Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas and Other American Stories

by Hunter S. Thompson

  But what kind of addict would need all these coconut husks and crushed honeydew rinds? Would the presence of junkies account for all these uneaten french fries? These puddles of glazed catsup on the bureau?

  Maybe so. But then why all this booze? And these crude pornographic photos, ripped out of pulp magazines like Whores of Sweden and Orgies in the Casbah, that were plastered on the broken mirror with smears of mustard that had dried to a hard yellow crust . . . and all these signs of violence, these strange red and blue bulbs and shards of broken glass embedded in the wall plaster . . .

  No; these were not the hoofprints of your normal, godfearing junkie. It was far too savage, too aggressive. There was evidence, in this room, of excessive consumption of almost every type of drug known to civilized man since 1544 A.D. It could only be explained as a montage, a sort of exaggerated medical exhibit, put together very carefully to show what might happen if twenty-two serious drug felons—each with a different addiction—were penned up together in the same room for five days and nights, without relief.

  Indeed. But of course that would never happen in Real Life, gentlemen. We just put this thing together for demonstration purposes . . .

  Suddenly the phone was ringing, jerking me out of my fantasy stupor. I looked at it. Riiiinnnnnggggggg . . . Jesus, what now? Is this it? I could almost hear the shrill voice of the Manager, Mr. Heem, saying the police were on their way up to my room and would I please not shoot through the door when they began kicking it down.

  Riinnnngggg . . . No, they wouldn’t call first. Once they decided to take me, they would probably set an ambush in the elevator: first Mace, then a gang-swarm. It would come with no warning.

  So I picked up the phone. It was my friend Bruce Innes, calling from the Circus-Circus. He had located the man who wanted to sell the ape I’d been inquiring about. The price was $750.

  “What kind of a greedhead are we dealing with?” I said. “Last night it was four hundred.”

  “He claims he just found out it was housebroken,” said Bruce. “He let it sleep in the trailer last night, and the thing actually shit in the shower stall.”

  “That doesn’t mean anything,” I said. “Apes are attracted to water. Next time it’ll shit in the sink.”

  “Maybe you should come down and argue with the guy,” said Bruce. “He’s here in the bar with me. I told him you really wanted the ape and that you could give it a fine home. I think he’ll negotiate. He’s really attached to the stinking thing. It’s here in the bar with us, sitting up on a goddamn stool, slobbering into a beer schooner.”

  “Okay,” I said. “I’ll be there in ten minutes. Don’t let the bastard get drunk. I want to meet him under natural conditions.”

  When I got to the Circus-Circus they were loading an old man into an ambulance outside the main door. “What happened?” I asked the car-keeper.

  “I’m not sure,” he said. “Somebody said he had a stroke. But I noticed the back of his head was all cut up.” He slid into the Whale and handed me a stub. “You want me to save your drink for you?” he asked, holding up a big glass of tequila that was on the seat of the car. “I can put it in the cooler if you want.”

  I nodded. These people were familiar with my habits. I had been in and out of the place so often, with Bruce and the other band members, that the car-keepers knew me by name—although I’d never introduced myself, and nobody had ever asked me. I just assumed it was all part of the gig here; that they’d probably rifled the glove compartment and found a notebook with my name on it.

  The real reason, which didn’t occur to me at the time, was that I was still wearing my ID/badge from the District Attorneys’ Conference. It was dangling from the pocket-flap of my multi-colored bird-shooting jacket, but I’d long since forgotten about it. No doubt they all assumed I was some kind of super-weird undercover agent . . . or maybe not; maybe they were just humoring me because they figured anybody crazy enough to pose as a cop while driving around Vegas in a white Cadillac convertible with a drink in his hand almost had to be Heavy, and perhaps even dangerous. In a scene where nobody with any ambition is really what he appears to be, there’s not much risk in acting like a king-hell freak. The overseers will nod wisely at each other and mutter about “these goddamn no-class put-ons.”

  The other side of that coin is the “Goddamn! Who’s that?” syndrome. This comes from people like doormen and floorwalkers who assume that anybody who acts crazy, but still tips big, must be important—which means he should be humored, or at least treated gently.

  But none of this makes any difference with a head full of mescaline. You just blunder around, doing anything that seems to be right, and it usually is. Vegas is so full of natural freaks—people who are genuinely twisted—that drugs aren’t really a problem, except for cops and the scag syndicate. Psychedelics are almost irrelevant in a town where you can wander into a casino any time of the day or night and witness the crucifixion of a gorilla—on a flaming neon cross that suddenly turns into a pinwheel, spinning the beast around in wild circles above the crowded gambling action.

  I found Bruce at the bar, but there was no sign of the ape. “Where is it?” I demanded. “I’m ready to write a check. I want to take the bastard back home on the plane with me. I’ve already reserved two first-class seats—R. Duke and Son.”

  “Take him on the plane?”

  “Hell yes,” I said. “You think they’d say anything? Call attention to my son’s infirmities?”

  He shrugged. “Forget it,” he said. “They just took him away. He attacked an old man right here at the bar. The creep started hassling the bartender about ‘allowing barefoot rabble in the place’ and just about then the ape let out a shriek—so the old guy threw a beer at him, and the ape went crazy, came out of his seat like a jack-in-the-box and took a big bite out of the old man’s head . . . the bartender had to call an ambulance, then the cops came and took the ape away.”

  “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’d 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 for the sake of some violent ape I’d never even met. For all I knew, he’d 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 couldn’t afford to wait around.

  “When are you taking off?” Bruce asked.

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

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

  I nodded. “We’re sitting on the main nerve right now,” 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 have a talk with him, but some heavy-sounding dyke who claimed to be his Executive Secretary told me to fuck off. She said he hates the press worse than anything else in America.”

  “Him and Spiro Agnew,” Bruce muttered.

  “They’re both right,” I said. “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, but if I were you I’d take it that way. . . .’”

  Bruce nodded. The Boss was paying him a thousand bucks a week t
o work two sets a night in the Leopard Lounge, and another 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 gibberish, hitting on Bruce about “What kind of nerve does a goddamn Canadian have to come down here and insult this country?”

  “Say man,” I said. “I’m an American. 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 influence 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 muttered. —— was still raving as they muscled him out to the street.

  The next night, in another restaurant, The Astronaut was scarfing up his chow—stone sober—when a fourteen-year-old boy approached the table to ask for his autograph. —— acted coy for a 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 speechless. 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 said a word. They ate quickly, and left without tipping.

  So much for Aspen and astronauts. —— would never have that kind of trouble in Las Vegas.

  A little bit of this town goes a very long way. After five days 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.

  * Name deleted at insistence of publisher’s lawyer.

  13.

  End of the Road . . . Death of the Whale . . . Soaking Sweats in the Airport

  When I tried to sit down at the baccarat table the bouncers put 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 catch 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 sitting at a table in the floating bar.

  I shrugged. “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 Vegas wearing one black glove.”

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

  I shrugged. “He moves around pretty fast,” I said. “His orders come out of St. Louis.”

  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 over 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 totally 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 garbage 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 terrible 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.”

  The kid was none too bright. His face had gone blank early on, and now he seemed in a state of mute fear.

  “Don’t worry,” I said. “I’m insured.” I showed him the contract, pointing to the small-print clause where it said I was insured against all damages, for only two dollars a day.

  The kid was still nodding when I fled. I felt a bit guilty about leaving him to deal with the car. There was no way to explain the massive damage. It was finished, a wreck, totaled out. Under normal circumstances I would have been seized and arrested when I tried to turn it in . . . but not at this hour of the morning, with only this kid to deal with. I was, after all, a “VIP.” Otherwise, they would never have chartered the car to me in the first place. . . .

  Let the chickens come home to roost, I thought as I hurried into the airport. It was still too early to act normal, so I hunkered down in the coffee shop behind the L.A. Times. Somewhere down the corridor a jukebox was playing “One Toke Over the Line.” I listened for a moment, but my nerve ends were no longer receptive. The only song I might have been able to relate to, at that point, was “Mister Tambourine Man.” Or maybe “Memphis Blues Again. . . .”

  “Awww, mama . . . can this really . . . be the end . . . ?”

  My plane left at eight, which meant I had two hours to kill. Feeling desperately visible. There was no doubt in my mind that they were looking for me; the net was closing down . . . it was only a matter of time before they ran me down like some kind of rabid animal.

  I checked all my luggage through the chute. All but the leather satchel, which was full of drugs. And the .357. Did they have the goddamn metal detector system in this airport? I strolled around to the boarding gate and tried to look casual while I cased the area for black boxes. None were visible. I decided to take the chance—just zip through the gate with a big smile on my face, mumbling distractedly about “a bad slump in the hardware market. . . .”

  Just another failed salesman checking out.
Blame it all on that bastard Nixon. Indeed. I decided it might look more natural if I found somebody to chat with—a routine line of small talk, between passengers:

  “Hy’re yew, fella! I guess you’re probably wonderin’ what makes me sweat like this? Yeah! Well, god damn, man! Have you read the newspapers today? . . . You’d never believe what those dirty bastards have done this time!”

  I figured that would cover it . . . but I couldn’t find anybody who looked safe enough to talk to. The whole airport was full of people who looked like they might go for my floating rib if I made a false move. I felt very paranoid . . . like some kind of criminal skullsucker on the lam from Scotland Yard.

  Everywhere I looked I saw Pigs . . . because on that morning the Las Vegas airport was full of cops: the mass exodus after the climax of the District Attorneys’ Conference. When I finally put this together I felt much better about the health of my own brain . . .

  Well, why not? This is a heavy day in Vegas. A thousand cops are checking out of town, scurrying through the airport in groups of three and six. They are heading back home. The drug conference is finished. The Airport Lounge is humming . with mean talk and bodies. Short beers and Bloody Marys, here and there a victim of chest rash rubbing Mexsana under the armpit straps of a thick shoulder holster. No point hiding this business any longer. Let it all hang out . . . or at least get some air to it.

  Yes, thank you kindly . . . I think I busted a button on my trousers. I hope they don’t fall down. You don’t want my trousers to fall down now, do you?

  Fuck no. Not today. Not right here in the middle of the Las Vegas airport, on this sweaty-hard morning at the tail end of this mass meeting on Narcotics and Dangerous Drugs.