Once Upon a Time with Hunter!

The 5th Gonzo

Salma was amused.

I don’t really get starstruck, but I got to admit, she looked damn good.

Got it quick out of my system though,

“What do you want with SOFEX?”

She gave me one of those looks, “Silly boy…”

I waited for a punchline.

Her gaze was not that of a sex-symbol — more a wise master. I felt an Obi-Wan instruction coming…

“James, luxury goods cover the bills, but we ascend when we act toward a higher calling.”

Luxury Goods — The Pinault family fortune, Kering: House of Gucci, Saint Laurent, Bottega Veneta, Balenciaga, Alexander McQueen, Brioni…

Movie-Star shit, and her husband was in charge of the whole damn thing.

All I could think, “A guy with a little plastics company in Orange County, what the hell did she want with me?”

It’s like she read my mind…

“Don’t be shy, darling. Your business…”

I really didn’t know what she was getting at.

“It’s very profitable, isn’t it, James?”

“It’s no fucking House of Gucci, sweetheart!”

She laughed one of those sexy laughs that wasn’t about comedy, it was seductive, “I’m going to fuck your brains out…”

Hunter’s laugh was nothing of the kind, growly, intimidating, “We got something for you, kid.”

They had my attention.

Meanwhile, I look down; somehow those two tumblers on the desk are filled up again. Hunter’s tumbler shows up from the void, even Salma joined in.

So, two plus two — two on the desk, and two floating just above like little invitations to dump whatever notion of sober consciousness I thought necessary for this clandestine meeting…

Four fingers down already, I was about to protest, but Little-T, that fucking kid, he grabs his and slams it down, no coughs at all this time, just,

“Don’t be a pussy!”

Hunter leans forward, and Salma, they both cheer me on.

And Salma’s low cut top didn’t help either!

“Son-of-a-bitch, all right!”

So, the three of us kill ‘em — six fingers all together, and before I can even put my glass down,

Salma, “We’ve got something to show you, James!”

I don’t even remember the elevator ride down or going by that monster of a security guard, but I know that we did because T was holding the two pound chunk of steel that got confiscated on the way in.

The sun nailed me on the way out of the front door and by the time we got to the parking structure I was happy to be back in the shade. It’s the four of us, me and T, Hunter, and Salma, making our way back to my Cybertruck. Not another person in sight, like the Red Sea parted just to make our getaway secretive.

Hunter is hopping along sprightly for a 90-year-old fucker, and I’m feeling woozy. Those three tumblers full of bourbon didn’t feel like run-of-the-mill off-the-shelf shit; I was trying to figure out what kind of Hunter S. Thompson alcohol I was loaded with, but it sure as hell didn’t seem to affect him.

Little-T on the other hand, he looked like he was running serpentine to avoid machine gun bursts.

I get in the driver’s seat, Salma passenger, and Little-T and Hunter in back.

Salma looked at me, “Are you good?”

“Good for what?”

“To drive?”

I laughed, “I ain’t driving shit, Elon is.”

I brought up the map and showed her how to work it. While she typed in the address I got myself reclined just so, sunglasses on just right, added my ball cap positioned to keep the auto drive from disconnecting if I dozed off.

I hit the go button, and we’re off. Funny leaving FBI headquarters kind of shit-faced, but I got Salma Hayek and Hunter S. Thompson with me, so I’m good. Besides, Elon’s got the wheel.

I checked the clock: “2:19”.

I took a quick nap and glanced back at the clock: “5:19” WTF!

“Where the hell are we going?”

Little-T and Hunter were zonked in back. Salma had just opened her eyes, gathering herself from my outburst.

The Cybertruck was just getting off at HWY 46 for “Tesla Oasis (Code:5742)” wherever the fuck that was.

All I could think, “I hope there’s a Dairy Queen.” Somehow, I didn’t have a headache which I thought was weird given the six fingers, but I had a hell of a craving for a big-ass chocolate shake for some reason.

I eyed Salma…

“My winery, sweetheart,” and she said it like just darting off in the afternoon on an 8 hour drive was totally normal.

I had no idea!

Just then my car phone rang, and up on the screen, “Kimberly Pontillo.”

I pushed the answer, “Hello?”

The retort wasn’t a friendly one, “Where the hell are you going!!!”

To be continued — If my wife doesn’t kick my fuckin’ ass…