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

“What is it?"

“Adrenochrome,” he said. “You won't need much. Just a little tiny taste.” I got the bottle and dipped the head of a paper match intoit.

“That's about right,” he said. “That stuff makes pure mescaline seem like gingerbeer. You'll go completely crazy if you take too much.” I licked the end of the match. “Where'd you get this?” I asked. “You can't buy it."

“Never mind,” he said. “It's absolutely pure.” I shook my head sadly. “Jesus! What kind of monster client have you picked up this time? There's only one source for this stuff . .

He nodded.

“The adrenaline glands from a living human body,” I said. “It's no good if youget it out of a corpse."

“I know,” he replied. “But the guy didn't have any cash. He's one of these Satanism freaks. He offered me human blood—said it would make me higher than I'd ever been in my life,” he laughed. “I thought he was kidding, so I told him I'd just as soon have an ounce or so of pure adrenochrome—or maybe just a fresh adrenalin gland to chew on.” I could already feel the stuff working on me. The first wave felt like a combination of mescaline and methedrmne. Maybe I should take a swim, I thought.

“Yeah,” my attorney was saying. “They nailed this guy for child molesting, but he swears he didn't do it. 'Why should I fuck with chi Wren?' he says; 'They're too small!“' He shrugged. “Christ, what could I say? Even a goddamn were wolf is entitled to legal counsel...I didn't dare turn the creep down. He might have picked up a letter opener and gone after my pineal gland."

“Why not?” I said. “He could probably get Melvin Belli for that.” I nodded, barely able to talk now. My body felt like I'd just been wired into a 220 volt socket. “Shit, we should get us some of that stuff.” I muttered finally. “Just eat a big handful and see what happens."

“Some of what?"

“Extract of pineal.” He stared at me. “Sure,” he said. “That's a good idea. One whiff of that shit would turn you into something out of a god damn medical encyclopedia! Man, your head would swell up like a watermelon, you'd probably gain about a hundred pounds in two hours...claws, bleeding warts, then you'd notice about six huge hairy tits swefling up on your back .. .” He shook his head emphatically. “Man, I'll try just about anything; but I'd never in hell touch a pineal gland. “Last Christmas somebody gave me a whole Jimson weed—the root must have wqighed two pound; enough for a year—but I ate the whole goddamn thiung in about twenty minutes.” The slightest hesitation made me want to grab him by the throat and force him to talk faster. “Right!” I said eagerly. “Jimson weed! What happened?"

“Luckily, I vomited most of it right back up,” he said. “But even so, I went blind for three days. Christ I couldn't even walk! My whole body turned to wax. I was such a mess that they had to haul me back to the ranch house in a wheelbarrow...they said I was trying to talk, but I sounded like a raccoon."

“Fantastic,” I said. But I could barely hear him. I was so wired that my hands were clawing uncontrollably at the bed spread, jerking it right out from under me while he talked. My heels were dug into the mattress, with both knees locked ... I could feel my eyeballs swelling, about to pop out of the sockets.

“Finish the fucking story!” I snarled. “What happened? What about the glands?” He backed away, keeping an eye on me as he edged across the room. “Maybe you need another drink,” he said nervously. “Jesus, that stuff got right on top of you, didn't it?” I tried to smile. “Well...nothing worse .. . no, this is worse .. .” It was hard to move my jaws; my tongue felt like burning magnesium. “No...nothing to worry about,” I hissed. “Maybe if you could just...shove me into the pool, or something..

“Goddamnit,” he said. “You took too much. You're about to ~plode. Jesus, look at your face!' I couldn't move. Total paralysis now. Every muscle in my was contracted. I couldn't even move my eyeballs, much turn my head or talk.

“It won't last long,” he said. “The first rush is the worst. ride the bastard out. If I put you in the pool right now, sink like a goddamn stone.” I was sure of it. Not even my lungs seemed to be functioning. I needed artificial respiration, but I couldn't open my mouth to say so. I was going to die. Just sitting there on the bed, unable to move...well at least there’s no pain.

Probably, I'll black out in a few seconds, and after that it won't matter.

My attorney had gone back to watching television. The news was on again. Nixon's face filled the screen, but his speech was hopelessly garbled. The only word I could make out was “sacrifice.” Over and over again: “Sacrifice...sacrifice ... sacrificeI could hear myself breathing heavily. My attorney seemed to notice. “Just stay relaxed,” he said over his shoulder, with out looking at me. “Don't try to fight it, or you'll start getting brain bubbles...strokes, aneurisms...you'll just wither up and die.” His hand snaked out to change channels.

It was after midnight when I finally was able to talk and move around...but I was still not free of the drug; the voltage had merely been cranked down from 220 to 110. I was a babbling nervous wreck, flapping around the room like a wild animal, pouring sweat and unable to concentrate on any one thought for more than two or three seconds at a time.

My attorney put down the phone after making several calls. “There's only one place where we can get fresh salmon,” he said, “and it's closed on Sunday."

“Of course,” I snapped. “These goddamn Jesus freaks! They're multiplying like rats!” He eyed me curiously.

“What about the Process?” I said. “Don't they have a place here? Maybe a delicatessen or something? With a few tables in back? They have a fantastic menu in London. I ate there once; incredible food “

“Get a grip on yourself,” he said. “You don't want to even mention the Process in this town."

“You're right,” I said. “Call Inspector Bloor. He knows about food. I think he has a list."

“Better to call room service,” he said. “We can get the crab looey and a quart of Christian Brothers muscatel for about twenty bucks.

“No!” I said. “We must get out of this place. I need air. Let's drive up to Reno and get a big tuna fish salad...hell, it won't take long. Only about four hundred miles; no traffic out there on the desert..."

“Forget it,” he said. “That's Army territory. Bomb tests, nerve gas—we'd never make it.” We wound up at a place called The Big Flip about halfway downtown. I had a “New York steak” for $1.88. My attorney ordered the “Coyote Bush Basket” for $2.09 . . . and after that we drank off a pot of watery “Golden West” coffee and watched four boozed-up cowboy types kick a faggot half to death between the pinball machines.

“The action never stops in this town,” said my attorney as we shuffled out to the car. “A man with the right contacts could probably pick up all the fresh adrenochrome he wanted, if he hung around here for a while.” I agreed, but I wasn't quite up to it, right then. I hadn't slept for something like eighty hours, and that fearful ordeal with the drug had left me completely exhausted...tomorrow we would have to get serious. The drug conference was scheduled to kick off at noon...and we were still not sure how to handle it. So we drove back to the hotel and watched a British horror film on the late show.

“On behalf of the prosecuting attorneys of this county, I welcome you.” We sat in the rear fringe of a crowd of about 1500 in the main ballroom of the Dunes Hotel. Far up in front of the room, barely visible from the rear, the executive director of the National District Attorneys' Association—a middle-aged, well-groomed, successful GOP businessman type named Pat rick Healy-was opening their Third National Institute on Narcotics and Dangerous Drugs. His remarks reached us by way of a big, low-fidelity speaker mounted on a steel pole in our corner. Perhaps a dozen others were spotted around the room, all facing the rear and looming over the crowd...so hat no matter where you sat or even tried to hide, you were ways looking down the muzzle of a big speaker.