When Kristi Met Kim: A Gonzo Escapade
In a bizarre twist of reality, courtesy of a fantastical revelation in Kristi Noem's autobiography—ghostwritten or not—the world was treated to a surreal vignette: the Governor of South Dakota, known for her no-nonsense demeanor, purportedly meeting with North Korea's enigmatic leader, Kim Jong Un. Enter the spirit of Hunter S. Thompson, resurrected from the ether to chronicle this unlikely encounter.
We were somewhere around the outskirts of Pyongyang on the edge of the Taedong when the absurdity began to take hold. I remember saying something like, "I feel a bit lightheaded; maybe you should drive..." And suddenly there was a terrible roar all around us, and the sky was full of what looked like huge bats, all swooping and screeching and diving around the car, which was going about a hundred miles an hour with the top down to Kim's palace.
"Good God," I thought. "What fresh hell is this?" But it was too late to turn back. Kristi Noem, the fearless governor, was meeting Kim Jong Un, and there was nothing sane or predictable about it.
We finally arrived at the palace, a monstrous pink concrete edifice with turrets that looked like they could shoot missiles but probably didn’t. Kristi stepped out, wearing a cowboy hat and a sharp suit, looking more like a rogue sheriff than a governor. Kim Jong Un was there to greet her, clapping his hands slowly, a smile plastered across his face that screamed of too many whitening strips.
"Welcome, Governor Noem," he said, his voice dripping with a kind of mocking courtesy only dictators manage to perfect. "I trust your ride was... exhilarating."
Kristi smiled, her eyes scanning the fortress-like palace. "Thank you, Mr. Kim. I've seen rodeos less wild than this ride. Makes me feel right at home."
The pair walked through opulent hallways lined with portraits of Kim's ancestors, each one more stern-looking than the last. They sat down in a room that was a cross between a Victorian parlor and a Vegas high-roller suite. Servants brought in tea and what looked suspiciously like scones but tasted like propaganda and sorrow.
"I must say, Kim," Kristi started, setting down her tea, "your country is quite something. I had to shoot my puppy back home because he couldn’t follow commands. I can see that obedience isn’t an issue here."
Kim’s smile faltered for a moment, his eyes narrowing. "Yes, obedience is... valued," he replied, his voice cold as a Pyongyang winter.
Hunter scribbled furiously in his notebook, capturing every surreal moment. "This is gold," he muttered to himself, "pure, unadulterated American gonzo meeting North Korean theater."
The meeting spiraled into a discussion about agricultural policies and hunting techniques, with Kim showing off his prized missile-launcher-turned-corn-shucker. Kristi countered with tales of South Dakota's pheasant hunts, where birds were less the prey and more unwitting participants in a ballet of shotguns and orange vests.
As the meeting wrapped up, with nothing of consequence agreed upon or resolved, Kristi and Kim stood up. "It was a pleasure to underestimate you, Governor," Kim said, his grin sharp as a scythe.
Kristi tipped her hat, her smile just as cutting. "And it was a pleasure to see your... corn shucker, Mr. Kim. Don't underestimate the power of a good hunt."
With that, she walked out, leaving Kim staring after her, unsure whether he’d been complimented or threatened. Hunter, on the other hand, knew exactly what had happened. "It’s fear and loathing in Pyongyang," he concluded, as they drove off into the sunset, the bats still circling overhead, the world a little weirder for their meeting.