In the fall of 2004, Jann Wenner, the co-founder and editor of Rolling Stone, told me to go to Aspen, Colorado, the home of the most famous dateline in gonzo journalism—Woody Creek—to hang out with Hunter S. Thompson and write about him, but I knew the boss had something more in mind. Jann and Hunter, who’d been confidants since first meeting in 1970, had fallen out, as they had before, possibly over temperament, possibly over money, but this time it seemed like the break would hold.
It was painful for Hunter and more painful for Jann. Hunter had been the brand for Rolling Stone, the voice of the magazine for millions of readers. Without Hunter, there would be no Rolling Stone. The magazine was different—wild and weird—because Hunter, with his chrome dome, cigarette holder, and maniacal grin, had turned the craziness and paranoia of his times into prose. Jann had given me an assignment akin to that of Captain Willard in Apocalypse Now: I was to go upriver and bring Kurtz back home. I was a delivery boy sent by a grocery clerk.
