WE HAD TWO BAGS of Wer- ther’s Originals, seventy-five Sanatogen tablets, five sheets of bingo cards, a salt- shaker half full of smelling salts, a whole galaxy of multi-colored arthritis tablets, incontinence tablets, vitamin tablets, haemorrhoid tablets; also a quart of Horlicks, a pint of pasteurised milk, a case of ginger beer, and two dozen Pro- zac. Not that we needed all that for the trip, but none of us are getting any younger, and that fucker Wenner says if I rupture another brain cell on this as- signment, I’ll be lucky to be blessed with one neural synapse to my n-
“Hunter!”
“What is it now, you perverted smack-whore of Satan?”
“Put the fucking tape machine down. It’s time for your afternoon nap.”
Hot damn! This never happened in my halycon days. Oh no; go to the Kentucky Derby, Hunter; get your ass to the Nevada Desert, Hunter; we need you in the Congo, Hunter; Hunter! This calls for Immersive Reportage, and there’s only one Doctor of Journalism out there who can crack this oily little adrenal gland...but now, the twin ugly brutes of Old Age and Premature Se- nility have driven their stakes into my shrivelled husk of a body, and I get sent to cover the ‘UCL Union Executive Elections’ for a greasy-pinko-f*ggot college paper called The Knee Scraper or something. This is the gratitude heaped on a world-famous sportswrit- er and deep thinker by his editors, who are all Good Ole Boys and slurp mar- garitas with their crocodilian wives on yachts moored off Miami Beach. No more running amok through Saigon hotel ballrooms on the expense account after persuading Rolling Stone to crown me National Affairs Editor and send me over their, no more useful to informing the acid generation about rock than a tomato about Richard Nixon...but at least Jan Wenner got thrown out of the Stone for the Filipino boys in the sta- tionery cupboard...
After my nap, Wenner confronts me. “Okay, Hunter, it’s time you sat down and got drafting. Your deadline is already three weeks past.” So, I asked, will you tape-record my every word and feed me whisky to finish the job? “No. I’ll lock you in this room with a vicious 200-pound Stephen Fingleton till you’ve written it.”
Holy shit! This was heinous...
Norman Mailer will be resumed as soon as possible.