Hell’s Angels. A Strange and Terrible. Saga by Hunter S. Thompson

What would a jury make of that one — presuming they could know all the facts, circumstances and ramifications? If the girl was raped why didn’t she protest or ask somebody for help? The Angels were vastly outnumbered, and it was not the sort of party they would have wanted to break up for the sake of a would-be mama. There was plenty of action around, and if anybody had protested the gang-bang the outlaws would have called it off. But nobody seemed bothered, and one or two of the non-Angel guests finally joined in. The girl had several chances to leave the party and call the police, but that was out of the question. Girls who get turned out at Hell’s Angels parties don’t think of police in terms of protection.

But sex is only one aspect of rape’s broader definition. The word derives from the Latin rapere, to take by force ; and according to Webster, the contemporary translation ranges from (1) the crime of having sexual intercourse with a woman or girl forcibly and without her consent to (2) the act of seizing and carrying away by force or (3) to plunder or destroy, as in war­fare. So the Hell’s Angles, by several definitions, including their own, are working rapists. . . and in this downhill half of our twentieth century they are not so different from the rest of us as they sometimes seem. They are only more obvious.

18

Now Bonnie and Clyde are the Barrow Gang

I’m sure you all have read

How they rob and steal,

And how those who squeal

Are usually found dying or dead.

There are lots of untruths to their write-ups,

They are not so merciless as that;

They hate all the laws,

The stool pigeons, spotters and rats.

They class them as cold-blooded killers,

They say they are heartless and mean.

But I say this with pride,

That I once knew Clyde

When he was honest and upright and clean.

— Bonnie Parker, who had nine

notches on her pistol when Texas

police finally did her in

Day Night–

Whoever crashed; he painted burnt

But!!!!

One day he crashed and —

was burnt —

and was also painted

But!!!!!!

Now he’s off and running —

Strong —

He doesn’t hold a grudge

But PLEASE don’t get him wrong

Because if you CRASH

It will certainly be your ass!

— Poem found on a wall at a Hell’s Angels party

Nobody was raped at Willow Cove. The lack of strange broads drove most of the outlaws to drunken despair, and by the time I decided to sleep that night there wasn’t a sober human being in the camp. More than half of the fifty or so outlaws still standing around the bonfire had lost all contact with reality. Some just stood like zombies and stared vacantly at the flames. Others would brood for a while, then suddenly begin shouting gibberish, which echoed across the lake like the screaming of many loons. Now and then a cherry bomb would go off in the fire, blasting sparks and embers in all directions.

Before I went under, I made sure to lock the car doors and roll the windows up far enough so that nobody could reach in. The Angels are hell on people who pass out at parties, and one of their proudest traditions is the sleepless first night of any run. Several times when I was looking for somebody I was told, He’s hiding to crash. For a while I thought the term had something to do with an overdose of brain-ticklers — the maddened victim having slunk off in the woods like a sick animal, to ride out his delirium without disturbing the others. But crashing means nothing more sinister than going on the nod, either from booze or simple fatigue. When this happens — if the unfortunate has not found a safe hiding place — the others will immediately begin tormenting him. The most common penalty for crashing is the urine shower; those still on their feet gather quietly around the sleeper and soak him from head to foot. Other penalties are more sophisticated. Mouldy Marvin is widely admired for his work on crashers. He once wired Terry the Tramp to an electrical outlet, then soaked his Levi’s with beer and plugged him in. Jimmy from Oakland, one of the quieter Angels, recalls crashing on a run to Sacramento and being set on fire. The bastards painted my glasses black, wrote all over me with lipstick and then burned me, he says with a grin. Magoo once woke up at a party to find himself hand­cuffed, clamped in leg irons, and two burning matchbooks in his lap. I begged somebody to piss on me, he said, Man, I was on fire!