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Jesus! Did I say that? Or just think it? Was I talking?
We had two bags of grass, seventy-five pellets of mescaline, five sheets of high-powered blotter acid, a salt shaker half full of cocaine, and a whole galaxy of multi-colored uppers, downers, screamers, laughers … and also a quart of tequila, a quart of rum, a case of Budweiser, a pint of raw ether and two dozen amyls.
Jesus! Did I say that? Or just think it? Was I talking? Did they hear me?
“I’m your attorney … and you owe me five bucks. I want it now.”
Jesus, bad waves of paranoia, madness, fear and loathing—intolerable vibrations in this place.
The last thing I wanted was a fight to the finish, in my own hotel room, with some kind of drug-crazed hormone monster.
As your attorney I advise you to get the chiliburger. It’s a hamburger with chili on it.
Journalism is not a profession or a trade. It is a cheap catch-all for fuckoffs and misfits—a false doorway to the backside of life,
