I feel the need to add an introduction to this story, to inform those of you that may be confused on what this is. In short, this is a rewrite or parody (however you see it) of Hunter S. Thompson's Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas. It won't be a pure rewrite. The story will borrow heavily from Hunter's writing style and the book's setting, but I have different tales to tell from the original.

To be honest I'm doubtful if there are many people on here who are familiar with the inspiration for this savage tale, but never the less I hope you enjoy. Those who like Hunter Thompson will hopefully get a good laugh, and those who aren't might enjoy the style and become future Hunter fans.

"Alright, let's get right to the heart of this thing."

We were somewhere around the border of Ylisse, at the edge of the mountains, when the drugs began to take hold. I remember someone saying something like "I'm not feeling so hot. Maybe you should drive." Then I saw these grotesque purple zombies with axes running and swinging at the car, a black 1998 Griffin convertible. Again the voice spoke. "Get away from me you reanimated bastards! Back to whatever evil laboratory you came from!" The voice had scared them away. I looked over to my manager, Dr. Henry, for conformation of the lunacy I had just witness, but he remained oblivious. He had just poured the contents of a half-empty beer can over his head to cool off.

"Did you say something?" asked Henry, pulling his sunglasses down slightly. I pondered for a moment why he even used those damn things. He is always squinting to begin with.

"Never mind that," I answered as I pulled over to the side of the road. I paused for a moment to clear my thoughts. "Alright man, your turn to drive." I stepped out on to the hot gravel road and walked around the Griffin to the trunk to check on the stash. When I opened it, immediately the pungent aroma of marijuana and other cannabis-type herbs hit my nose. But it was more than just that. The entire back-compartment of the Griffin was a hideous collection of mind-manipulating drugs and strong liquor. We had gathered all of this the night prior. It was far larger than any average two men could consume in the span of a weekend, but we never intended to. The collection was part of the fun of the trip. Like at a buffet where your eye is tantalized by all the morsels it sees. You fill your plate to the point of shattering, ignoring the fact you probably won't be able to eat more than half of it. Just grab all you want and enjoy yourself. Let the eye consume, and save the regret for later.

Indeed. Ignoring the high probability of regret is essential on a trip such as this. Las Grimas, one of Ylisse's most luxurious gambling resort cities located in the heart of the Plegian desert, was our destination. The town was a gathering spot for powerful big-spenders and high-rollers. Like in all other cities, the wealthy dominated; only in Las Grimas they went out of their way to show it off. As such, any reasonably minded drug-addicts with the ability of forethought would had pulled a sharp U-turn by now. However, me and my companion were no such druggies.

Besides, we weren't going to Las Grimas just for slot machines and cheap one-night stands; we were on a mission. The annual Thunder Auto convention show had already begun. We had to check into The Thoron, site of the event, before three 'o clock that afternoon. Press registration would end by then, and if we didn't make it we might end up having to pay for the room ourselves. The Ylissean Times wanted a full three column article summary of the event, and there was no way I could do so without knowing my accommodations were met.

From the trunk I grabbed a six pack of beer, some pills of mescaline, and a few sheets of acid; just enough to hold us over until we got to town. With the stuff in hand I made my way to the passenger seat. As I acclimated myself I noticed Henry was glaring at me with that eternal smile. His impatient finger tapping on the steering wheel showed how eager he was to lash back out on the road at top speed. "You comfy?" he asked with a sarcastic chuckle.

"Right as rain man," I said as I opened a beer and drank hearty. "Let's get rolling."

Now at the helm, Henry made his adjustments; pull back the seat position, fuck with the mirrors, and of course change the radio. With a flick of the dial the radio now blasted poppy electric garbage. It was an unspoken rule between us that whoever was driving had full control of the music, and Henry always had on either Top 40 stations or club beats, a sharp contrast from my preference of jazz. Henry liked to dance to it, he would explain, which proved tricky given what he was doing. He would bop his head and tap his hand against the dashboard, and every now and then he would let go of the wheel entirely to play the air guitar or some other flashy hand gesture. As a result the car moved more in waves than a straight line. It made my gut feel like a punching bag owned by a heavy-weight Ferxo boxer that was coming apart at the seams. It's one thing to drive with the speed of an angry woman on her way to claim vengeance on an unfaithful husband, but to sway erratically while doing so had a nasty effect on the digestion system.

Henry's strong resistance to hallucinogens was beginning to break at this point. He was giggling more often. It hurt my mind to imagine what would erupt if I didn't take the wheel again, but I was already too far gone myself. The zombies kept coming. I had also been driving all morning. I was exhausted. If I drove now I'm sure I would either collapse and crash or run off-road in an attempt to kill as many violet vampires as I could. Both of those futures were unpleasant, and leaving an acid-frenzied Henry in-charged was no more favorable to me. However, it would buy me more time before the inevitable disaster. And once that point comes, I could always jump out of the speeding vehicle and pray the sand is extra soft.

"Nyahaha! Y-you okay there dude? Haha. You look worried."

"I'm fine. Eyes on the road you buffoon! Keep the damn thing steady. Just let me rest for twenty minutes and I'll take over."

In my drained and dazed state, I didn't noticed the goofy looking hitchhiker until he was about seven feet away. He was a young fellow, with a light brown tan and curly locks covered in desert dust. Everything about him seemed fairly normal, except I could have sworn he was wearing a kitchen pot over his head. I shook it off as just another strange visual concoction from my deteriorating mind. Or maybe it was a new fashion trend here in Plegia to wear cooking equipment? If so we'll have to ransack a dinner before reaching Las Grimas, or we will have no hope of blending in.

We came to a sudden halt in the middle of the road as I was contemplated this insane thought. I broke the crash into the dashboard with my hands, and could taste the bitter stomach acid that had come up from the impact.

"What the hell are you doing you air-headed bastard," I scolded. "These zombies are sure to catch us if we don't get moving!"

"Hold on a second. Let's help this guy out," said Henry. He fiddled with the rearview mirror and prepared to go in reverse.

"The poor bastard's a goner! Zombie chow! Step on the gas before it's too late!"

Obligingly, Henry went into a speedy backwards drive that knocked me off balance. Again more vomit arose. I was almost past my limit. The distance between us now closed, the hitchhiker skipped up to the Griffin.

"Well hot dog! I ain't never seen none of them fancy convertibles before."

"Is that so?" I said. My voice bordered on hostile. "Well then it's your lucky day ain't it?"

The hitchhiker's smile weakened. I could see his thought process now. He was thinking over the wisdom in jumping into this car.

"Aw don't mind him bud," Henry pipped up. "There's no need to worry with us. See? We're young hooligans just like you. So you know you won't be killed or sodomized!"

I turned quickly to face Henry. "Quit it with that type of talk or I'll skin you with a lime soaked knife!" My threat had no effect. Henry laughed off the the promise of violence, as I expected him to.

I turned back to the literal pot head. "Well get in. Or do you want to be eaten alive!?" The hitchhiker entered the backseat with notably less enthusiasm with which he originally approached us.

Before the hiker could get properly buckled in, Henry returned to the road with an intense burst of gas and a screech. This cause more visible concern in our new friend, and even more disruption in my stomach. "Don't worry about a thing man," I reassured. "My companion is an expert driver. A spotless record."

He laughed and nodded at this. Satisfied with this response, I turned back to my seat to eat a weed brownie I just remembered was in the glove compartment, but from the corner of my eye I could see he returned to a worried expression. Poor nervous geek I thought. Maybe I should split the brownie with him so he calms down? Comfortable with my reasoning, I torn the sweet in two, but as I went to offer it to the backseat, Henry snatched it from my grasp.

"Thanks dude. I was starting to come down a bit. Nya ha!"

A large sigh escaped me. Just as well, I figured. Straight grass would probably be too strong for the youngster. I should just feed him some reds instead. Or maybe downers would sit better with him? But I only brought up the mescaline. The rest is all in the back, and I didn't feel like stopping any longer.

Several minutes had passed now, and it was becoming harder to ignore the thick silence. It brought about a familiar uncomfortableness, like being locked in a conversation with a distant relative who just called you by your sibling's name for the third time. I have grown immune to awkwardness such as this though. I was perfectly content to just smoke my cigarettes and daydream figures out of the rocky terrain. Apparently neither Henry nor the kid agree with this sentiment.

"Uh, it sure was nice'a y'all to've stopped'n helped me out back there," offered the hitchhiker. He sounded hopelessly shaken, but retained a general friendliness in his tone.

"Of course! We're always happy to help out poor folks in need. Nya ha ha!" laughed Henry. The finishing cackle in the sentence was wildly inappropriate. The sincerity of Henry's comment now sounded like the sarcasm of a B-movie horror villain; just one of his many trouble-magnet habits.

While I've long since become nicely adjusted to Henry's bizarre quirks, they were completely alien to the hitchhiker. He was a foreigner to this strange world he had inadvertently made contact with in entering our shiny black 1998 Griffin convertible. How long would he be able to tolerate this loathsome company? Or would he just accept our extraordinary behavior, like Henry's sporadic giggles or the fact that every few minutes now I would swing a punch out of the right side of the car to keep shadow beings from getting too close? We were entering the Plegian desert, the infamous hideout of a crazed cult of freaks who sacrificed horses and virgins to some reptilian deity the likes of Cthulhu. How long until he connected those dots and confused us for deranged sun-mad cultists? And what would he do once he did? He would probably slit Henry's throat with a toenail clipper and tackle me out of the Griffin before I could stab him in the pancreas.

I contemplated this grizzly scenario heavily, and I knew it to be prophecy if I did not intervene the conversation. I would have to chat with this boy. Remind him, or rather trick him into thinking, that we were normal individuals that he should not fear. I was reluctant to do so however. I desperately wanted to rest. Yet this want was in pure vain, for I knew I would not obtain it. Not in this car, under these circumstances. No rest for the wicked.

I thought for a moment on what to talk about with this boy. He looked far too young and rural to give half of a rat's ass about politics, and sport talk would open the door for Henry to speak of further gruesomeness. How about dames? I myself am well-versed on the subject of seduction, and could talk for hours on the woe of women. The kid didn't look like much of a swinger, but I'm sure he's sneaked his way into some girl's two-sizes-too-tight pants after getting dumped by an Ex for a chick with golden nipple rings.

I shook that last thought off quickly. Too inappropriate. Better keep it PG. Ah, I know. I'll just give him the background of our Las Grimas campaign. Give him the hard facts. No need to bullshit him. Plus if he knows our story, he is less likely to think us Lizard worshippers.

"So listen," I spoke to the hitchhiker. "You're probably curious as to why two pale gentlemen like us are off to the middle of the desert. We're not just going to Las Grimas to burn our life savings. No sir, our trip has a hidden, deeper meaning than that."

I paused to drink the last drops of my lukewarm beer. Now empty, I crushed the can and threw it onto the landscape. Fuck the environmentalists! I then grabbed a new beer out of the cooler, opened it, and proceed speaking.

"You see-" I stopped briefly to consider my beer. "Shit where are my manners? I never offered you a drink! Go ahead man, grab a beer."

The kid shook his head politely. "Oh that's mighty kind of ya, but I'm fine."

"You sure? It's good beer. None of that cheap piss-water you kids drink at our high school orgies."

Again he refused.

"Aw well, I tried. Anyway where was I? Oh yeah! The mission. Let's start from the beginning. Less than twenty-four hours ago me and my manager were lounging at a quaint restaurant back in Ylisse, drinking heavily and eating lightly. Around half way into my second screwdriver I got a call on my cellphone. I knew who was calling, but I let it ring. Never pick up on the first few rings son. Makes you look desperate. Makes the women think you're a dirty dog of a gigolo. Do you follow me so far?"

The hitchhiker stared at me with wide eyes and undilated pupils. His mouth was also opened slightly, as if he meant to say something, but could not fathom the words.

"I want you to understand that this man at the wheel is my manager. A trusted friend and ally, although he isn't good for much other than harassing squares. Shit I'm sure you've noticed by now. He doesn't act like a normal person does he? That because he's an orphan. From Plegia. Actually we are both Plegian orphans, but I turned out pretty ok wouldn't you say?"

I looked over to Henry, hoping my words had resonated with him on some level. It would help my credibility if he gave some sort of conformation. But no, he was completely out of his head, rocking out to the radio at a deafening volume. Although listening to the music and lyrics I wouldn't have minded going deaf.

I reached over and turned down that blasted radio. The second the noise went below 119 decibels, Henry had a freak-out. He lashed at the radio dials, and the car shook violently. "Sweet God you twisted animal!" I shouted in illness, and promptly stuck my head out from the side of the car, preparing to vomit. No, false alarm. Not toying me you bastard stomach acid! Just come out already and get it over with.

I got the car and it's bastard driver under control.

"Who touched the radio!? Who did it!? Huh!? Was it you you filthy punk!?" Henry glared at the kid, who was absolutely petrified.

"No-one! No-one touched it man. I swear," I said. I felt the strong desire to slap him with the back of my hand. "It was probably just interference. It happens sometimes out here in the desert. Now calm the fuck down!"

Henry when back to his duties in a phuff. He was twitching badly now. I myself had grown so frustrated with that ordeal that I gave up on easing the hitchhiker. My only hope now if he did try to kill us was that he was so frightened, he would hesitate in fear. That should give me just enough time to stab his pancreas. Still, I'll cross that bridge when the time comes. For now I was going to close my eyes and shun this terrible situation of a road trip.

But I couldn't. Something was bothering me. Leaving the tale of this trip's beginning unfinished was giving me a nasty case of storyteller's blueballs. As time went on I began to question if yesterday even happened. Was I out here driving though the desert for the reason I thought I was? I thought about turning back around and continuing to spin the yarn to the hitchhiker, but quickly choice against it. No point in agitating this poor bastard any further. So I decided it best to recap yesterday's events to myself, in detail, for my own sanity.

Now, let's start from the top.

A good place to stop for now. I'm eager to hear your thoughts on this, so reviews are greatly appreciated. Until next time.