The Beverly Hills Hotel – Dr. Hunter Thompson, Journalist

(May 1992.  Dr. Thompson is very bald.

He sits next to his friend, a large Samoan…

I think.

Thompson wears khaki shorts and a Hawaiian shirt.)

We were sitting in the Polo Lounge of the Beverly Hills Hotel –

in the patio section, of course,

drinking Singapore Slings

with mescal on the side,

hiding

from the brutish realities of this foul year of our lord

1992.

I was enjoying my drink

when I felt a breeze.

Now,

usually,

I would welcome a cool breeze,

especially in the state I was in,

but this breeze brought something nasty with it.

“What’s that smell?” I asked my large friend.

“I think someone lit a building on fire.”

“Oh.”

We continued sitting,

enjoying our drinks

and our mescaline.

We weren’t about to let some fire ruin our trip,

but then I realized

we’re the only two people in the patio section.

Everyone else had left.

Little did I know

the Rodney King verdict was released

earlier that day.

You see,

I was stoned all week,

So it was very difficult to keep up with the news.

I asked my friend,

“You think we should maybe go inside?”

“What for?”

My friend was a stubborn bastard.

“That smoke is –

overwhelming.

We’ll never make it out alive.”

“Fuck smoke.

I’ll find where it lives and burn its fucking house down.”

I could only wince at what my partner had said.

I didn’t bother to ask.

Then,

there was a faint chanting

in the distance.

“Do you hear that?”

I asked.

“What?”

At first I thought it was the mescaline,

but the chanting kept getting louder

and louder,

until I jumped out of my seat

grabbing my head

running around the patio section

screaming,

“Get out of my head!  Get out!”

I stumbled out into the street,

and that’s when I first saw it.

A massive wave of people was heading my way,

but they weren’t people at all.

I was right

in the middle

of a fucking reptile zoo,

and somebody was giving guns to these damn things.

It won’t be long before they tear us to shreds.

My friend was now standing next to me

because,

apparently,

I had blacked out.

“Wake up,” he said

as he slapped me.

“I’m awake.  I’m awake.

Just don’t hit me!”

I screamed back.

“You ready?  Let’s go.”

My friend had begun walking back to the hotel.

“What?

Wait.

Don’t leave me!”

I ran out of the street

and we went inside

where everybody was huddled together

wondering how this could ever happen.

This country did manage to elect Tricky Dick…

twice,

so I figure they’re capable of anything.

We had been inside for about two hours,

and we were in search of a fix.

The Singapore Slings had lost their luster,

and our mescaline was wearing off.

We needed a pick-me-up

fast,

when my friend said,

“We need some adrenaline.”

“Yeah.  We should just

down a whole bottle…

see what happens.”

“Yeah, right.

You’d be dead.”

“It’d be a pretty good finish, though.”

And that’s when it hit me.

“We could just go outside.”

“You kidding?  That riot would tear your white ass to shreds.”

“But think of the adrenaline rush.”

My partner was thinking,

and we started walking to the door.

I was having second thoughts

as the chanting got louder and louder,

but this was an historic event

and I’m a doctor of journalism,

and as a doctor of journalism

it was my duty to get the story –

whatever the cost.

The doors opened,

the setting sun splashed our faces

as smoke rose into the air.

Police sirens screamed

and people chanted.

Los Angeles was a war zone,

but I wasn’t scared.

I think my friend had a lot to do with that.

Despite his race,

this man is very valuable to me.

I couldn’t imagine anyone confronting him,

or what he’d do to them if they did.

You see,

he’s one of God’s own prototypes –

a high-powered mutant of some kind

never even considered for mass production.

Somehow,

I knew,

we were going to be fine

because our trip was different.

It was to be a classic affirmation of everything right

and true in the national character,

a gross, physical salute to the

fantastic possibilities of life in this country –

but only for those with true grit.

And we were chock full of that.

We’re too weird to live,

and too rare to die.