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criminalwisdom:

LOVE, BOXING AND HUNTER S. THOMPSON by John Kaye (Via)

Not counting our flight back to Los Angeles, I only saw Hunter twice in New Orleans, the first time during the weigh-in at the New Orleans Hilton — more about that later — where he introduced to me to Hughes Rudd, a hard-drinking Texan and a journalist of high reputation who anchored the morning news on CBS. I was never sure if Hughes was in New Orleans to cover the fight, take in the scene, or just hang out with old friends. He seemed to know everyone, and even though I witnessed him knock down a stupendous amount of alcohol, I never once saw him drunk. One evening, when Inga met us after work at a bar in the French Quarter, Hughes was so taken with her beauty that he gleefully (and only half-kiddingly) suggested that we participate in a threesome. She declined, pretending that she was both astonished and appalled, but a few moments later she flashed him a smile and said:
“But ask me again in an hour.”
Hughes was a man of great charm, and I couldn’t honestly tell whether she was joking or not; and, frankly, I was afraid to ask. This took place on the night before the fight, the night I saw Hunter for the second time. Inga and I were in bed — she was asleep but I wasn’t — when he knocked loudly on my door. In a voice that I can only describe as a fierce metallic bark, he demanded I open up, and when I asked him what he wanted, he said:
“Drugs.”
“I’m with someone.”
“Male or female.”
“Female.”
“Wise choice. Open up. You’ve got five seconds or I’ll shoot off the lock. I’m armed.” Grumbling under his breath, Hunter started to count down from five. Was he really carrying a loaded gun? I doubted it, but I’d spent enough time with him to know that I didn’t want to take a chance on the contrary possibility. When I cracked opened the door, he looked at me blank-faced. In my memory I can see him standing before me, one arm braced against the wall, naked from the waist up, wearing khaki shorts over sheer panty hose and high-top sneakers with no socks. A red spandex brassiere was tied around his chest, and his face was completely made up, with a slash of red lipstick clownishly smeared across his mouth, as if it had been applied by a child.
When I didn’t know what to say — what could I say? I was too startled to be even grimly amused — Hunter tilted his head to one side, uttered a low laugh, poked me twice in the ribs, and walked past me into the room.

Image: Brian M. Viveros @ Hi Fructose.

LOVE, BOXING AND HUNTER S. THOMPSON by John Kaye (Via)

Not counting our flight back to Los Angeles, I only saw Hunter twice in New Orleans, the first time during the weigh-in at the New Orleans Hilton — more about that later — where he introduced to me to Hughes Rudd, a hard-drinking Texan and a journalist of high reputation who anchored the morning news on CBS. I was never sure if Hughes was in New Orleans to cover the fight, take in the scene, or just hang out with old friends. He seemed to know everyone, and even though I witnessed him knock down a stupendous amount of alcohol, I never once saw him drunk. One evening, when Inga met us after work at a bar in the French Quarter, Hughes was so taken with her beauty that he gleefully (and only half-kiddingly) suggested that we participate in a threesome. She declined, pretending that she was both astonished and appalled, but a few moments later she flashed him a smile and said:

“But ask me again in an hour.”

Hughes was a man of great charm, and I couldn’t honestly tell whether she was joking or not; and, frankly, I was afraid to ask. This took place on the night before the fight, the night I saw Hunter for the second time. Inga and I were in bed — she was asleep but I wasn’t — when he knocked loudly on my door. In a voice that I can only describe as a fierce metallic bark, he demanded I open up, and when I asked him what he wanted, he said:

“Drugs.”

“I’m with someone.”

“Male or female.”

“Female.”

“Wise choice. Open up. You’ve got five seconds or I’ll shoot off the lock. I’m armed.” Grumbling under his breath, Hunter started to count down from five. Was he really carrying a loaded gun? I doubted it, but I’d spent enough time with him to know that I didn’t want to take a chance on the contrary possibility. When I cracked opened the door, he looked at me blank-faced. In my memory I can see him standing before me, one arm braced against the wall, naked from the waist up, wearing khaki shorts over sheer panty hose and high-top sneakers with no socks. A red spandex brassiere was tied around his chest, and his face was completely made up, with a slash of red lipstick clownishly smeared across his mouth, as if it had been applied by a child.

When I didn’t know what to say — what could I say? I was too startled to be even grimly amused — Hunter tilted his head to one side, uttered a low laugh, poked me twice in the ribs, and walked past me into the room.

Image: Brian M. Viveros @ Hi Fructose.