely eyes were things only a 1920s writer could see. The French Riviera. Jai alai in San Sebastien. The rubble of Ypres. Makes you wonder...
Did this cunt ever leave France?
Don't think so. Not in his mind at least. During his time in Gay Paree he lived next door to the Irishman James Joyce. Some say when he was pickled on the green fairy he would polish the Irish cunts glasses using his underwear.
Some say he wandered drunk as a skunk onto Omaha beach on that fateful D-day. Took a MG42 nest out with his bare hands!
Some say he even dared John Passos to fuck Gertrude Stein!
Some say Zelda Fitzgerald threatened to run him over after he punched F.Scott out cold in an argument over a card game.
Noted for his confabulations of reality and myth, Ernie was always a ripe target for the powers that be. Looking back you could see he was never going to last long in this world. And the fucker had a beard. What a savage! Definitely not normal. Look at the fuckers who wear the face fungus now. Old Ernie was their hero!
A noted beard wearer.
We climbed onto the boat. I am sure he heard us, but didn't look around. Too focused on that big fish he was. When we had the knife at his throat he said:
"It's just a numbers game. And remember each one gone brings it closer to you."
Then we just rolled him off the side. Let the Caribbean sharks and fishes deal with him now.
The Many Sides of Ernie H
The Pugilist.
He liked to box his critics. Famously told Virginia Woolf to shape up or ship out. Lost to Aldous Huxley's elder sister in a bar room brawl in San Sebastien.
The Lover.
Had a few kids. But was loath to mention any of his amorous endeavors in his literature.
The Philosopher.
An icon of thought was Ernie. His rambling ideas, scribbled on the page, inspired many. In fact some claim he was the original 'manosphere' icon.
One things for sure. Look around; there ain't any more Ernies. That's for sure.