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e were somewhere around Barstow on the edge of the desert when the drugs began to take hold. Press registration for the fabulous Mint 400 was already underway, and we had to get there by four to claim our soundproof suite. "Because in spite of his race, this man is extremely valuable to me." I glanced over at my attorney, but his mind was somewhere else. We had actually been sitting there in the Polo Lounge – for many hours – drinking Singapore Slings with mescal on the side and beer chasers. The dwark approached our table cautiously, as I recall, and when he handed me the pink telephone I said nothing, merely listened. "You're going to need plenty of legal advice before this thing is over," he said. "This blows my weekend, because naturally I'll have to go with you – and we'll have to arm ourselves.""Why not? "If a thing like this is worth doing at all, it's worth doing right. "The new model is something like two thousand cubic inches, developing 200 brake horsepower at 4000 revolutions per minute on a magnesium frame with two styrofoam seats and a total curb weight of exactly 200 pounds.""It is," I assured him. She had no idea who I was, she said, and by that time I was pouring sweat. "This won't make the nut," he said, "unless we have unlimited credit."I assured him we would. "You have no faith in the essential decency of the white man's culture. For all I knew, the whole spectacle had been aborted by a terrible riot – an orgy of senseless violence, kicked off by drunken hoodlums who refused to abide by the rules. He told me last night that he meant to catch the first flight. and here I am, with no attorney, slumped on a red plastic stool in Wild Bill's Tavern, nervously sipping a Budweiser in a bar just coming awake to an early morning rush of pimps and pinball hustlers ... How many more nights and weird mornings can this terrible shit go on? What kind of rat-bastard psychotic would play me behind these mirrors? and suddenly it occurs to me, some final flash of lunatic shrewdness before the darkness closes in, that my legal/hotel checkout time is not until Wonderful luck. Which is not really a hell of a lot to ask, Lord, because the final incredible truth is that I am not guilty. This is the moment of truth, that fine and fateful line between control and disaster – which is also the difference between staying loose and weird on the streets, or spending the next five years of summer mornings playing basketball in the yard at Carson City. maybe chalk it off to forced Tune in, freak out, get beaten. and then he will start apologizing, begging for mercy. Mash it down and make the bastard chase you at speeds up to 120 all the way to the next exit. But he won't know what to make of your blinker-signal that says you're about to turn right. "I've been out in Las Vegas covering the Mint 400." I pointed to the "VIP Parking" sticker on the windshield. "All those bikes and dune buggies crashing around the desert for two days. "He smiled, shaking his head with a sort of melancholy understanding. How many off-duty hours would he have to spend hanging around the courthouse, waiting to testify against me? for driving too fast for conditions, and advised you ... I remember saying something like "I feel a bit lightheaded; maybe you should drive. "Fear and Loathing on the Campaign Trail Then it was quiet again. It was almost noon, and we still had more than 100 miles to go. Very soon, I knew, we would both be completely twisted. A fashionable sporting magazine in New York had taken care of the reservations, along with this huge red Chevy convertible we'd just rented off a lot on the Sunset Strip ... I whacked the back of the driver's seat with my fist. The kid in the back looked like he was ready to jump right out of the car and take his chances. "And my first advice is that you should rent a very fast car with no top and get the hell out of L. We'll need some decent equipment and plenty of cash on the line – if only for drugs and a super-sensitive tape recorder, for the sake of a permanent record.""What kind of a story is this? "It's the richest off-the-road race for motorcycles and dune-buggies in the history of organized sport – a fantastic spectacle in honor of some fatback named Del Webb, who owns the luxurious Mint Hotel in the heart of downtown Las Vegas ... "The fucker's not much for turning, but it's pure hell on the straightaway. My blood is too thick for California: I have never been able to properly explain myself in this climate. Jesus, just one hour ago we were sitting over there in that stinking bagnio, stone broke and paralyzed for the weekend, when a call comes through from some total stranger in New York, telling me to go to Las Vegas and expenses be damned – and then he sends me over to some office in Beverly Hills where another total stranger gives me 0 raw cash for no reason at all ... I wanted to plug this gap in my knowledge at the earliest opportunity: Pick up the L. Times and scour the sports section for a Mint 400 story. with a huge red shark just outside the door so full of felonies that I'm afraid to even look at it. The only hope is to somehow get it across 300 miles of open road between here and Sanctuary. This is not even the story I was supposed to be working on. All signs were negative – especially that evil dwark with the pink telephone in the Polo Lounge. anything but that fucking thing on the jukebox just now? How long can the body and the brain this doom-struck craziness? A very popular song: "Like a bridge over troubled waters ... All bartenders are treacherous, but this one is a surly middle-aged fat woman wearing a muu-muu and Iron Boy overalls ... Jesus, bad waves of paranoia, madness, fear and loathing – intolerable vibrations in this place. By the time the alarm goes off, I can be running full bore somewhere between Needles and Death Valley – jamming the accelerator through the floorboard and shaking my fist up at Efrem Zimbalist Jr. Those goddamn treacherous maids will swear they were menaced by two heavily-armed crazies who threatened them with a Vincent Black Shadow unless they gave up all their soap. All I did was take your gibberish Creeping through the casino at in the morning with a suitcase full of grapefruit and "Mint 400" T-shirts, I remember telling myself, over and over again, "you are not guilty." This is merely a necessary expedient, to avoid a nasty scene. The possibility of physical and mental collapse is very real now. This is to let him know you're looking for a proper place to pull off and talk ... His brain will be in a turmoil: he may begin jabbering, or even pull his gun. The idea is to show him that you were always in total control of yourself and your vehicle – while lost control of everything. And what kind of monster lawyer would I bring in to work out on him? The crowd melted with a "Poor Bill—God rest his soul! Such accidents were not infrequent; each man might thank his stars it was not he who lay cooling down below.And so, since no more washdirt would be raised from this hole, the party that worked it made off for the nearest grog-shop, to wet their throats to the memory of the dead, and to discuss future plans.

The trunk of the car looked like a mobile police narcotics lab. "He nodded again, but his eyes were nervous."I want you to have all the background," I said. How else can you cover a thing like this righteously? We'd be fools not to ride this strange torpedo all the way out to the end." do it.""Right," I said. To etting hold of the drugs had been no problem, but the car and the tape recorder were not easy things to round up at on a Friday afternoon in Hollywood. small blue veins gone amok in front of the ears, 60 and 70 hours with no sleep. The maids won't come near that room as long as that sign is on a doorknob. I recognize this feeling: three or four days of booze, drugs, sun, no sleep and burned out adrenalin reserves – a giddy, quavering sort of high that means the crash is coming. and the trick, at this point, is to suddenly leave the freeway and take him into the chute at no less than 100 miles an hour. I had one of these – but I also had a can of Budweiser in my hand. I'd forgotten all about them, but now they were too obvious for either one of us to ignore. I stared at him, seeing for the first time that I was dealing with a bright-eyed young sport, around 30, who was apparently enjoying his work. "I get the feeling you could use a nap." He nodded. Why don't you pull over and sleep a few hours?

The digger fell forward on his face, his ribs jammed across his pick, his arms pinned to his sides, nose and mouth pressed into the sticky mud as into a mask; and over his defenceless body, with a roar that burst his ear-drums, broke stupendous masses of earth.

His mates at the windlass went staggering back from the belch of violently discharged air: it tore the wind-sail to strips, sent stones and gravel flying, loosened planks and props.

We had two bags of grass, 75 pellets of mescaline, five sheets of high-powered blotter acid, a salt shaker half full of cocaine, and a whole galaxy of multi-colored uppers, downers, screamers, laughers ... "Because this is a very ominous assignment – with overtones of extreme personal danger. I already had one car, but it was far too small and slow for desert work. What's going on in this country when a scum-sucker like that can get away with sandbagging a doctor of journalism? My attorney saw to that – along with 600 bars of Neutrogena soap that I still have to deliver to Malibu. He will lock his brakes about the same time you lock yours, but it will take him a moment to realize that he's about to make a 180-degree turn at this speed ... Until that moment, I was unaware that I was holding it. but when I looked down and saw that little red/silver evidence-bomb in my hand, I knew I was fucked. Speeding is one thing, but Drunk Driving is quite another. Because we both understood, in that moment, that my Thunder Road, moonshine-bomber act had been totally wasted: We had both scared the piss out of ourselves for nothing at all – because the fact of this beer can in my hand made any argument about "speeding" beside the point. My guilt was so gross and overwhelming that explanations were useless. "You realize," he said, "that it's a crime to ...""Yeah," I said. "I instantly understood what he was telling me, but for some insane reason I shook my head. "I've been awake for too long – three or four nights; I can't even remember.

and also a quart of tequila, a quart of rum, a case of Budweiser, a pint of raw ether and two dozen amyls. "Because I want you to know that we're on our way to Las Vegas to find the American Dream." I smiled. We went to a Polynesian bar, where my attorney made 17 calls before locating a convertible with adequate horsepower and proper coloring."Hang onto it," I heard him say into the phone. "What the fuck are we My attorney hunched around to face the hitchhiker. " His feet hit the asphalt and he started running back towards Baker. but you will be for it, braced for the Gs and the fast heel-toe work, and with any luck at all you will have come to a complete stop off the road at the top of the turn and be standing beside your automobile by the time he catches up. The cop seemed to grasp this – that I'd blown my whole performance by forgetting the beer can. He accepted my open wallet with his left hand, then extended his right toward the beer can. If I go to sleep now, I'm dead for 20 hours." him?