"What the hell are you talkin' about?" "Well.maybe I shouldn't be telling you." I shrugged. "Don't you read the newspapers?" The grin on his face had collapsed. The Black Panthers." I stared at him again. "My assignment is to take pictures of the riot." "What riot?" I hesitated, twirling the ice in my drink. "Hell yes! And they'll all be nekkid too!" I shook my head and said nothing just stared at him for a moment, trying to look grim. That's a race just for fillies." He was laughing wildly. "Well, goddam! What are you gonna take pictures of-nekkid horses? Haw! I guess you'll be workin' pretty hard when they run the Kentucky Oaks.
"Is that what you got there-cameras? Who you work for?" "Playboy," I said. "I'm a photographer." "Oh yeah?" He eyed my ragged leather bag with new interest.
"Say," he said, "you look like you might be in the horse business.am I right?" "No," I said. I thanked him and fitted a Marlboro into my cigarette holder. Shit, they'll roll you in a minute, knock you in the head and take every goddam cent you have." "I know this Derby crowd, I come here every year, and let me tell you one thing I've learned-this is no town to be giving people the impression you're some kind of faggot. "Look." He tapped me on the arm to make sure I was listening. "Okay, a double Old Fitz on ice." Jimbo nodded his approval. Yeah, what are you drinkin?" I ordered a Margarita with ice, but he wouldn't hear of it: "Naw, naw.what the hell kind of drink is that for Kentucky Derby time? What's wrong with you, boy?" He grinned and winked at the bartender. "I'm ready for anything, by God! Anything at all. Inside, people hugged each other and shook hands.big grins and a whoop here and there: "By God! You old bastard! Good to see you, boy! Damn good.and I mean it!" In the air-conditioned lounge I met a man from Houston who said his name was something or other-"but just call me Jimbo"-and he was here to get it on. The air was thick and hot, like wandering into a steam bath.
Thompson Sketched with eyebrow pencil and lipstick by Ralph Steadman I got off the plane around midnight and no one spoke as I crossed the dark runway to the terminal. The Kentucky Derby is Decadent and Depraved Written under duress by Hunter S.
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