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Fear And Loathing In Las Vegas. A Savage Journey To The Heart Of The American Dream By Hunter S. Thompson

“What kind of a greedhead are we dealing with here?” 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 noght, and the thing actually shiot 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 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.”

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