A/N: Fear and Loathing!!!!! This isn't finished yet, but I knew without it just being a one-shot about Duke reflecting the film I had to have an OC, but I'm not sure how much I'm gonna do for this, or where exactly it's gonna go. And if anyone reads it please review! Cos I know FaL's not as well known/well loved as Pirates or Secret Window or OuaTiM, so reviews would be great! On we go. . !
PS: Duke's quite an easy character to write, not that that means I have got any idea about any drugs, of course.

Chapter One

So we're driving down the highway. Me and Ema. She'd offered me a bag of grass for a ride so I thought, 'why the hell shouldn't I?' So I did. And it started to occur to me, I might have to talk to her.

"It's your turn to drive," I say, pulling sharply over to change seats. She's quite pretty, but I had a headful of acid and couldn't realize much else. She plucks the cigarette from my mouth, takes the cigarette from the holder and fills it with a joint, throwing the cigarette from the car. She hits the gas with venom. Veering all over the road man, she's gonna kill us! But in my current state I didn't realize the danger, which there could have been. I crawl over onto the backseat, and open the case. We've got 3 bags of grass, 5 sheets of high power blotter acid, a salt shaker full of cocaine, a whole galaxy of uppers, downers, screamers, laughers, also a quart of tequila, quart of rum, case of beer, pint of raw ether and more types of powder than you've ever seen. I snort some cocaine. And pass out.

I wake at a service station by the state line with the fly swatter clearly imprinted on my forehead, Ema sits in the drivers seat, head tilted back, passed out. I poke her, repeatedly, REPEATEDLY! And try to introduce myself, but all I can say is 'Duuuuuu,' in a squeaky voice.

In fact, my name is Duke, Raoul Duke, and I can say it in my head, well, actually, it was still 'Duuuuuu' in my head, but I know my name. Or maybe I don't, maybe it's the acid.

She points out the criss-cross pattern on my forehead, so I hit her with the fly swatter. I take the driving seat and turn on the engine. Whiplash. Interesting word.

Maybe I should explain why I'm here, where I'm going, who I am? Maybe, when I figure it out myself.

I am Raoul Duke, journalist, going to Washington DC from LA to cover a presidential speech on weapons of mass distraction, destruction. I'm making sense, the drugs must be wearing off.

So we're driving down the highway. Me and Ema. I light a cigarette and take a drag, take my hands off the wheel and wave them haphazardly above my head, whilst closing my eyes and tilting my head back. At the time it seems like a good idea, but after swerving I slowly begin to realize that maybe it wasn't such a good idea?

"So, Duuuuuu, where are you going?" Ema asks.

"This way," I reply, lowering a hand to the wheel, taking the cigarette out of my mouth. "I think you're coming round, have some of this," I hand her a bag of marijuana. "Don't gamble with marijuana in Nevada," I tell her, knowledgeably. What the fuck was I talking about? I remember the Las Vegas trip. Poor old Gonzo, took an overdose, amazingly. 'As your attorney I advise you to smoke all of it.' Fuck yeah, man! I went to his funeral, I think.

As we're still in the part of America that's comfortably warm at night – or so my body tells me – we stop the car in the middle of the road in the middle of nowhere, and fall asleep.

You'll notice I haven't described Ema much, but in the mental state that I was in I couldn't. Hair color? When I closed my eyes it was blue, and she made me feel like a rubber duck, so I didn't deserve a PhD in thinking. But I remember waking up with the cops up our ass.

"Do you realize the stupidity of what you have done?" the first one asks me, there are two. Struggling to recall anything happening in the last four days I reply, trying to imply short-term memory loss.

"What have I done?"

"You've parked in the middle of the road and gone to sleep!" the other cop says. I jump up and sit on the back of my chair, trying to think of the right words.

"We. . .officer, both have. . .syphilis? Narcolepsy!" I attempt, damn, I know I got that first one wrong.

"In that case, sir, we will have to terminate your license," the cop begins, but I slump back into the chair. Ema feigns sudden sleep, and we drive off and leave them.

Man, it was a bumpy landing back into reality from my high paradise. And there's only one way to sort that problem out.

Driving across America, wind in my – limited amount of - hair, powder up my nose making me wanna sneeze, ahh, this is the life. I begin to sing, nothing with any prominent tune, probably a squealy, screeching noise to anyone living outside of my head, scrunching up my eyes and then opening them wide, Ema joins in, but she's a bit out of tune. I swat her, I don't need her two cents.

When we pull up in a very hospitable part of Washington DC, I have a better idea of what is actually going on. Jumping out of the car I give Ema the case of drugs – too risky to let them be brought up to the room, I look about suspiciously – the tape player, suitcase and typewriter, and she, slowly and swaying, follows me into the lobby, where she drops everything. Carrying the fly swatter over to check-in, I attempt to book in, but although I am more intellectual than I was behind the wheel, my name is still 'Duuuuuu.' However, the receptionist makes a good guess.

"Duke? Raoul Duke?"

"Yeeeees, Duuuuuu," I reply, leaning a little too far over the desk, her hand snakes out for the computer mouse and I swat it, ferociously. My eyes shoot up to look at hers and my legs straighten so my chin is no longer on the desk.

"Du," I announce proudly, walking immediately from the desk like a Nazi. Ema struggles over to check-in where the woman is still holding our door key, opens her mouth, waves her head from side to side, obviously implying for the woman to put the key in her mouth because she has no hands, but it took her poor, cocaine-free, fresh-air-addled mind a while to work this out.