So, I am the Acid Novelist. & I have been paid by Smoke to get The Story of Amsterdam. Let us proceed.

It is true, there exists a realm in which "happening minds" function more or less unfettered by meddling forces. That this place is called, geographically, Amsterdam, is also true. Many have found its gypsy soul/drunk of its wisdom. & maybe ther real truth here is that America is not worthy of The Message. Maybe we've blown our shot. Maybe that is why Hunter has been so quiet for the past fifteen years. Maybe.

This is a strong line of inquiry, and it deserves to be plundered, & I am probably the fellow to do it; but there is also the issue of the Amsterdam place, which may not be the most important this on this writer's mind.

Hmm . . . Commerce is a heavy reality. There are many realities.

That is my message from Amsterdam. There exists a place where happening minds can be brought to beautiful (& probably terrifying) truths; where the body can be brought to pleasure in untold ways . . . There is a story here. Aaron Sigmond is getting the first whiff of it, because he put good money down, proved himself a visionary fellow (or at least got really lucky).

There are portals into which happening minds can peer - worlds into which, if one has balls enough, a man (in my case) may find himself amongst splendidly amusing, and generally very fine, and even lucrative company. There is such a world. I call it Amsterdam.

Should this story be told to an American audience? The sadist in me sez, "Fuck 'em, they ain't worthy." But Smoke is paying. Commerce is a heavy reality. There are many realities. It is a solid paradox that is mine inhabitance. Is America ready for me? Will it buy my acid novel? Can I make this gig pay? If so, I am the luckiest bastard alive. & Aaron Sigmond and his bosses above will prove themselves very good men - like the last scions of the Medici giving funds to Michelangelo.

These are good shrooms.

I feel like Clint Eastwood in Dirty Harry: "In all this excitement, I lost count of how many rounds I've fired. Did I fire six shots, or did I fire five? Do you feel lucky? Huh? Do you?" So, America, are you gonna stand by like suckers for another four years, while Bill-who-didn't-inhale sends beautiful bright minds to penitentiaries for seeking wisdom through chemicals? Huh? Are you? Of so, you're no friend of mine.

The way I see it, it is time for many of us to make a deliberate, proactive choice: Revolt against the War on (some) Drugs . . . or move to Amsterdam, & if Amsterdam collapses as a place where happening minds can function fully and stay free . . . well, I will be in trouble. That would be a heavy day. I'll lay odds, though, now that I've been there and seen it for myself, that the Amsterdam intellegentsia would never let a thing like that happen.

So, I guess I'm an expatriate. Will any of my friends come over and play with me? & who will pay my bills? Bob Guccione? Hugh Hefner? Jann Wenner? Or Aaron Sigmond? My price is now $5,000 for a 5000 word installment of Fear & Loathing in Amsterdam, the novel. I think you're getting a bargain. Hunter won't get out of bed for less than $25,000, and from what I've heard, from an agent we used to share together, Uncle Duke is now biding his daze in the company of Lady White, and will calcify that way, more or less, an exhilarating and disturbing fixture in the American psyche.

So, wire that $$$, dear editors, do it in Dutch guilders. Wire it to the Hotel Van Onna, 104 Bloemgracht. I stay in room 55. It is my lucky room. The proprietors know I'm trouble, but they take it with great humor. I have a twisted tale to share, bringing together a basement chemist named Heinrich, a smorgasboard of psychedelic shaman, a jazz player in exile since 1971, and an aging Gonzo journalist in need of spiritual redemption. It is a good story; I will put my soul into it. So, send this money. Allow me to finish this thing. Finance this pirate life of mine.

Do it now.