Hunter Thompson - Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas

“Goddamnit,” I said. “What’s the bail? I want that ape.”

“Get a grip on yourself,” he said. “You better stay clear of that jail. That’s all they need to put the cuffs on you. Forget that ape. You don’t need him.”

I gave it some thought, then decided he was probably right. There was no sense blowing everything just for the sake of some violent ape I’d never met. For all I knew, hed take a bite out of my head if I tried to bail him out. It would take him a while to calm down, after the shock of being put behind bars, and I couldnt afford to wait around.

“When are you taking off?” Bruce asked.

“As soon as possible,” I said. No point hanging around this town any lobger. IU have all I need. Anything else would only confuse me.”

He seemed suprised. “You found the American Dream?” he said. “In this town?”

I nodded. “We’re sitting on the main nerve rightnow,” I said. “You remember that story the manager told us about the owner of this place? How he always wanted to run away and join the circus when he was a kid?”

Bruce ordered two more beers. He looked over the casino for a moment, then shrugged. “Yeah, I see what you mean,” he said. “Now the bastard has his own circus, and a license to steal, too.” He nodded. “You’re right - he’s the model.”

“Absolutely,” I said. “It’s pure Horatio Alger, all the way down to his attitude. I tried to tell the woman that I agreed with everything he stood for, but she said if I knew what was good for me I’d get the hell out of town and not even think about bothering the Boss. “He really hates reporters” she said. “I don’t mean this to sound like a warning, bit if I were you I’d take it that way… “”

Bruce nodded. The Boss was paying him a thousand bucks a week to work two sets a night in the Leopard Lounge, andanother two grand for the group. All they had to do was make a hell of a lot of noise for two hours every night. The Boss didn’t give a flying fuck what kind of songs they sang, just as long as the beat was heavy and the amps were turned up loud enough to lure people into the bar.

It was strange to sit there in Vegas and hear Bruce singing powerful stuff like “Chicago” and “Country Song.” If the management had bothered to hear the lyrics, the whole band would have been tarred and feathered.

Several months later, in Aspen, Bruce sang the same songs in a club jammed with tourists and a former Astronaut* and when the last set was over, ____________________ came over to our table and began yelling all kinds of drunken, super-patriot gibber ish, hitting on Bruce about “What kind of nerve does a god damn Canadian have to come down here and insult this country?”

“Say man,” I said. “I’m an Amei-ican. I live here, and I agree with every fucking word he says.”

At this point the hash-bouncers appeared, grinning inscrutably and saying: “Good evening to you gentlemen. The I Ching says it’s time to be quiet, right? And nobody hassles the musicians in this place, is that clear?”

The Astronaut left, muttering darkly about using his in fluence to “get something done, damn quick,” about the Immigration Statutes. “What’s your name?” he asked me, as the hash-bouncers eased him away.

“Bob Zimmerman,” I said. “And if there’s one thing I hate in this world, it’s a goddamn bonehead Polack.”

“You think I’m a Polack?” he screamed. “You dirty gold bricker! You’re all shit! You don’t represent this country.”

“Christ, let’s hope to hell you don’t.” Bruce Mmuttered. ____________________ was still raving as they muscled him out to the street.

T^he nest noght, in another restaurant, the Astronaut was scarfing his chow - stone soer - when a fourteen year old boy approached the table to ask for an autograph. ____________________ acted coy moment, feigning embarrassment, then he scrawled his signature on the small piece of paper the boy handed him. The boy looked at it for a moment, then tore it into small pieces and dropped it in -____________________’s lap. “Not everybody loves you, man.” he said. Then he went back and sat down at his own table about six feet away.

The Astronaut’s party was speechiess. Eight or ten people - wives, managers and favored senior engineers, showing a good time in fabulous Aspen. Now they looked like somebody had just sprayed their table with shit-mist. Nobody a word. They ate quickly, and left without tipping.

So much for Aspen and astronauts. ____________________ would never have kind of trouble in LasVegas.

A little bit of this town goes a very long way. After five in Vegas you feel like you’ve been here for five years. Some people say they like it - but then some people like Nixon, too. He would have made a perfect Mayor for this town; with John Mitchell as Sheriff and Agnew as Master of Sewers.

When I tried to sit down at the baccarat table the bouncers the arm on me. “You don’t belong here,” one of them said quietly. “Let’s go outside.”

“Why not?” I said.

They took me out to the front entrance and signaled for the Whale to be brought up.

“Where’s your friend?” they asked, while we waited.

“What friend?”

“The big spic.”

“Look,” I said. “I’m a Doctor of Journalism. You’d never me hanging around this place with a goddamn spic.”

They. laughed. “Then what about this?” they said. And they confronted me with a big photograph of me and my attorney at a table in the floating bar.

I srugged. “That’s not me,” I said. “That’s a guy named Thompson. He works for Rolling Stone… a really vicious, crazy kind of person. And that guy sitting next to him is a hit man for the Mafia in Hollywood. Shit, have you studied this photograph? What kind of a maniac would roam around wearing one black glove.”

“We noticed that.” They said. “Where is he now?”

I shrugged. “He moves around pretty fast. “ I said. His oerders come out of St. Loius.”

They stared at me. “How do you know all this stuff?”

I showed them my gold PBA badge, flashing it quickly with my back to the crowd. “Act natural,” I whispered. “Don’t put me on the spot.”

They were still standing there when I drove off in the Whale. The geek had brought it up at exactly the right moment. I gave him a five-dollar bill and hit the street with a stylish screech of rubber.

It was all ovet now. I drove across to the Flamingo and loaded all my luggage into the car. I tried to put the top up, for privacy, but something was wrong with the motor. The generator light had been on, fiery red, ever since I’d driven the thing into Lake Mead on a water test. A quick run along the dashboard disclosed that every circuit in the car was to tally fucked. Nothing worked. Not even the headlights-and when I hit the air conditioner button I heard a nasty explosion under the hood.

The top was jammed about halfway up, but I decided to try for the airport. If this goddamn junker wouldn’t run right, I could always abandon it and call a cab. To hell with this gar bage from Detroit. They shouldn’t be allowed to get away with it.

The sun was coming up when I got to the airport. I left the Whale in the VIP parking lot. A kid about fifteen years old checked it in, but I refused to answer his questions. He was very excited about the overall condition of the vehicle. “Holy God!” he kept shouting. “How did this happen?” He kept moving around the car, pointing at various dents, rips and crushed places.

“I know,” I said. “They beat the shit out of it. This is a ter rible goddamn town for driving around in convertibles. The worst time was right out on the Boulevard in front of the Sahara. You know that corner where all the junkies hang out? Jesus, I couldn’t believe it when they all went crazy at once.”