![]() ![]() Hunter got two cans of spray paint, one red and one black, and my job was to write something artistic on the side of a yacht. One night in Rhode Island, where we were covering the America’s Cup for Scanlan’s magazine. Hunter thought my way of doing things was weirder than his. We ended up doing six covers together, but we felt like a duo right away: Batman and Robin, or maybe Laurel and Hardy. He could play with me and take me to the edge and watch what I did, but pull me back before I fell over. Hunter loved having somebody like me along. He wanted somebody who would become part of the story. Usually, that meant his prose sucked, and my drawing wasn’t doing: a bit more than it should. He would certainly tell me if he thought a drawing sucked. But he appreciated the drawings when they were there. He didn’t give a shit whether I slaved all night or worried all day. Hunter Thompson has been the bane and the blessing of my life. ![]()
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