I love this little book. People who measure their literature by the pound may complain about this one, but fans of Thompson will whip right through it. SCREWJACK was first published privately in 1991, and has been spawning rumors ever since. Only one of its essays, a 1969 account of Thompson's first mescaline trip written in real time, was previously published elsewhere. As well as being an incredible piece in that you can actually see him writing himself through the freakout and emerging on top, "Mescalito" perfectly crystallizes the life of a freelance writer (some of us, anyway): " ... [H]alf drunk full of pills and grass with deadlines past and people howling in New York ... the pressure piles up like a hang-fire lightning ball in the brain. Tired and wiggy from no sleep or at least not enough. Living on pills, phone calls unmade, people unseen, pages unwritten, money unmade, pressure piling up all around to make some kind of breakthrough and get moving again."
SCREWJACK also includes the tale of a psychotic friend who killed himself in front of the author after making a disastrous bet on a football game, and the title story, a demented love scene between Thompson's crazier alter-ego Raoul Duke and a huge black tomcat, reminiscent of some mad cross between Mikhail Bulgakov and Dennis Cooper.
(A version of this review was originally published in the New Orleans Times-Picayune.)