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CRUSADE Eighty-thousand words confirming my first-class e-ticket to eternal damnation Hunter Thompson searched for the American dream, and to his cynical amusement—found it. The characters in Crusade think they've stumbled over its bloated, rotting corpse, and have packed their nostrils with cocaine to blunt the stench. A drug-fueled journey by two deranged journalists into the morass of organized religion. Cornholery, snake handlers, faith healers, serial killers, sarcasm, blasphemy—good, clean, American fun. Someone said I wrote this under the influence of coke-crusted-communion wafers—and I like the alliteration.