The following appeared under the title, ' The Real Story of the Beatles' Bungalow Bill'. The interview was conducted at Max's Kansas City Bar, New York City.

Howard: Dusty, let's rap about your international reputation as a big game hunter, especially the big cats of India. Dusty?. Hello?

Carr: Whatever... I couldn't care less. You know something weird? I don't recognize anybody here tonight. Nobody. (shouting). I mean, where the christ is anybody? Look at their faces! Shit! They're just rich people who are trying to dress like they're poor, like they're punks, like they're creative and misunderstood and they're tough. What a pile of steaming crap. Poor people don't want to look poor! They want to look rich! And poor people know about violence, they live with it. It ain't a part-time thing, a weekend getaway to Max's Kansas City.

Howard: Dusty, please, people are looking.

Carr: Just shut. Shut! Up! I want you to learn something tonight. You ever climb to the mountaintop of your soul and just look around? Just take a lay of the land?

Howard: I'm not sure if I.

Dusty: Don't talk, just listen. Just look around here for instance. Okay, you tell me where is Gram Parsons, the grievous angel himself? Eh? I mean where did he go? Hell, I can remember burning his body at Joshua Tree a long time ago, but I can still feel him. And where's Johnny Thunders?. Foaming dogshit! And where's my Nico with the sad eyes? Eh? I loved that spooky German. You miserable prick! Why am I always the last one left standing? I hate turning off the light!

Howard: Look, can we just. It is my understanding that you bagged a huge cat in China a few years back. Tell me, what kind of gun did..

Carr: Jesus, it happened with Brian Jones, with Jim Morrison, with Keith 'The Loon' Moon, it happened with so many that. did you just mention a tiger?

Howard: Yes Dusty, it's big game we're after tonight, and our readership would love to hear more about your exciting reputation as a big game hunter.

Carr: You want death stories, you little armchair quarterback? I could tell you stories that would implode your scrotum, hair-raising shit that would knurl your bowels. I have looked death in the face many times - and He looks remarkably like Michael Jackson, especially the nose. I have spoken with Him, invited Him in for a drink, given Him a few toots and got Him a girl for the night - and in return, He has pissed off and left me alone - but He's taken away so many of my pals that I'm starting to think it might be a game of torture.

Howard: What about the Indian safari you went on in 1968 with Richard Cooke. That became a very famous story and the basis of a Beatles' song.

Carr: Shit, it sure did. First thing to understand, mescaline is a terrible drug to take in the heat. And in India you sweat more than a drunken sailor in a whore's bedroom. It's very difficult to control, especially on an empty stomach. It really should be restricted to hippy wanabees, sitting out in the Sierra Nevada desert, who want to find God in a cactus blossom. We had some of that shit in Vietnam. We used to buy it off this guy named Ngo Nhu in Saigon. We made him a millionaire. Bless him. He finally got caught in a shower of napalm. That was a nice place before we showed up. Ever ask yourself - what the fuck were we doing in Vietnam? I mean, have you ever been there?

Howard: No I haven't... Dusty, the 1968 safari?

Carr: Okay, I was on my way back from my tour in Vietnam. I had heard that the Beatles - of which I was a member for a few days - we're hanging out with the Maharishi in a god-awful shit hole called Rishikesh in India. I didn't feel like going to the States just then. Man, my head wasn't screwed on properly. Actually, they had kicked me out of the army for the simple crime of asserting myself as an individual. You see, the army wants leaders, yet if they find out that you're a leader, they nix you, just piss down your throat.

Anyway, on my way back from Asia they let me off in India, which is a pretty short flight, especially when you're passed out. I rented a car and got to Rishikesh. John Lennon was especially happy to see me because he was bored, and when he wasn't bored he was stoned. There was a woman there, Nancy Cooke, a rich American, who was also studying with the Maharishi - if you call studying just sitting around all day drinking bad wine. She had a son named Richard, who showed up right after me. And everyone hated this guy because he was just a basic sports goof, kind of dumb and squared-jawed and wore a safari suit.

Next thing I know, this Richard says he'll pay me three thousand dollars to go tiger hunting with him. He thought because I was an ex-GI, that I knew how to handle a gun. That was a lot of money, so I said sure.

Howard: How many were in the hunting party?

Carr: We left with five men and just two returned?

Howard: What? Three men were killed?

Carr: Not by me, pal - by Richard Cooke! He was a terrible shot. Couldn't hit the ground, the preppy freak.

Howard: Is it true that you brought down three cats?

Carr: Who knows. It was hotter than hell and I had been hallucinating most of the day. I remember sitting in this glade of tall grass at midday, trying to get this goddam mescaline out of my head by drinking a concoction the Indians gave me that was basically monkey blood. And I heard this real deep growl. Shit, I thought, it's a fucking tiger. I didn't feel like killing anything, but I had to earn my money, right? So I parted the grass to take a look, and there he was, about two feet from my face. I brought up my M-16.

Howard: You used a M-16 to hunt tigers?

Carr: Goddam right I did - because I knew how to handle that gun, I'd had training. If your readers get anything out of this interview, it's this: have complete mastery of your weapon. Complete. You should be able to break it down and clean it in the dark while sitting on a pot, hunkered over with diarrhea. You must take death seriously because it is a sacred act. Show respect for your enemy. So I choked that M-16 into that tiger's face, just pumped him and fur started flying. He dropped like a chunk of metal.

Howard: Where was Richard Cooke?

Carr: Where was he? Shit, I found him later up a tree, weeping with fear, crying for his mommy. After he calmed down, he told me that he was to get credit for the kill because, hell, that's why he was paying me. I didn't care. Where's the pride in shooting a freakin' cat with gun? They're just stupid animals. Anybody can do that.

Howard: How did this incident ever make it into a Beatles' song?

Carr: That night, I told John Lennon all about it, and it inspired him to write the song 'Bungalow Bill'. Strange the way things work out. I'm just glad that I'm not mentioned in that song - because for me it was just a cash grab. No big whup.