Self-inflicted gunshot wound.
I thought he would simply ride off into a psychadelic sunset, or at least crash his car under a peyote haze.
But Hunter S. Thompson, in his life, dared to be different.
Unfortunately, I could only acknowledge his existence through his reputation and not his works.
Maybe I should buy some of his tomes in his honour: it's the least that I could do.
As per usual - all my condolences go out to his friends, family - Hell, even his enemies, too.
Because what use is an adversary if he's dead?