Thompson Hunter S. - Fear and loathing in Las Vegas: a savage journey to the heart of the American dream

To Bob Geiger, for reasons that need not be explained here - and to Bob Dylan, for Mister Tambourine Man

He who makes a beast of himself gets rid of the pain of being a man.

Dr. Johnson

We were somewhere around Barstow on the edge of the desert when the drugs began to take hold. I remember saying something like I feel a bit lightheaded; maybe you should drive.... And suddenly there was a terrible roar all around us and the sky was full of what looked like huge bats, all swooping and screeching and diving around the car, which was going about a hundred miles an hour with the top down to Las Vegas. And a voice was screaming: Holy Jesus! What are these goddamn animals? Then it was quiet again. My attorney had taken his shirt off and was pouring beer on his chest, to facilitate the tanning process. What the hell are you yelling about? he muttered, staring up at the sun with his eyes closed and covered with wraparound Spanish sunglasses. Never mind, I said. Its your turn to drive. I hit the brakes and aimed the Great Red Shark toward the shoulder of the highway. No point mentioning those bats, I thought. The poor bastard will see them soon enough.

It was almost noon, and we still had more than a hundred miles to go. They would be tough miles. Very soon, I knew, we would both be completely twisted. But there was no going back, and no time to rest. We would have to ride it out. Press registration for the fabulous Mint 400 was already underway, and we had to get there by four to claim our soundproof suite. A fashionable sporting magazine in New York had taken care of the reservations, along with this huge red Chevy convertible wed just rented off a lot on the Sunset Strip...and I was, after all, a professional journalist; so I had an obligation to cover the story, for good or ill.

The sporting editors had also given me $300 in cash, most of which was already spent on extremely dangerous drugs. The trunk of the car looked like a mobile police narcotics lab. We had two bags of grass, seventyfive pellets of mescaline, five sheets of highpowered blotter acid, a salt shaker half full of cocaine, and a whole galaxy of multicolored uppers, downers, screamers, laughers and also a quart of tequila, a quart of rum, a case of Budweiser, a pint of raw ether and two dozen amyls.All this had been rounded up the night before, in a frenzy of highspeed driving all over Los Angeles Countyfrom Topanga to Watts, we picked up everything we could get our hands on. Not that we needed all that for the trip, but once you get locked into a serious drug collection, the tendency is to push it as far as you can.

The only thing that really worried me was the ether. There is nothing in the world more helpless and irresponsible and depraved than a man in the depths of an ether binge. And I knew wed get into that rotten stuff pretty soon. Probably at the next gas station. We had sampled almost everything else, and nowyes, it was time for a long snort of ether. And then do the next hundred miles in a horrible, slobbering sort of spastic stupor. The only way to keep alert on ether is to do up a lot of amylsnot all at once, but steadily, just enough to maintain the focus at ninety miles an hour through Barstow.

Man, this is the way to travel, said my attorney. He leaned over to turn the volume up on the radio, humming along withthe rhythm section and kind of moaning the words: One toke over the line, Sweet Jesus...One toke over the line... One toke? You poor fool! Wait till you see those goddamn bats. I could barely hear the radio...slumped over on the far side of the seat, grappling with a tape recorder turned all the way up on Sympathy for the Devil. That was the only tape we had, so we played it constantly, over and over, as akind of demented counterpoint to the radio. And also to maintain our rhythm on the road. A constant speed is good for gas mileageand for some reason that seemed important at the time. Indeed. On a trip like this one must be careful about gas consumption. Avoid those quick bursts of acceleration that drag blood to the back of the brain.

My attorney saw the hitchhiker long before I did. Lets give this boy a lift, he said, and before I could mount any argument he was stopped and this poor Okie kid was running up to the car with a big grin on his face, saying, Hot damn! I never rode in a convertible before!"

Is that right? I said. Well, I guess youre about ready, eh? The kid nodded eagerly as we roared off.

Were your friends, said my attorney. Were not like the others."

O Christ, I thought, hes gone around the bend. No more of that talk, I said sharply. Or Ill put the leeches on you. He grinned, seeming to understand. Luckily, the noise in the car was so awfulbetween the wind and the radio and the tape machinethat the kid in the back seat couldnt hear a word we were saying. Or could he?

How long can we maintain? I wondered. How long before one of us starts raving and jabbering at this boy? What will he think then? This same lonely desert was the last known home of the Manson family. Will he make that grim connection when my attorney starts screaming about bats and huge manta rays coming down on the car? If sowell, well just have to cut his head off and bury him somewhere. Because it goes without saying that we cant turn him loose. Hell report us at once to some kind of outback nazi law enforcement agency, and theyll run us down like dogs.

Jesus! Did I say that? Or just think it? Was I talking? Did they hear me? I glanced over at my attorney, but he seemed obliviouswatching the road, driving our Great Red Shark along at a hundred and ten or so. There was no sound from the back seat.Maybe Id better have a chat with this boy, I thought. Perhape if I explain things, hell rest easy.

Of course. I leaned around in the seat and gave him a fine big smile...admiring the shape of his skull.By the way, I said. Theres one thing you should probably understand. He stared at me, not blinking. Was he gritting his teeth?

Can you hear me? I yelled.

He nodded.

Thats good, I said. Because I want you to know that were on our way to Las Vegas to find the American Dream. I smiled. Thats why we rented this car. It was the only way to do it. Can you grasp that? He nodded again, but his eyes were nervous.

I want you to have all the background, I said. Because this is a very ominous assignmentwith overtones of extreme personal danger....Hell, I forgot all about this beer; you want one? He shook his head.

How about some ether? I said.

What?"

Never mind. Lets get right to the heart of this thing. You see, about twentyfour hours ago we were sitting in the Polo Lounge of the Beverly Hills Hotelin the patio section, of courseand we were just sitting there under a palm tree when this uniformed dwarf came up to me with a pink telephone and said, This must be the call youve been waiting for all this time, sir. I laughed and ripped open a beer can that foamed all over the back seat while I kept talking. And you know? He was right! Id been expecting that call, but I didnt know who it would come from. Do you follow me? The boys face was a mask of pure fear and bewilderment. I blundered on: I want you to understand that this man at the wheel is my attorney! Hes not just some dingbat I found on the Strip. Shit, look at him! He doesnt look like you or me, right? Thats because hes a foreigner. I think hes probably Samoan. But it doesnt matter, does it? Are you prejudiced?"