The year was 1993 and I was working in the Sport Stalker in Steamboat doing rental ski's while trying to get our snowboard shop off the ground, Stalker Snowboards. Along the way I got to help out some Euro friends at Radical Airlines so they wanted me to come to Vegas to not speak broken english to potential customers. So me and a guy name Party Smarty jumped in his van, called the Deer Killer, as it had murdered a half a dozen deer and elk in it's travels. Anyway, Party looks over at me in the passenger seat all excited like and goes "Johan, I got ONE rule in this van. When ever we cross a line, any kind of line, city, county, highway or breakdown we DO a line! Ha ha ha!"
I'm like "dude, good luck with that shit, pull over and I'll pick up a case of beer and drink one everytime. That shits all yours boss." And off we went. 11 hours later, a 12 pack down and a 8-ball up the nose and I was in Vegas.