Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas   ::   Thompson Hunter S.

Las Vegas is not the kind of town where you want to drive down Main Street aiming a black bazooka - looking instrument at people.Turn up the radio. Turn up the tape machine. Look into the sunset up ahead. Roll the windows down for a better taste of the cool desert wind. Ah yes. This is what it’s all about. Total control now. Tooling along the main drag on a Saturday night in Las Vegas, two good old boys in a fireapple - red convertible… stoned, ripped, twisted… Good People.

Great God! What is this terrible music?

“The Battle Hymn of Lieutenant Galley”:

“… as we go marching on

When I reach my final campground, in that land

beyond the sun,

and the Great Commander asks me… ”

»(What did he ask you, Rusty?)

“Did you fight or did you run?”

»(and what did you tell him, Rusty?)

“… We responded to their rifle fire with everything we had… ”

No! I can’t be hearing this! It must be the drug. I glanced over at my attorney, but he was staring up at the sky, and I could see that his brain had gone off to that campground

beyond the sun. Thank christ he can’t hear this music, I thought. It would drive him into a racist frenzy.

Mercifully, the song ended. But my mood was already shattered… and now the fiendish cactus juice took over, plunging me into a sub - human funk as we suddenly came up on the turnoff to the Mint Gun Club. “One mile,” the sign said. But even a mile away I could hear the crackling scream of two - stroke bike engines winding out… and then, coming closer, I heard another sound.

Shotguns! No mistaking that fiat hollow boom.

I stopped the car. What the hell is going on down there?

I rolled up all the windows and eased down the gravel road, hunched low on the wheel… until I saw about a dozen figures pointing shotguns into the air, firing at regular intervals.

Standing on a slab of concrete out here in the mesquite - desert, this scraggly little oasis in a wasteland north of Vegas.. They were clustered, with their shotguns, about fifty yards away from a one - story concrete/block - house, half - shaded by ten or twelve trees and surrounded by cop - cars, bike - trailers and motorcycles.

Of course. The Mint Gun Club! These lunatics weren’t letting anything interfere with their target practice. Here were about a hundred bikers, mechanics and assorted motorsport types milling around in the pit area, signing in for tomorrow’s race, idly sipping beers and appraising each other’s machinery - and right in the middle of all this, oblivious to everything but the clay pigeons flipping out of the traps every five seconds or so, the shotgun people never missed a beat.

Well, why not? I thought. The shooting provided a certain rhythm - sort of a steady bass - line - to the high - pitched chaos of the bike scene. I parked the car and wandered into the crowd, leaving my attorney in his coma.

I bought a beer and watched the bikes checking in. Many

Husquavarnas, high - tuned Swedish fireballs… also Yamahas, Kawasakis, a few 500 Triumphs, Maicos, there a CZ, a Pursang… all very fast, super - light dfrt bikes. No Hogs in this league, not even a Sportster… that would be like entering our Great Red Shark in the dune buggy competition.

Maybe I should do that, I thought. Sign my attorney up as the driver, then send him out to the starting line with a head full of ether and acid. How would they handle it?Nobody would dare go out on the track with a person that crazy. He would roll on the first turn, and take out four or five dune buggies - a Kamikaze trip.

“What’s the entry fee?” I asked the desk - man.

“Two fifty,” he said.

“What if I told you I had a Vincent Black Shadow?”He stared up at me, saying nothing, not friendly. I noticed he was wearing a.38 revolver on his belt. “Forget it,” I said. “My driver’s sick, anyway.”

His eyes narrowed. “Your driver ain’t the only one sick around here, buddy.”

“He has a bone in his throat,” I said.

“What?”

The man was getting ugly, but suddenly his eyes switched away. He was staring at something else

My attorney no longer wearing his Danish sunglasses, no longer wearing his Acapulco shirt… a very crazy looking,half - naked and breathing heavily.

“What’s the trouble here?” he croaked. “This man is my client - Are you prepared to go to court?” grabbed his shoulder and gently spun him around.

“Never “ I said. “It’s the Black Shadow - they won’t accept it.”

“Wait a minute!” he shouted. “What do you mean, they won’t accept it? Have you made a deal with these pigs?”

“Certainly not,” I said, pushing him along toward the gate. “But you notice they’re all armed. We’re the only people here without guns. Can’t you hear that shooting over there?”

He paused, listened for an instant, then suddenly began,running toward the car. “You cocksuckers!” he screamed over his shoulder. “We’ll be back!”

By the time we got the shark back on the highway he was able to talk. “Jesus christ! How did we get mixed up with that gang of psychotic bigots? Let’s get the fuck out of this town. Those scumbags were trying to kill us!



5.Covering the Story… A Glimpse of the Press in Action… Ugliness Failure

The racers were ready at dawn. Fine sunrise over the desert. Very tense. But the race didn’t start until nine, so we had to kill about three long hours in the casino next to the pits, and that’s where the trouble started.

The bar opened at seven. There was also a “koffee donut canteen” in the bunker, but those of us who had been up all night in places like the Circus - Circus were in no mood for coffee donuts. We wanted strong drink. Our tempers were ugly and there were at least two hundred of us, so they opened the bar early. By eight - thirty there were big crowds around the crap - tables. The place was full of noise and drunken shouting.

A boney, middle - aged hoodlum wearing a Harley - Davidson T - shirt boomed up to the bar and yelled: “God damn! What day is this - Saturday?”

“More like Sunday,” somebody replied.

“Hah! That’s a bitch, ain’t it?” the H - D boomer shouted to nobody in particular. “Last night I was out home in Long and somebody said they were runnin’ the Mint 400 so I says to my old lady, ‘Man, I’m goin’.” He laughed.

“So she gives me a lot of crap about it, you know… so I started slappin’ her around and the next thing I knew two guys I never even seen before got me out on the sidewalk workin’ me over. Jesus! They beat me stupid.”

He laughed again, talking into the crowd and not seeming listened.

“Hell yes!” he continued.