When anon last saw him he was living out the days in Aspen estranged from and fighting with the local bars for padding his tab (according to Hunter) or being unable to remember all the crap he put on his tab trying to impress halfwit cultists who sought him out in Woody Creek and brought along their favorite home town drugs as tribute. NPR announcers, DJs and cultural flunkies who wanted their hip ticket punched. I felt sorry for him and I still do. He was like Hemingway in Mombasa, he'd get drunk and talk about how the next day we'd do great things. Catch the biggest most beautiful fish and the next day too sick and too frightened to get out of bed. Have a drink at sunrise, a few a lunch, and start the cycle over.
Always thought Hunter lifted the adrenochrome story from Terry Southern whose famous story Blood of a Wig, concerns a fiction editor at Esquire Magazin who shoots up schizophrenic blood.
Now it seems HST sold his soul and was on the 'chrome. We hear the same of Johnny Depp who claims a special friendship with the auld one in that film the Ninth Gate.