With the publication of Keith Richards' infectiously written book called "LIFE", and what else could he name it, came more talk in the British papers again about Mr. X, the dealer with the promise of best-ever acid, the cool bloke who was everywhere in the easy-going social life of swinging London for a while back in 1967 - the seductive interloper who coerced the inside group of rock and roll friends to invite him down to Keith's country house, Redlands, for a fun acid-tripping weekend. Security wasn't the norm, so nobody questioned him, this David Schneiderman, as Keith knew him - he was goodlooking, with clever charm and confidence - called himself The Acid King, that's how he eased himself into the trap that sent Keith and Mick to jail for a brief but unpleasant stay after the court case. Then when the bust had taken place, a bunch of coppers knocking on Keith's front door, with Fleet Street all excited, and the papers full of the stories - he was gone, and never heard from again. Except - wouldn't you know - by me, Maggie Abbott, bored in Hollywood and charmed by the same tricks, only sixteen years later. He was now David Jove, a lively sparked-up video director of punk bands and still the court jester, only the royals were a different crowd. It was almost two years before I got the shock, from Marianne Faithfull, taking her over to his den late one night when everywhere else was closed. He broke his years of underground cover by telling her his real name, must have been his ego, too hard to resist seeing her shock too. He was a volatile and dangerous sod, and a gun-carrying trickster, so when I later decided to write the story, I put it into fiction, and kept the name, The Acid King, for the novel. I think it would be a good movie and I wish people would buy it and find out. Click on the cover in the left hand column or go to Amazon. It's a fun read.