Years ago, when I was in college, I remember waking up my roommate while I was reading Hunter S Thompson's Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas: : A Savage Journey to the Heart of the American Dream. I was laughing so damn hard and I just couldn't stop.
I was re-watching the film with Johnny Depp and Benecio del Toro. They're both excellent. I'd forgotten that Terry Gilliam directed it. All I can say is... it figures. You can see it on hulu. It's fabulous!
How long can we maintain? I wondered. How long before one of us starts raving and jabbering at this boy? What will he think then?
This same lonely desert was the last known home of the Manson family. Will he make that grim connection when my attorney starts screaming about bats and huge manta rays coming down on the car?
If so -- well, we'll just have to cut his head off and bury him somewhere. Because it goes without saying that we can't turn him loose. He'll report us at once to some kind of outback Nazi law-enforcement agency, and they'll run us down like dogs.
Jesus! Did I say that? Or just think it? Was I talking? Did they hear me?
Maybe I'd better have a chat with this boy, I thought. Perhaps if I explain things, he'll rest easy. . .