Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas

We were somewhere around Barstow, on the edge of the desert,

when the drugs began to take hold.

I remember saying something like...

I feel a bit lightheaded. Maybe you should drive.

Suddenly there was a terrible roar all around us.

And the sky was full of what looked like huge bats.

All swooping and screeching and diving around the car.

And a voice was screaming...

Holy Jesus! What are these goddamn animals?

- You say something? - Hmm?

Never mind.

It's your turn to drive.

"No point in mentioning these bats", I thought.

The poor bastard will see them soon enough.

Fucking pigs! Flying!

All right, let's see.

We had two bags of grass, 75 pellets of mescaline,

five sheets of high-powered blotter acid, a salt shaker half full of cocaine,

a whole galaxy of multicolored uppers, downers, screamers, laughers.

Also, a quart of tequila, a quart of rum,

a case of beer, a pint of raw ether...

- Shit! - Two dozen amyls.

Not that we needed all that for the trip,

but once you get locked into a serious drug collection,

the tendency is to push it as far as you can.

The only thing that really worried me was the ether.

There is nothing in the world more helpless and irresponsible and depraved

than a man in the depths of an ether binge,

and I knew we'd get into that rotten stuff pretty soon.

A House subcommittee report says,

illegal drugs killed 160 American GIs last year, 40 of them in Vietnam.

Drugs...

One toke, man!

One toke, you poor fool?

Wait till you see those goddamned bats, man.

- Let's give that boy a lift. - What? No!

Wait! We can't stop here. This is bat country.

Hot damn! I never rode in a convertible before!

Is that right?

Well, I guess you're about ready then, aren't you?

We're your friends.

We're not like the others, man. Really.

No more of that talk or I'll put the fucking leeches on you, understand?

Get in.

"How long could we maintain," I wondered.

How long before one of us starts raving and jabbering at this boy?

What will he think then?

This same lonely desert was the last known home of the Manson family.

Will he make that grim connection

when my attorney starts screaming about bats

and huge manta rays coming down on the car?

If so, well, we'll just have to cut his head off and bury him somewhere.

Cos it goes without saying that we can't turn him loose.

He'd report us at once

to some kind of outback Nazi law enforcement agency

and they'll run us down like dogs.

Jesus, did I say that?

Or just think it?

Was I talking? Did they hear me?

It's OK. Just admiring the shape of your skull.

No, thanks!

"Maybe I'd better have a chat with this boy," I thought.

I have asthma.

Perhaps if I explain things, he'll rest easy.

All right, listen.

There's one thing you should probably understand.

Can you hear me? Good.

- I want you to have all the background. - Ooh...

This is a very ominous assignment with overtones of extreme personal danger.

I'm a Doctor of Journalism, man.

This is important, goddamn it! This is a fucking true story!

Shit! Hey, what're you doing? Sit down. Get the fuck...

Get your hands off my fucking head!

Now, now, now.

Our vibrations were getting nasty, but why?

Was there no communication in this car?

Had we deteriorated to the level of dumb beasts?

I want you to understand that this man at the wheel is my attorney.

He's not just some dingbat I found on the Strip, man.

He's a foreigner.

I think he's probably Samoan.

It doesn't matter, though, does it?

- Are you prejudiced? - Hell, no.

I didn't think so.

Because in spite of his race, this man is extremely valuable to me.

Oh, shit. I forgot about the beer. You want some?

- No. - How about some ether?

- What? - Never mind.

All right, let's get right to the heart of this thing.

24 hours ago, we were sitting...

in the Pogo Lounge of the Beverly Heights Hotel.

In the patio section, of course.

Drinking Singapore Slings with mescal on the side.

Hiding from the brutish realities of this foul year of our Lord, 1971.

Cops were going apeshit...

Perhaps this is the call you've been waiting for all this time, sir.

Perhaps.

Yeah?

Mm-hmm.

Mmm. Really? All right. Yeah?

Oh, yeah, yeah. Oh, yeah. OK, bye.

That was headquarters. They want me to...

Thank you.

They want me to go to Las Vegas at once.

Make contact with a Portuguese photographer named Lacerda.

He'll have all the details.

All I have to do is check into my soundproof suite.

He'll seek me out. What do you think?

Sounds like real trouble.

You're gonna need plenty of legal advice before this thing is over.

Oh, yeah.

As your attorney, I advise you to rent a very fast car with no top.

And you'll need the cocaine.

Tape recorder for special music.

Acapulco shirts.

Get the hell out of LA for at least 48 hours.

- Blows my weekend. - Why?

Cos, naturally, I'm gonna have to go with you.

And we're gonna have to arm ourselves to the teeth.

Well, why not?

I mean, if a thing's worth doing, it's worth doing right, huh?

This is the American Dream in action.

Wait!

Shit, we'd be fools not to ride this strange torpedo all the way out to the end.

Indeed. We must do it.

What kind of story is this?

It's the Mint 400.

The richest off-road race for motorcycles and dune buggies

in the history of organized sport.

It's a fantastic spectacle in honor of some fatback grosero,

who owns the luxurious Mint Hotel in downtown Las Vegas.

At least that's what the press release says, anyway.

Well, as your attorney, I advise you to buy a motorcycle.

How else can you cover a thing like this righteously?

Well, we're gonna have to drum it up on our own.

Pure Gonzo journalism.

Shit!

Getting hold of the drugs and shirts had been no problem.

But the car and tape recorder were not easy things to round up

at 6:30 on a Friday afternoon in Hollywood.

Sounds beautiful. Great, hang on to it.

Fucking A, the gentleman has a major credit card!

That's right, man. Don't take any guff from these fucking swine.

I just got through saying that. Do you realise who the fuck you're talking to?

- Right. - Do you?

Be over in 30 minutes.

We're gonna need a sound store.

We won't make the nut unless we have unlimited credit.

Jesus Christ. We will, man.

You Samoans are all the same.

You have no faith in the essential decency of the white man's culture.

The store was closed.

But the salesman said he could wait if we hurry.

But we were delayed en route

when a Stingray in front of us killed a pedestrian.

We had trouble again with the car rental agency.

Hey, Mr Duke, we're all settled.

If I could just get your John Hancock, you're on your way.

Yeah.

Er... listen, you're gonna be real careful with this car, right?

- Oh, yeah, man. Of course. - Good. Jeez!

No, no, no!

Holy smokes!

You just backed over... a two-foot concrete abutment, you didn't even slow down.

What were you going about, I don't know, 45 miles an hour backwards?

- Hey. - There's no harm done.

Oh?

I always test the transmission that way, the rear end for stress factors.

Boy, this is really a nice pen, man.

Hey, er... listen, you...

You fellows haven't been... drinking, have you?

- No. Not me. - Oh.

We're responsible people.

Hey, hey, hey! Goddamn it, you've got my pen!

Goddamn hippies!

We spent the rest of that night rounding up materials and packing the car.

Then we ate some mescaline and went swimming.

Our trip was different.

It was to be a classic affirmation

of everything right and true in the national character.

A gross physical salute to the fantastic possibilities of life in this country.

But only for those with true grit.

And we are chock full of that, man.

Damn right!

My attorney understands this concept, despite his racial handicap.

But do you?

He said he understood, but I could see in his eyes that he didn't.

He was lying to me.

- Medicine! - What?

- Medicine! - Medicine?

Oh, yeah, medicine. Right. Right here.

Don't worry. This man has a bad heart.

Angina pectoris.

But we have a cure for it. Here you go.

All right.

Big whiff. Big whiff. Big whiff, sonny boy.

There you go. Much better.

Now for the doctor.

What the...?

What the fuck are we doing out here in the middle of the desert?