Hunter Thompson - Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas. A Savage Journey to the Heart of the American Dream

“You ate this?” I asked, holding up the white pad.

He ignored me. But I knew. He would be very difficult to reach for the next six hours. The whole blotter was chewed up.

“You evil son of a bitch,” I said. “You better hope there’s some thorazine in that bag, because if there’s not you’re in bad trouble tomorrow.”

“Music!” he snarled. “Turn it up. Put that tape on.”

“What tape?”

“The new one. It’s right there.”

I picked up the radio and noticed that it was also a tape recorder—one of those things with a cassette-unit built in. And the tape, Surrealistic Pillow, needed only to be flipped over. He had already gone through side one—at a volume that must have been audible in every room within a radius of one hundred yards, walls and all.

“ ‘White Rabbit,”’ he said. “I want a rising sound.”

“You’re doomed,” I said. “I’m leaving here in two hours—and then they’re going to come up here and beat the mortal shit out of you with big saps. Right there in the tub.”

“I dig my own graves,” he said. “Green water and the White Rabbit ... put it on; don’t make me use this.” His arm lashed out of the water, the hunting knife gripped in his fist.

“Jesus,” I muttered. And at that point I figured he was I help—lying there in the tub with a head full of acidand the sharpest knife I’ve ever seen, totally incapable of reason, demanding the White Rabbit. This is it, I thought. “I’ve gone as far as I can with this waterhead. This time it’s a suicide trip. This time he wants it. He’s ready..

“OK,” I said, turning the tape over and pushing the “play” button. “But do me one last favor, will you? Can you give me two hours? That’s all I ask—just two hours to sleep before tomorrow. I suspect it’s going to be a very difficult day.”

“Of course,” he said. “I’m your attorney. I’ll give you all the time you need, at my normal rates: $45 an hour—but you’ll be wanting a cushion, so why don’t you just lay one of those $100 bills down there beside the radio, and fuck off?”

“How about a check?” I said. “On the Sawtooth National Bank. You won’t need any ID to cash it there. They know me.”

“Whatever’s right,” he said, beginning to jerk with the music. The bathroom was like the inside of a huge defective woofer. Heinous vibrations, overwhelming sound. The floor was full of water. I moved the radio as far from the tub as it would go, then I left and closed the door behind me.

Within seconds he was shouting at me. “Help! You bastard! Ineed help!”

I rushed back inside, thinking he’d sliced off an ear by accident.

But no ...he was reaching across the bathroom toward the white formica shelf where the radio sat. “I want that tuckin radio,” he snarled.

I grabbed it away from his hand. “You fool!” I said. “Get in that tub! Get away from that goddamn radio!” I shoved it back from his hand. The volume was so far up that it was hard to know what was playing unless you knew Surrealistic Pillow almost note for note ... which I did, at the time, so I knew that “White Rabbit” had finished; the peak and had come and gone.

But my attorney, it seemed, had not made it. He wanted more. “Back the tape up!” he yelled. “I need it again!” His eyes were full of craziness now, unable to focus. He seemed on the verge of some awful psychic orgasm

“Let it roll!” he screamed. “Just as high as the fucker can go! And when it comes to that fantastic note where the rabbit bites its own head off, I want you to throw that fuckin radio into the tub with me.”

I stared at him, keeping a firm grip on the radio. “Not me,” I said finally. “I’d be happy to ram a goddamn 440-volt cattle prod into that tub with you right now, but not this radio. It would blast you right through the wall-stone—dead in ten seconds.” I laughed. “Shit, they’d make me explain it—drag me down to some rotten coroner’s inquest and grill me about. . yes ...the exact details. I don’t need that.”

“Bullshit!” he screamed. “Just tell them I wanted to get Higher!”

I thought for a moment. “Okay,” I said finally. “You’re right. This is probably the only solution.” I picked up the tape/radio—which was still plugged in—and held it over the tub. “Just let me make sure I have it all lined up,” I said.

“You want me to throw this thing into the tub when ‘White Rabbit’ peaks—is that it?”

He fell back in the water and smiled gratefully. “Fuck yes,” he said. “I was beginnjng to think I was going to have to go out and get one of the goddamn maids to do it.”

“Don’t worry,” I said. “Are you ready?” I hit the “play” button and “White Rabbit” started building again.

Almost immediately he began to howl and moan ... another fast run up that mountain, and thinking, this time, that he would finally get over the top. His eyes were gripped shut and only his head and both kneecaps poked up through the oily green water.

I let the song build while I sorted through the pile of fat ripe grapefruit next to the basin. The biggest one of the lot weighed almost two pounds. I got a good Vida Blue faitball grip on the fucker—and just as “Whit. Rabbit” peaked Ilashed it into the tub like a cannonball.

My attorney screamed crazily, thrashing around in the tub like a shark after meat, churning water all over the floor as he struggled to get hold of something.

I jerked the AC cord out of the tape/radio and moved out of the bathroom very quickly ... the machine kept on playing, but now it was back on its own harmless battery power. I could hear the beat cooling down as I moved across the room to my kitbag and fetched up the Mace can ...just as my attorney ripped the bathroom door open and started out. His eyes were still unfocused, but he was waving the blade out in front of him like a man who meant to cut something.

“Mace!” I shouted. “You want this?” I waved the Mace bomb in front of his watery eyes.

He stopped, “You bastard!” he hissed. “You’d do that, wouldn’t you?”

I laughed, still waving the bomb at him. “Why worry? You’ll like it. Shit, there’s nothing in the world like a Mace high - forty-five minutes on your knees with the dry heaves, gasping for breath. It’ll calm you right down.”

He stared in my general direction, trying to focus. “You cheap honky sonofabitch,” he muttered. “You’d do it, wouldn’t you?”

“Why not?” I said. “Hell, just a minute ago you were asking me to kilt you! And now you want to kill me! What I should do, goddamn it, is call the police!”

He sagged. “The cops?”

I nodded. “Yeah, there’s no choice. I wouldn’t dare go to sleep with you wandering around in this condition—with a head full of acid and wanting to slice me up with that god-damn knife.”

He rolled his eyes for a moment, then tried to smile.

“Who said anything about slicing you up?” he mumbled. I just wanted to carve a little Z on your forehead—nothing serious.”

He shrugged and reached for a cigarette of the TV set,

I menaced him again with the Mace can. “Get back in that tub,” I said. “Eat some reds and try to calm down. Smoke some grass, shoot some smack—shit, do whatever you have to do, but let me get some rest.”

He shrugged and smiled distractedly, as if everything I’d said made perfect sense.

“Hell yes,” he said very earnestly. “You really need some sleep. You have towork tomorrow.” He shook his head sadly and turned back toward the bathroom. “God damn! What a bummer.” He waved me off. “Try to rest,” he said. “Don’t let me keep you up.”

I nodded, and watched him shuffle back into the bathroom—still holding the blade, but now he seemed unaware of it. The acid had shifted gears on him; the next phase would probably be one of those hellishly intense introspection night mares. Four hours or so of catatonic despair; but nothing physical, nothing dangerous. I watched the door close behind him, then I quietly slid a heavy, sharp-angled chair up in front of the bathroom knob and put the Mace can beside the alarm clock.