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

by Hunter Stockton Thompson

  “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 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 and 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 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 Attorney’s 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 wierd 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 floor-walkers who assume that anybody who acts crazy, but still tips big, must be important-which means he should be hu mored, or at least treated gently.

  But none of this makes any difference with a head full of mescaline. You justblunder 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 wan der 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 cir cles 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 at tention 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 loud the 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 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 muttered. ____ was still raving as they muscled him out to the street.

  The next night, 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.

&nb
sp; 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 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.”

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

  “Don’t worry,” I said. “I’m insured.” I showed him the contract, pointin 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 explain the massive damage. It was finished, a wreck, totaled out. Under normal circumstances I would have been seized and arrested when l tried to turn it in ...but not at this of the morning, with only this kid to deal with. I was, 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 LA. Times. Some where down the corridor a jukebox was playing “One Toke Over the Line.” I listened for a moment, but my nerve ends no longer receptive. The only song I might have been to relate to, at that point, was “Mister Tambourine .” Or maybe “Memphis Blues Again ...

  “Aww, 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 they were looking for me; the net was closing down ...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 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 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 huess you’re probably wonderin’ what make sme sweat like this? Yeah! Well, god damn, man! Have you read the newspapers today? ...You’d never believe what those dirty bastards have doen this time!”

  I figured that would cover it ...But I could’nt find anybody who looked safe enough to talk to. The whole airport was full of people who looked like they might go for my float ing 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 morn ing 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

  EVERYTHING

  seems to be ready.

  Are you Ready?

  Ready?

  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. N ot right here in the middle of the Las Vegas airport, on this sweaty-hard morning at the tail end of this mass meeting on the Narcotics and Dangerous Drugs.

  “When the train ...come in the station ...I looked her in the eye...“

  Grim music in the airport.

  “Yes, it’s hard to tell it’’s hard to tell, when all your love’s in Vain...”

  Every now and then you run up on one of those days when everythings in vain ...a stone bummer from start to finish; if you know what’s good for you, on days like these you sortof hunker down in a safe corner and watch. Maybe think a bit. Lay back on a cheap wooden chair, screened off from traffic, and shrewdly rip the poptops out of five or eight Budweisers ...smoke off a pack of King Marlboros, eat a nut-butter sandwich, and finally toward evening gobble a wad of good mescaline . .. then drive out, later on, to the beach. Get out in the surf, in the fog, and slosh along on numb-frozen feet about ten yards out from the tideline...stomping through tribes of wild sandpeckers ...riderunners, whorehoppers, stupid little birds and crabs and saltsuckershere and there a big pervert or woolly reject gimp off in the distance, wandering alone by themselves behind dunes and driftwood. ...

  These are the ones you will never be properly introduced to—at least not if your luck holds. But the beach is less complicated than a boiling fast morning in the Las Vegas airport.

  I felt very obvious. Amphetamine psychosis? Paranoid dementia?—What i
s it? My Argentine luggage? This crippled, walk that once made me a reject from the Naval ROTC?”

  Indeed. This man will never be able to walk straight, Captain! Because one leg is longer than the other.... Not much. Three eighths of an inch or so, which counted out to about two eights more than the Captain could tolerate.

  So we parted company. He accepted a command in the South China Sea, and I became a Doctor of Gonzo Journalism ...andmany years later, killing time in the Las Vegas airport this terrible morning, I picked up a newspaper and saw where teh Captain had fucked up very badly:

  Ship Commander Butchered by Natives After “Accidental” Assault on Guam.

  (AOP)-Aboard the USS. Crazy Horse: Somewhere in the Pactfic (Sept. 25)-The entire 3485-man crew of this newest American aircraft carrier is in violent mourning today, after five crewmen including the Captain were diced uplike pineapple meat in a brawl with the Heroin Police at the neutral port of Hong See. Dr. Bboor, the ship’s chaplain, presided over tense funeral services at dawn on the flight deck. The 4th Fleet Service Choir sang “Tom Thumb’s Blues” ... and then, while the ship’s bells tolled frantically, the remains of the five were set afire in a gourd and hurled into the Pacific by a hooded officer known only as “The Commander.” Shortly after the services ended, the crewmen fell to fighting among themselves and all communications with the ship were severed for an indefinite period. Official spokesmen at 4th Fleet Headquarters on Guam said the Navy had “no comment” on the situation, pending the re sults of a top-level investigation by a team of civilian specialists headed by former New Orleans district attor ney James Garrison.

  ... Why bother with newspapers, if this is all they offer? Agnew was right. The press is a gang of cruel faggots. Journalism is not a profession or a trade. It is a cheap catch-all for fuckoffs and misfits—a false doorway to the backside of life, a filthy piss-ridden little hole nailed off by the building inspector, but just deep enough for a wine to curl up from the sidewalk and masturbate like a chimp in a zoo-cage.