Fear and Loathing in America

by Hunter S. Thompson

  Dark and ignorant counsel.

  When times get weird and madness starts closing in, I always turn to the Bible. I was brought up on it. Some of my earliest memories hark back to those hot Kentucky mornings when I was three or four years old and my grandfather—God rest his troubled soul—used to lash me to the hitching post with strips of wet rawhide and order the field-darkies to throw handfuls of sharp gravel at me while he read from the Good Book. He identified very strongly with Job, as I recall, and he wanted to toughen me up for the harsh & brutal times that he knew I would sooner or later come to grips with.

  I was thinking about this the other afternoon as I sat in the Jerome Bar, sifting through my mail and listening to a man who said he had just been released from federal prison. He had some very ominous things to say about the machinations of the U.S. Attorney General’s office. “Once they get hold of you it’s all over,” he was saying. “You’re completely at their mercy; they’ll just grind you under their thumb until you break.”

  I nodded, pausing to call for another beer before ripping open the third of a half-dozen large envelopes that had showed up in my mailbox that day…. The things he was saying were true; I knew that, but I also remembered that the last stranger who showed up in Aspen to warn me about “the ruthlessness of the pigs” turned out to be an undercover agent from the U.S. Treasury Department in Denver. He thundered into town on a big chopped [Harley-Davidson] Hog, wearing a Hell’s Angels costume, and offered to sell me “as much dynamite and as many M-16’s” as I needed. But the city police arrested him for carrying an illegal sawed-off shotgun before he could do any serious damage. “You can’t bust me,” he told them. “I’m a federal agent. The sheriff called me in to get the goods on this evil bastard, Thompson.” The sheriff admitted it. He was up for re-election, at the time, and I was running against him—so it was only natural, he explained, to ask the feds in Denver to send over an informer/provocateur to help him keep tabs on the opposition. The sheriff never explained why his undercover man was so eager to load dynamite and automatic weapons into my campaign headquarters….

  But what the hell? All that happened two years ago, and two of the top strategists in that infamous Freak Power campaign were just elected to the three-man board of County Commissioners … which doesn’t prove a hell of a lot, but on the other hand it’s hard to argue with the idea that, in a “majority rule” situation, two out of three is a nice place to start from, especially on those once-a-year days when The Sheriff has to go before the Board of County Commissioners and request enough tax money to pay his own salary & operating expenses for the next twelve months.

  None of this was passing through my mind as I sat there in the Jerome Hotel bar the other afternoon, opening my mail and listening to this man who said he had just been released from the federal pen. Since the end of the ’72 presidential campaign, the Jerome Bar has become the de facto Rolling Stone National Affairs Desk. I do most of my business there, because of the comfortable atmosphere. There is something about the whole scene at the Jerome that is strongly reminiscent of the McGovern campaign, and after sixteen months in that feverish vortex I am having a little trouble slowing down. And besides, the Jerome is a good place to open the mail—which is becoming heavier & heavier, for some reason, and so consistently unpredictable that it’s nice to have witnesses when I start ripping into the packages.

  About a week ago, for instance, I received a hard plastic tube about six feet long. My old friend Mike Solheim, the proprietor, eyed it nervously. “Don’t open that goddamn thing in here,” he said. “Take it outside; get down in the deep end of the pool, where there’s plenty of ice.”

  “Don’t worry,” I said. “I think I know what it is.”

  “So do I,” he replied. “It’s another one of those goddamn blowguns.”

  Which proved to be true. The tube contained a six-foot aluminum blow-gun, with a package of needle-sharp darts. There was also an instruction sheet; “WARNING!” it said. “TAKE CARE NOT TO BREATHE IN DART WHEN INHALING FOR AIR!!!”

  No, none of that. These buggers were five inches long. “When needle sharp, your SAFARI darts will easily penetrate one-half inch plywood, auto tires and tin cans,” said the instruction sheet. “Then think what these darts will do in the bodies of their victims! They will bury themselves to the dart head every time. They kill without poison! The SAFARI blowgun is so accurate that a beginner can easily hit a two-inch bulls-eye at 30 feet.”

  “Bullshit,” Solheim muttered.

  I inserted a dart—taking care not to inhale—then aimed the blowgun at a life-size portrait of [nineteenth-century heavyweight boxing champion] John L. Sullivan at the other end of the bar and drilled him straight in the chest. THONK! A table of ski-tourists immediately paid their bill and left the bar. The dart had buried itself so deep in the oak paneling that we couldn’t pull it out … but the instruction sheet explained this: “Always carry a small plyers with you when shooting the blowgun,” it said, “because you cannot remove SAFARI darts from wood without a plyers.”

  Al Romanowski, the Polish ski champion, had been watching us curiously. “Jesus Christ!” he said. “One of those things could penetrate a human skull!” He grinned. “How much do you want for it?”

  FROM OSCAR ACOSTA:

  Acosta was wrong about Thompson having a movie deal for Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas.

  October 11, 1973

  Hunter:

  We can do it amicably—through lawyers—or hand to hand. You choose the weapons. But you are not going to get off Scott [sic] free. I promise you that.

  I’ve been silent on the subject for almost two years because of the blackmail threats from both you and Jann that ultimately my book could be stopped. Well, old pal the book is out now and I’m coming after you. You cocksuckers have been ripping me off for a long time.

  You are really getting bum advice my boy. I can stop the fucking movie and sue both Cohen and Zimmerman for simply passing around the script. I never gave you or anyone else the right to libel me in a movie, stupid! And your contract with IFA or Zimmerman must have a movie clause in there saying that you warrant the story to be free from libel as well as from any other claim. Don’t you realize I can get Clancy in serious trouble with the bar for stealing that “release” from me?

  It must be that you guys have planned to settle with me right from the start because you haven’t got a chance in court … about as much as you do of becoming a U.S. Senator.

  Believe me, man—I am dead serious. Call me or my agent—Robert Henry muy pronto and make an offer. It would be better for all if we settled it and forgot it. Besides you can afford it now.

  your old ex-friend

  Oscar

  TO KRISTI WITKER:

  Thompson did not disappoint: he sent several colorful blurbs for the jacket of Witker’s campaign book.

  October 17, 1973

  Woody Creek, CO

  Kristi …

  I just got back from testifying at a rape trial in Fresno & found this goddamn letter inre: COMMENT on your book, and I remember promising to send something if I didn’t have to read the text, or whatever.

  Jesus … what can I say? And is it too late? Probably not, because publishers always lie about deadlines … so, well … let me think for a moment … not long … and I’ll come up with something … maybe….

  Yes: how’s this?

  “This book will blow the balls off all the atavistic geeks like Frank Mankiewicz and Ted Van Dyk who’ve been running big-time politics in this country (in the Democratic crypt, at any rate) for so long that any right-thinking society would have had them locked up in the Women’s House of Detention at least 10 years ago, when it still existed….”

  —or—

  “If Kristi Witker is right, Frank Mankiewicz should be castrated.”

  —or—

  “This book is the best argument I’ve ever read for getting women out of politics and into sex and drugs where they belong.”

 
—or—

  “A disgraceful indictment of the sexist swine who ran American politics. Nothing short of selective castration on a massive scale will right the wrongs Mz. Witker outlines here….”

  Cazart: I think that should do it. You can use my name with any one—or any combination—of the quotes I’ve chiseled out here. I want to remain on record, however, as a firm advocate of the theory that no quote (or blurb) ever sold more than 13 copies of any book in hardcover, and no more than six in paperback.

  OK for now. Good luck with the fucker. It’s bound to be at least the second-best book written on the ’72 campaign.

  Hunter

  TO U.S. SENATOR GEORGE McGOVERN:

  Thompson, who had grown close to both candidate George McGovern and his wife, Eleanor, during the ’72 campaign, was in the early stages of planning a high-level, invitation-only conference on politics under the sponsorship of Rolling Stone.

  October 17, 1973

  Woody Creek, CO

  George/Eleanor …

  Here are two copies for your shelf. I was going to send two copies of the Campaign book (to replace the two I sent to your office earlier), but at the last moment I decided to substitute a copy of my F&L in Vegas for Eleanor. It’s a much finer & purer effort, and if I had to make a choice between the two—strictly on artistic & literary merits—the Vegas book would win easily.

  But that’s only my taste, eh? And I leave any judgements on that to you—out of politeness, if nothing else, because I have total faith in it when the deal goes down.

  OK for now. As for the Senate race in Colo., I’m holding back & maybe backing off; it’s hard to say for sure right now, because I can’t get a fix on either Gary or Dolan … and I’d hate to jump in & accomplish nothing more than re-electing Dominick. Sometime very soon the Two/One-party system will have to be seriously challenged, but I’m not sure Colorado in ’74 is the right time & place to do it. If you have any hard wisdom on this score, I could definitely use it … so call any time; preferably as late as humanly possible (it’s 3:06 A.M. now, & I’m just getting the typewriter warmed up). On normal nights I’m up until 7 or 8 EST.

  On other fronts, I have a relatively complicated subject to discuss with you (George)—having to do with a conference or maybe just a compilation of publishable statements centering on the possibility of a genuine New Politics in the immediate future. Rolling Stone has agreed to foot the bill for a sort of low-key “ignition conference,” and for starters I’ve been trying to get Carl Wagner and Adam Walinsky together to thrash out an agenda. I figure if I can force those two cranked-up freaks to agree on something, the rest will come easy. (This is the opposite, you’ll note, of your ’72 campaign strategy: Crack the hardest nuts first, instead of later.)

  Anyway, don’t mention this to anybody until we have a chance to talk about it. (Max [Palevsky], by the way, is no longer connected with Rolling Stone except as a minority stockholder; I don’t know the details of the split, but it had heavy overtones—strongly reminiscent of that Wed. afternoon in Miami when I tried to convince him that he was making a mistake by leaving the Doral in a rage.)

  In the meantime, I’ve de-activated the National Affairs Desk for the time being & am going back to sports … which is another subject I’d like to talk about, vis-à-vis [team owner] Joe Robbie and the Miami Dolphins. I understand he’s a family friend, and if that’s the case I wonder if you could introduce me to him and let me make a case for my covering the Dolphins for the remainder of this year like I covered your campaign. (I understand the implications of this, so feel free to back off, if that’s your instinct—but if you’d feel comfortable in effecting a human introduction I’d certainly appreciate it.)

  That’s about it for now. I’ve been hunkered down for a while, trying to recover from 2 yrs of steady work—a feeling I suspect you’ll understand without much trouble. In any case, I’ll call sometime soon.

  Cazart …

  Hunter

  TO JIM SILBERMAN, RANDOM HOUSE:

  Thompson had been asked to write another dust-jacket blurb—this one for his Rolling Stone colleague Joe Eszterhas’s new book, Charlie Simpson’s Apocalypse.

  October 17, 1973

  Woody Creek, CO

  Dear Jim …

  Jesus, I was amazed to get a human coherent letter from you; I thought the failure of Vegas had put me permanently on the RH Non-Person list.

  Anyway, I’ll take your subjects in order:

  1) I got the Vegas royalty statement and was naturally shocked—not only by the original sales failure, but also by the lack of any attempt to recoup by tying Vegas in with the relative success of the Campaign book.

  2) As for Hell’s Angels, it appears to be permanently out of print. A writer for the Wall St. Journal came out here last week to do a piece on “gonzo journalism” and said he couldn’t find a copy of HA anywhere in Los Angeles. The Campaign book was prominently displayed everywhere, he said, and he was able to pick up a paperback copy of Vegas—but not even Pickwick [bookstore] had a copy of HA … so I look forward with real interest to whatever papers & records you can dredge up from the Ballantine files, inre: sales figures, printings, earnings, etc. All I know is that I’ve received some $1100 in royalties during the past 3 years, but last spring I found a copy (the first one I’d ever seen for sale) in the San Antonio airport and it was part of the ninth printing … and the last printing I got any money for was something like the third, or possibly the fourth, but I was never aware of a fifth printing, much less a ninth. (HA cover #3, by the way, was even worse & more un-focused than HA cover #2, both of which now make your original cover seem like a piece of inspired art on a level with van Gogh’s ear.)21 One of these days I’m going to get pissed off enough about that HA ripoff to sit down and compile a really brutal “Hell’s Angels Log,” which will be good for a lot of laughs in some circles, and maybe even among those who pocketed the money from it.

  But what the hell? Like you said that time on the phone, when I signed the HA contract, “it was the only game in town.” Which was true, at the time—just like Ehrlichman22 used to have leverage—but I think this goddamn Rebozo23 syndrome has been pushed just about to the brink. If necessary, I’ll hire an independent auditing firm to deal with the HA royalties. Even if I gave the bastards 50% of whatever monies they recover, I figure I’d still come out way ahead.

  Indeed. But I see we’ve fouled the agenda here; that HA bitch was supposed to come last, and it was definitely not aimed at you. At least not personally.

  3) Mankiewicz’s claim that he bought a copy of Vegas for 19 cents, at some unspecified store in Washington: Which I must admit I never verified—or even pursued, for that matter—because at the time I was frankly appalled to hear a thing like that, and since it was said in a group of some sort (at McGovern’s house, as I recall) I wasn’t especially eager to make a scene about it.

  But he definitely said it, and in a way that gave me no reason to think he was lying … although maybe he was; Frank has a weird sense of humor.

  In any case, I was surprised to get your version of the meeting with Doug Mount—who was definitely empowered (during a long phone talk on the night before he came to your office) to act as my agent & partner in a deal that would take all remaining copies of Vegas off your hands at 22 and a half cents each. But when I talked to him a day or so later, he said you’d been something less than receptive to the idea, implying that I was bit wiggy for even sending him to see you in the first place. At this point, while he was half-accusing me of sand-bagging him, I got the distinct impression that you had sand-bagged me—by offering to sell me the books at the price I suggested, then disowning the deal when Mount appeared in NY to consummate it.

  Whatever actually happened, I’m still interested in buying the books—so, in order to avoid any further confusion, you should let me know in writing just exactly what you have in mind. Once I know that, I’ll crank up something serious on my end. The original proposal, as I recall, was for
a mass-purchase, by me or somebody acting in my behalf & probably with my money, of all remaining copies of F&L in Las Vegas for 22 and a half cents each. I was under the impression that you’d agreed to this, which is why I sent Mount to see you—but the two of you apparently had a communications breakdown, so it will probably take a while to get our figures together again. I assume, however, that my offer will be substantially the same—give or take a penny or so—and I’d like your response in writing ASAP. Thanks.

  4) This one is tricky, and it was actually the real reason for my writing this letter in the first place (I haven’t done a letter this long in 2 years) … but anyway, we now get back to whatever you want me to say about Joe Eszterhas’ book, presumably for use somewhere on the jacket or at least in the advertising. You’ve never told me what you really want, but I assume it’s something like that one Tom Wolfe had on the inside flap of the Vegas book … the one that made Vegas such a fantastic seller … right, you remember that one: “Scorching and Outrageous …” as I recall…. It was a good quote (excerpted from a letter from Tom to me, as an outgrowth of some conversation we’d had earlier in San Francisco about the nature of “new journalism,” and I remember feeling guilty & apologizing to Tom for so obviously putting his words to my own commercial use—or at least what seemed like a commercial use at the time; the fact that we were grossly disabused of that notion very shortly in no way reflects on the spirit of Tom’s original letter).

  Which brings me now to the subject of Joe’s book, and my apparent inability to write a proper sales pitch for it—a problem that has caused me more personal anguish and cost me more friends in the past two years than anything else I can think of. For a while I was getting maybe three or four books a year to read, evaluate & put in a selling capsule of 20 words or less … but in the past six months I’ve been getting on the average of one book a week, and sometimes I get 3 or 4 a week. Just tonight I sent off a handful of unuseable quotes (no publisher has ever used anything I’ve sent, despite the fact that I usually labor and groan over the fuckers) for a book on the McGovern campaign by a girl named Kristi Witker; I also, tonight, sent a letter to some editor who wanted me to endorse a book by Kenneth Anger24 that he hadn’t bothered to send me (he said he’d send me a batch of copies “for my own use” in exchange for a selling blurb); and also, tonight, I sent a guilty letter to a friend of mine who’d sent me the galleys of his girlfriend’s first book, along with a note saying her whole future depended on my publishable comments on her work … but I dashed off a letter calling him a rotten bastard for putting me in that kind of a position and saying I refused to read her book under any circumstances, or any other book he might send in the future.