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Hello, my dear friends! I decided to share one of my stories so that you can understand me a little better, like when I was writing an article. Saturday night in the city Hunter S. Thompson I dropped Maria off in front of the tattoo parlor just before midnight. There was nowhere to park on the street, so I sent her inside while I looked for a spot on the sidewalk in front of the completely unlit building. Why not, I thought. Black car, dark sidewalk, no one on the street except for some crazy Chinese teenagers... and we really need this report. The week had been too long and too fast to allow for the luxury of wise and thoughtful reflection. I had been giving lectures for about 166 hours straight—on morality, good manners, and politics—in addition to drugs and violence. I had been awake for too long. We found the "Picture Machine" tattoo parlor in the Yellow Pages just an hour before it closed. It was time to submit the report. Fortunately, it was located just a few blocks from the hotel, on the corner of Third and Geary, in a lonely building with the "Suicide Prevention, Inc." corporation. The entire facade of the building was covered with thick steel accordion-style barricades, like in Beirut. The suicide clinic was closed, but Maria rang the bell at the tattoo parlor and disappeared inside. By the time I got there, she was already staring sadly at a small white card from the Dermatology Clinic of Kay and Kohn. It read: "Laser Tattoo Removal," prices and services available upon request. On another card, which the tattoo artist had given her, it said: "DO NOT PICK AT THE SCAB... OTHERWISE, I WILL NOT BE RESPONSIBLE FOR ANY TATTOOS AFTER YOU LEAVE MY SHOP. THANK YOU." The owner was a huge Swiss man named Mark, whose arms and shoulders resembled someone from the Fantastic Mr. Fox cartoon. He had daggers, snakes, scorpions, and skulls filled with slogans from the Hell's Angels: Live Fast, Die Cool... Live to Ride, Ride to Kill... I Should Have Killed You Yesterday... Better My Sister Be a Whore Than My Brother on a Japanese Motorcycle... There were many other options, displayed on the walls for better viewing, including a full range of designs—from exquisite floral arrangements in four colors to monstrous frescoes covering the entire body, depicting scenes such as the Nanjing Massacre or six-legged Gorgons devouring flames and gnawing on the skulls of their enemies. "Eagles and panthers," he said. "They are still the most popular... but women prefer flowers and things like that. It's the guys who want eagles and panthers." It seemed like the man was nervous. He wanted to close before midnight, but now the shadows in his life had deepened. It wasn't a very pleasant business—entertaining two completely unfamiliar people with a glint in their eyes and no obvious motivation in the dark end of Geary Boulevard just two minutes before midnight on a Saturday. "We need something quick," I said. "I have a deadline tomorrow at noon. How long will it take to put a tattoo on this woman?" He looked at me cautiously, then scrutinized Maria. "Where do you want it?" he asked. "What difference does it make?" I shouted. "Let's say on her back." I scanned the walls for a suitable design, but most of the good ones required too much work. Some would take two or three minutes, while others would take eight to ten hours. "What about this panther?" I finally decided, pointing to a roaring black creature the size of a volleyball. It's large, but the design is simple. Mostly black ink and blood from the hideous-looking needle. Maria lay down on the couch, and I pulled up her sweater, exposing her shoulder blades. The unfortunate Swiss man cleaned his high-voltage electric needle in a bowl of alcohol and ether for a long time. It hummed and whined like a giant drill, and then he plunged it into Maria's flesh. Geary Boulevard is quiet on a Sunday morning. The only living creature on the horizon is a giant orange sign that says WAREHOUSE. Behind it are only Avenues, a dreary panorama of fog-shrouded caves stretching all the way to the coast. In the alleys, there are only strange vans and giant motorcycles chained to fire hydrants. I understand the Avenues. I know them like the veins on my own neck. I can drive at full speed all the way to the "Beach Boy" cafe in such thick fog that even the trams don't run. There were nights in the old days when we rode in large packs of motorcycles through the park, like a thundering herd of wild boars. We yelled, drank whiskey, and lit joints from Zippo lighters, rushing through the darkness, madly weaving through the curves of the roads around the lakes and the football field... just a bunch of nice guys and athletes out for a ride in good weather. Now everything is different. I live in a luxurious penthouse on top of the Miyako, surrounded by terraces, with a deep hinzu bath, and I look through long black binoculars at the backyards and rooftops of Japantown. A valet brings me egg rolls in the morning, and a new black Camaro is waiting for me in the hotel parking lot. They know me here. When I returned last night, the doorman stood on Post Street in a slippery black kimono and pointed his finger at the cars coming towards him... so I stepped on the gas and drove around him on the left, just to test his reflexes. He jumped back and cursed me, and I was already pulling into the hotel parking lot. Maria quickly ran inside, grabbing a bag with a mink fur, records, and evidence from our recent trial for a burglary. "Did you have fun?" the doorman asked, opening the door for me. "Are you crazy?" I replied. I have to submit a serious report by the deadline. We spent the whole night in the tattoo parlor. There was no other way. "What?" he asked. "Did you get a tattoo?" "Oh, no," I replied. "Not me." I nodded towards Maria, who had already gone deeper into the lobby. "She got a tattoo," I said. "A huge black and red panther right between her shoulder blades." He nodded slowly, but I could see that his whole face was tense. "So, you're saying..." he began, "...that you made the poor girl get a tattoo? For an article in the newspaper?" "It was the right thing to do," I said. "We had no choice. We are, after all, professionals.