I guess we shouldn't be surprised. You never expected Hunter S. Thompson to kick off in his sleep with a comfy shawl around his shoulders, fresh glass of Ensure slowly warming on the coffee table. Thompson and guns; we should have seen it coming.
My second thought after hearing this was "Thank God I don't have to write that obit." Where would you begin? And how would you ever balance the genius with the profanity, the wildness, the occasional maddening obtuseness? Because you don't do HST justice by making him simple.
I don't know enough about him to write that obit, but I'm looking forward to the one that "gets it."