It’s December 1994, past midnight in Apsen, Colorado.

Johnny Depp is sitting at the back of the Woody Creek Tavern, way back, past the Polaroids and bumper stickers and stolen number plates. Past the gawkers and the tourists. Waiting to meet Hunter S. Thompson for the first time.

He’s admired the writer for years. Loved his writing, his Kentucky roots and deranged Southern charms. He’s nursing a drink, a little anxious to make a good first impression

He’s looking at the front door about fifty yards away when it suddenly bursts open to the sound of crackling electricity. Sparks flying every which way.

People in front of him are throwing themselves out of the way. Jumping and diving and hurling themselves out of the way as Hunter S. Thompson sweeps in like Moses parting the Red Sea. ‘Out of my way, you bastards!’

As Hunter gets closer, Johnny sees he’s swinging a three-foot electric cattle prod in his left hand, a taser in his right and a TarGard cigarette filter between his gritted teeth.

He heads straight to Johnny’s table, smiles that lopsided smile.

‘How are you? My name is Hunter.’