Anyone who spent a little bit of time with the author of Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas was lucky – especially if he forgave their unconscionable behaviour
I could barely move from my prone position on the bed. My head was pounding and my stomach was awash with a queasiness that meant one thing: I was in for a hangover from hell.
The room was dark, the TV was on low and from the other bed there was the glow of a lit cigarette. As my eyes adjusted to the dark, I saw a bare-chested guy in jeans, lying on his back, blowing smoke at the ceiling. He turned to look at me. I had a vague memory of being carried up some stairs, over his shoulders.
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