i tossed the paper into the fire.  nothing much happened, a couple crackles as the paper turned to ash and smoke.  i sat on the love seat for a couple minutes, staring into the fire, which was transfixing and all, but actually, kinda boring (i’d stared into that fire quite a bit the preceding days—it lost much of its charm).

i stood up to leave, to just walk out the door and come home cause i was at the point where i was saying to myself fuck this shit it’s not worth the trouble at all.

a voice said, ‘ahem.’

i stopped in my tracks, turned towards the fireplace and there they were: the heads of ernest hemingway and hunter s. thompson floating in the flame.

‘and what service can we be to you? need a fishing course? or a golfing hole? no drugs.  we can’t help with drugs.  or not that we can’t help but we don’t want to.  we’ve discussed it.’ that’s what hunter s. thompson said.

‘shut up.’ that’s that hemingway said. ‘what do you need.’

i told them.  it told them all about the jasper johns painting.  and about herion. and the approximator and schnabel and my presidential campaign and you! hunter s. thompson looked annoyed most of the time, his eyes shifting around.  hemingway though was quite kind and seemed genuinely interested. then he gave me the answer i’ve been looking for:

‘blog,” he said, ‘there’s a mountain fifteen miles west.  go there. there’s a man, he can help you.’

‘but what out for him,’ thompson said, ‘he’s pretty vile like a snakehead fish out for a walk.’

then they disappeared, there heads returned to wherever heads hang out after you blow them off.

i took a taxi. i wasn’t sure which mountain they meant, of course, but something inside me told me where to go.  something deep inside me, like a kind of gps in my lower intestines.  i told the cabbie to stop and i climbed out and started climbing up.

two hours later, two hours of tripping on roots and scaring off squirrels, i the top.  at the top was a cave, a crevice really.  i said, ‘hello.’ then he appeared.  he wore animal hides and long beard.  against his shoulder and pointed to the sky was a hawken rifle.

‘can i help ya?’ he said.

i asked him who he was. he told me name.  jeremiah liver-eatin’ johnson.  wells, i was so scared.  he’s been up in these mountains for like what, a century and a half? and didn’t look a day over 53—not one stinkin day.  his eyes were vibrant yet murky.

‘i am looking,’ i told him, ‘for a painting. i was told you knew where it was.’

he chuckled, a deep belly chuckle that didn’t quite become a laugh.

‘jasper johns’ he said and the quit laughing. ‘if you want it, you must answer me a question. if you fail to answer, i will feast upon your bile.’

now wells, here’s the thing. i’m a blog. i don’t have bile. or a liver. so what the hell, i thought, i’ve come this far, might as well try.

here was the question:

you cut me down, but i return.  i always return.  and you cut me down again.  but i return.  i’ll keep at it, even after you die.  what am i?

wells…any clue?

wells: no blog, not a clue.

oh wells! it’s so easy…it’s hair! so i told him that and i was right and he was visibly a little upset, kinda smashed his face up together and spit out a really ginormous lugie.

then he led me in.  he had the cave lit with torches.  and in the corner was the painting!

i had traveled over most of the world to find it.  i had seen people killed (i think). i had suffered long flights and kidnapping and lost heroin and been threatened by tom cruise and now, now the painting was in my grap!

jeremiah johnson led me over to it.  ‘there’ he said.  i looked at it.

it was blank.

‘blank!’ i shouted.  ‘what is this johnson? some kinda joke? this is bullshit.  blank!’

he laughed—a full laugh this time—nearly laughed himself onto the ground.

‘of course it’s blank.  that’s the point.  that painting is anything and everything you want it to be. that’s what makes it so damn dangerous—it’s desire rendered on canvas.  and desire, it destroys. that’s why the painting must stay hidden and why you must now die.’

he pointed the gun right at me and shot.  then i laughed: ‘i’m a blog you silly old man! bullets bounce off me like bugs bunny!’ then i sprinted the hell out of there.

and that’s it! that’s my story!