Hunter Thompson - Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas. Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas, or a wild journey into the heart of the American Dream Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas novel

Hunter Thompson

Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas:

A Wild Journey into the Heart of the American Dream

He who becomes a beast gets rid of the pain of being a man.

Dr. Samuel Johnson

Preface

The first two chapters from “Fear and Loathing” were published in the magazine “Ptyuch” (No. 9, 1998). Unfortunately, “Ptyuch” remained true to itself - the copyright of the author, as well as the name of the translator, were not included, despite the fact that this was the first publication of an excerpt from Hunter Thompson’s novel in Russia (the translation of which was done in 1995 under the same conditions , in which the novel itself was created - the translation was read into a tape recorder during the mescaline-fueled car rally of Alex Curvey and Mike Wallace through English cities). In the October issue, the editors of Ptyuch made a kind of apology, advertising the upcoming (at the beginning of next year) release of the book in Russian with original illustrations by Ralph Steadman in the newly created, first alternative (in today's politically correct times) publishing house in Russia, Tough Press. “The underworld is great, but there is nowhere to retreat,” Georgy Osipov noted about this (and many others).

Photo of the fat chief editor of "Ptyuch" I. Shulinsky, frozen with a typewriter in the pose of Johnny Depp, who played the role of Hunter Thompson in Terry Guillaume's film "Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas" - no comments... "Gonzo" is becoming fashionable in Russia. “We wrote a lot about the last film in this issue,” writes Shulinsky. “We hunted the beast together!” - the lapdog said to the wolfhounds. The late Anton Okhotnikov is not mentioned, fragments from whose work on Hunter Thompson were used by Ptyuch - read “The Great Shark Hunt” (pp. 26–27 in the magazine issue). As for Alex Kervey, one of the members of the international artistic “Johnson Family” community TRI (which, as one of the projects, actually includes “Tough Press” in Russia), then, apparently, his “bad” international track record is dragging him down - several mysterious arrests and an even larger number of detentions on various occasions, from which he inexplicably managed to extricate himself).

This is not surprising - all mortal sins are now gradually beginning to be blamed on TRI members - aiding international terrorism (Mike Wallace [naturally, this is a pseudonym] and the legendary Doctor, who made several plastic surgery, are still being sought in this regard all over the world by all and sundry), connections with the Nazis (TRI is also called the “Artistic Ahnenerbe”), British, American and Israeli (!!!) intelligence services, drug mafia (global legalization of drugs?! !!), close contacts with Masonic organizations, propaganda of Satanism (???!!!), aiding shadow hackers, etc. And the accusation of eliminating the skinny rat Lady Di (???!!!), collaboration with the homosexual mafia (community?) looks like a completely innocent act in the activities of TRI. Someone talks about " global conspiracy liberals who, with the help of drugs and inhuman music, are trying to undermine the foundations of Western civilization" (director Paul Morrisey), others talk about a conspiracy of the "young English aristocracy" (including the artistic one). It's good that TRI has not yet been accused of discrediting their connections with aliens and mythical underground civilization Vril-Ya - here you can’t avoid the “Zombies hanging by the balls” situation.

American anthropological evangelists believe that the Beast will come precisely from Russia. Well, they will get the Beast from there (where does Aslan come from?), and then go and figure out which of them knew theology better. “We must be the embodiment of absolute evil for the Enemy and his softie slaves - that is, ourselves. This is required by honor and loyalty to the power of our hoary antiquity. Be the Romeo who kills Tybalt while remaining faithful to Juliet” (Garik Osipov).

AK jumps out one January night in Croydon with a black diplomat from the service passage of a building owned by a British corporation. Moments before, he knocks out front door, despite the noise alarm being turned on, he gets to one office, knocks down the door there and takes something. The police meet him at the door. “Did you do this?” - they ask. “Yes, I am,” AK replies. “On what basis?” “This was done in the interests of several states; I refuse to answer further questions.” "Follow us." At the station, police and other characters (from cartoons?) search a diplomat - it contains a healthy animal tooth. And nothing more. "What is this?" - the question follows. Answer: “Bear tooth.” This is the 13th century. The golden age of the Great Emperor and his bastard descendants. Be very careful. This is a unique thing of its kind." “So let’s write it down like this – a valuable bear tooth?” “Or a wolf... It’s better to simply write down - a valuable tooth”... “Against-nickname...”, - suddenly one of those present said in Russian... “Did you try to break into the doors of the building the night before?” - he continued in English. “No, it’s probably other pro-tiv-ni-ki. However, let’s put off all explanations until the morning,” answered A-Kay. Just two hours later, without any explanation, he was released from the station with a briefcase containing the tooth. The next day, a certain R. from Canterbury, quite famous in musical circles (and not only), asked him: “So what did you do at the Full Moon Party in the Ark?”...

I wrote a story in blood - Full Moon Party.

I couldn’t believe a lot of things until I became acquainted with unique tape recordings at different authorities (let’s say this delicately). “Yes, damn it,” I thought, “Our day will come & we`ll have everything.” (song by Frankie Wiley and “Seasons”)

V. B. Shulgin

Part one

We were somewhere on the edge of the desert, not far from Barstow, when it began to cover us. I remember mumbled something like: “I feel like I’m a little sick; maybe you can drive?...” And suddenly terrible screams were heard from all sides, and the sky was filled with some grunts, similar to huge bats, rushed down, squealing shrilly, diving at the car rushing at a hundred miles per hour straight to Las Vegas. Vegas. And someone’s voice cried out: “Lord Jesus! Where did these damn creatures come from?”

Then everything became quiet again. My lawyer took off his shirt and poured beer on his chest - for a better tan. “Why the hell are you yelling like that?” - he muttered, staring at the sun with his eyes closed, hidden behind round Spanish dark glasses. “Never mind it,” I said. “It’s your turn to lead.” And, slamming on the brakes, he stopped the Great Red Shark on the side of the highway. “There’s no point in mentioning these bats,” I thought. “The poor bastard will see them in the flesh soon enough.”

It was almost noon and we still had over a hundred miles to go. Harsh miles. I knew that time was running out, we would both be pulled apart in a moment so that the skies would become hot. But there was no turning back, and no time to rest. Let's get it out as we go. Press registration for the legendary Mint 400 is in full swing and we need to be there by four to claim our soundproof suite. A fancy New York sports magazine took care of the reservations, except for this big red open-top Chevy we rented from a parking lot on Sunset Boulevard... And I, among other things, am a professional journalist; so I had an obligation to report with places of events, Dead or Alive. The sports editors gave me three hundred bucks in cash most of which was immediately spent on the “most dangerous” substances. The trunk of our car resembled a mobile police drug lab. We had at our disposal two bags of weed, seventy-five balls of mescaline, five blotters of fierce acid, a salt shaker with holes full of cocaine, and an entire intergalactic parade of planets of all sorts of stimulants, trunks, squealers, laughter... as well as a quart of tequila, a quart of rum, a case of Budweiser , a pint of crude ether and two dozen amyl.

All this crap had been caught up the previous night, in a frenzy of high-speed racing all over Los Angeles County - from Topanga to Watts - we grabbed everything we could get our hands on. It’s not that we needed all this for the trip and fun, but as soon as you get stuck up to your ears in a serious chemical collection, you immediately feel the urge to push it to hell.

There was only one thing that bothered me - the ether. Nothing in the world is less helpless, irresponsible and vicious than a person in the abyss of an ethereal binge. And I knew that we would very soon get our hands on this rotten product. Probably at the next gas station. We've appreciated almost everything else, but now - yes, it's time to take a good sip of ether, and then do the next hundred miles in a disgusting drooling spastic stupor. The only way to stay alert under ether was to take as much amyl as possible into your chest—not all at once, but in portions, just enough to keep you focused at ninety miles an hour through Barstow.

Hunter S. Thompson Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas, orA wild journey into the heart of the American Dream.(First published in Rolling Stone magazine, NN 95 (11/11/71) and 96 (11/25/71) under the pseudonym "Raoul Duke"). Bob Geiger For reasons that there is no need to explain here, and Bob Dylan, for the song"Mister Tambourine Man".

"He who makes himself a beast,

gets rid of the pain of being human."

Dr. Johnson.

PART ONE We were somewhere around Barstow, on the edge of the desert, when the drugs came into play. I remember I said something like: “I’m a little dizzy; maybe you’d better drive... And suddenly a wild roar arose all around us, and the sky was filled with some creatures, like huge bats, they screeched, rushed and collapsed on the car, which was going at a hundred miles an hour with the top down in side of Las Vegas. And someone’s voice screamed: “Lord Jesus!” What the hell are these beasts? The only thing that really worried me was the broadcast. In the whole world there is nothing more helpless, more irresponsible and more defective than a person in the depths of the etheric parish. And I knew that we would fall into this rot, too, and quite soon. Most likely at the next gas station. We've tried a little bit of everything, and now - yes, it's time to take a good whiff of ether. And then walk the next hundred miles in a creepy, slobbering type of spasmodic stupor. The only way to avoid being stuck under ether is to put more amyl nitrate wheels on, not all at once, but little by little, just to maintain concentration at ninety miles an hour on the way through Barstow. Constant speed good for measuring fuel - and for some reason, then it seemed important. Seriously. On trips like this, it's important to keep an eye on your fuel consumption. Avoid any bursts of acceleration that cause blood to flow to the back of the brain. My lawyer spotted the hitchhiker long before I did.“Let’s give the guy a lift,” he suggested; and before I could come up with any argument, he slowed down, and this unfortunate Oakie boy was running towards the car, grinning widely, saying: - Oh, damn it! I've never driven in an open-top car! electric stingrays , descending on a car from heaven? If so, well, then we’ll have to cut off his head and bury him somewhere. Otherwise, it is clear without words that it is impossible to release him. In a moment he will hand us over to some Nazis from the local law enforcement bureau, and they will chase us like a pack of dogs. - Oh hell, no! - he gurgled. ..at least that's what the press release says; my man in New York just read it out loud to me. 2. Seizure$300 from a sow woman in Beverly Hills The New York office was unfamiliar with Vincent Black Shadow, and from there I was redirected to the Los Angeles bureau - which is actually in Beverly Hills, just a few blocks from the Polo Lange - but when I got there there, about the money, the woman refused to give me more than $300 in cash. She has no idea who I am, she said, and by that time I was already sweating profusely. My blood is too thick for California: in this climate I can never explain anything clearly without getting wet with sweat... not with red eyes and trembling hands. So I took $300 and left. My lawyer was waiting at the bar around the corner.. God, an hour ago we were sitting there in a lousy baijinio, extinguished and paralyzed for the whole weekend, and then some absolute stranger calls from New York, tells me, they say, go to Las Vegas and don’t care about the expenses - and then sends me away in Beverly Hills, where another complete stranger gives me $300 in real money for nothing... Bro, I'm telling you, this is the American Dream in action! Yes, we are idiots if we don’t ride this wild torpedo to the very end and limit. “And that’s true,” he said. - We have to. “That’s right,” I said. - But first we need a car. And then - cocaine. And also a tape recorder for special music and a couple of Acapulco shirts.! Bitch, do you have any idea who you're talking to? “Don’t let these pigs put pressure on you,” I said as he slammed the receiver on the phone. - And now we need an audio store with the best equipment. No spillikins. We want one of the new Belgian "Heliowatts" with a voice-activated directional microphone to pick up conversations from passing cars. We made a few more calls and finally found the equipment we needed in a store about five miles away. It was closed, but the seller promised that he would wait if we hurry. But we were delayed on the way when the Stingray in front of us hit a pedestrian on the Sunset Strip. The store had already closed by the time we got there. There were people inside, but they did not want to approach the double glass door , came to the door, and we managed to bargain through the crack. Then they opened the door just enough to get the equipment out, then slammed it and closed it again. They would keep it here, hidden under the seat. And if anyone saw us, they would decide that it was our oxygen.

, until we kicked it a couple of times, showing them what and how. Finally, two salesmen polishing rims

Later, I repeatedly re-read “Fear and Loathing...”, each time discovering new facets there. The crowning numbers, of course, are the drug trips of Raoul Duke and Dr. Gonzo, who go prohibitively far in self-destructive criticism of the American Dream, but to reduce the value of this book to a set of gags would be a big mistake. Duke and Gonzo use drugs not as a relaxant from the righteous labors of pumping money out of the world around them, but as a way of understanding reality, and perhaps as a way of survival. “He who becomes a beast escapes the pain of being a man.” The book was written in the early 1970s, when the movement of the 1960s was choking, and the “new stupid” and the “generation of pigs” (then personified primarily by Nixon) were moving on a victorious march towards Reaganomics and Bushism. The battle for the future was lost, and the participants in the movement of the 60s (under the guise of Duke, the author, a very radical journalist, portrayed himself, and the prototype of Doctor Gonzo was the left-wing lawyer Acosta) could only tease the fosterlings of the system, unable to shake its foundations. And although the book is filled with amazing phrases for all occasions, its essence is expressed in an extremely sad paragraph:

“It was a universal fantastic feeling that everything we are doing is right, and we are winning... And this, I believe, is that very trick - the feeling of inevitable victory over the forces of the Old and Evil. Not in any political or military sense: we didn’t need it. Our energy just prevailed. And it was pointless to fight - on our side or on theirs. We caught that magical moment; we rode the crest of a high and beautiful wave... And now, less than five years later, you can climb a steep hill in Las Vegas and look to the West, and if your eyes are okay, you can almost see the level of the full water “that point where the wave eventually breaks and rolls back.”

The strength of the book is that you physically feel the mentioned crest of the wave. And when the tide goes out, you need to remember that after the receding wave comes a new one.

Rating: 10

I re-read this reading once a year or two. And this doesn’t make the book any more boring - on the contrary, every time I find something new in it. At first it seemed to me that this was just a story about how junkies do various crazy things, but with each reading I began to understand the true value of this work. After all, what’s most interesting about it is that it’s not exactly a book of fiction; it describes reality through the prism of the author’s subjectivity. This is truly a very cool period in US history, and many regret that it ended this way. The pig generation won, and perhaps, as sad as it is to admit, it will win every time. The forces are not equal, but every person can live with dignity, even despite external circumstances. For me personally, this work has become a kind of guideline in life, in how certain things should be assessed. But, of course, “Fear and Loathing” can be read simply as a book at your leisure, without all these depths into the topic, the text is too well written.

Rating: 10

I became acquainted with the work of Hunter Thompson from the film “The Rum Diary”. After which I read the book of the same name. I liked both the film and the book very much, they touched certain strings of the soul, and stuck in my memory for a long time.

Recently I decided to experience similar sensations and discovered Hunter’s most famous works. This.

Once upon a time I watched a film almost of the same name based on it - Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas. I vaguely remember that I didn’t finish watching it, because I saw outright trash on the screen. Although the film's rating is quite high - 7.6/10 and in some circles it is considered a cult film.

Alas, exactly the same thing happened to me with this novel - I forced myself to finish reading about 1/3, after which I gave up this thankless task. There was no understanding this time either. In short, my opinion is drug addict nonsense.

Rating: 4

Let me make a reservation right away that I gave the rating to the film based on this work (in which the tone is set by the brilliant performances of Johnny Depp and Benicio del Toro; I deducted two points for being too long) rather than to the novel itself. As for the book, in relation to it, I did not have a clear formula in my mind that would calculate the specific value of the rating. On the one (negative) side, there is a lot of foul language in it (which I really don’t like), and the plot is too wild for my perception and is a chaotic collection of twitchy episodes, for the most part either incomprehensible or incomprehensibly grotesque (which, however, quite consistent with the theme of the novel). On the other side - main value“Fear and Loathing” is the figure of Raoul Duke, that is, the author himself - Hunter Thompson. A person with enormous charisma, outstanding intelligence, an original worldview and incredible vital energy. And if the plot of the novel did not make much of an impression on me, then Thompson’s sharp and remarkable observations and reflections on American life of that era deserve all the more close attention: I would even formulate it on American Being. No matter how you feel about Thompson’s worldview, for me it is obvious and indisputable that he was a Personality. And the presence of this Personality in the book is, of course, the circumstance that made it a must-read for me and left a deep, vivid mark on my soul.

Rating: 8

About the illusory character...

Was Gonzo a real person or just a long-running glitch in the head of the main character and narrator? When watching a film, this question cannot be clearly answered, although there are reasons to think so. After all, there is a live actor in the film. At the very least, other characters will trip over him. A book is a more convenient form to describe a journey with an imaginary friend. What do we have if we simply consider the facts presented in the book?

First of all, why does a sportswriter need a lawyer on a business trip? A photographer would be more appropriate, but the photographer is a separate character. Most of the episodes of communication with Gonzo occur when Duke is already ready (including the very first episode in Polo Lange). Now I’m talking about full-fledged dialogues with a friend. It often happens that Duke is already moving away from what was accepted, but is not yet sober. At this time, Gonzo is also active, but it is minimal. While high, both characters from time to time develop a striking unity: both become doctors of journalism, both turn out to have a bad heart, etc. And throughout the entire text, they are simultaneously bombarded with the same substances. "Lawyer" is Gonzo's nickname rather than his profession. Not a single legal term was noticed in his speech. “As your lawyer” Gonzo advises only different garbage. His manner of speaking is exactly the same as that of Raoul Duke. The lawyer doesn't say, "I'm going to throw a bomb at your shitty diner." The lawyer promises to sue the eatery. But Duke sometimes has some legal rudiments in his speech. When Duke is sober (this is rare in the text, but it happens), then Gonzo disappears from the text as if he had never existed.

The author's skill was enough to ensure that all evidence of the reality/illusory nature of Gonzo turned out to be indirect. So what is Gonzo? An adviser who is thought of separately from himself, in order to preserve the remnants of logic when you are killed in the trash? Basically, interesting solution. Except that the logic in Gonzo’s advice is about 50/50. But, probably, it’s better than nothing. Everything led to the fact that when reading the phrase “my lawyer,” I mentally remade it into “my inner lawyer.”

There is really an idea that Raoul Duke is also a fictional person. A telegram “to Hunter S. Thompson for transmission to Raoul Duke” arrives at the hotel. And even closer to the end of the book there is an episode with a photograph of journalist Thompson with Gonzo. So it is quite possible that in fact the author of the book himself came to Vegas to write another boring article about racing and a police conference. And in order not to get too bored, I came up with a couple of imaginary friends who are permanently in a deranged state in order to describe my business trip through their eyes. Why not? A perpetually murdered sportswriter, commanded or advised by his perpetually murdered lawyer. Both do something Brownian movements, but at the same time they do not end up in either a hospital or prison. And, despite all the fuss and fumes of revelry, they somehow manage to complete all the tasks. Two fairy-tale characters.

It can be complicated. Hunter S. Thompson invents his Raoul Duke, and Raoul Duke invents his Gonzo. That is why at the beginning of the book Raoul is not sure about his friend’s nationality (he says that he is _most likely_ Samoan), but then the details about his friend settle in his head.

About the American dream...

If you still try to find meaning in the book, or at least a cross-cutting theme, you will run into this phrase. It is vague enough that it can serve as a container for many meanings. A junkie journalist was sent on a business trip to cover races and write about the American dream. The hero liked the second part of the task. In the protagonist's interpretation, the American Dream is that a white guy with a journalist's ID is, in principle, trusted. They trust to go and do the work. They trust the advance. They trust you with a hotel room. Red Shark is trusted at the box office. What else can they trust to a rogue? The entire book is the answer to this question. As he says main character: “...we're on our way to Las Vegas in search of the American Dream... this is a very dangerous undertaking - you can get into so much trouble that you won't be able to break even your bones...” A white guy with the right ID can really be distrusted, and then it will really be bad . A cool car and a bunch of drugs are indispensable attributes here, without which the search for the limits of trust is impossible. So the permanent killing of the main character can be considered as a sacrifice for the benefit of a beloved cause. The high from the substances actually comes out a little. But there is still a feeling of constant betrayal. But _such_ difficulties do not frighten the main character. This quest is “only for those who have true courage.” In the end: “Okay... what was the matter? Many wonderful books were written behind bars.”

About the main character...

All the adventures of Raoul Duke can be perceived as a longing for the old days. Not even from his youth, but only from the recent past (5-6 years ago), when his life was more interesting. “The energy of an entire generation bursts forth in a delightful burst of light.” The author was lucky. However, he remained alive. Is it possible to reconnect with your former happiness and the feeling that whatever you do is right? With emphasis on the word “all”? If you really want to, then you can. True, instead of a writer, you will have to become a single-celled journalist (Thompson likes to criticize this type in other works, too), kill his own heart with the substances he takes and experience a constant feeling of fear. Is it worth it?

“Now you have to excuse me, I’m overwhelmed.”

Rating: 9

How can you evaluate this) This is unique, an isolated phenomenon for all times, this is an era, this is a small piece of time that existed in the USA, this is a caustic satire of society and oneself, this is a subtle observation, this is life. I recommend a new translation, Kopytov

Rating: 10

Hunter Thompson

Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas. A Wild Journey into the Heart of the American Dream

He who becomes a beast escapes the pain of being a man

Dr. Samuel Johnson

Series "Alternative"

Hunter S. Thompson

FEAR AND LOATHING IN LAS VEGAS

Translation from English by Alex Curvey

Computer design by A. Barkovskaya

Reprinted with permission from The Estate of Hunter S. Thompson and The Wylie Agency (UK) Ltd.

The exclusive rights to publish the book in Russian belong to AST Publishers. Any use of the material in this book, in whole or in part, without the permission of the copyright holder is prohibited.

Part one

We were somewhere on the edge of the desert, near Barstow, when the drugs began to take effect. I remember mumbled something like: “I feel like I’m a little sick; maybe you can drive?..” And suddenly terrible screams were heard from all sides, and the sky was filled with some grunts, similar to huge bats, rushed down, shrilly squeaking, diving at the car rushing at a hundred miles per hour straight to Las -Vegas. And someone’s voice cried out: “Lord Jesus! Where did these damn things come from?”

Then everything became quiet again. My lawyer took off his shirt and poured beer on his chest - for a better tan. “Why the hell are you yelling like that?” he muttered, staring at the sun with his eyes closed behind his round Spanish sunglasses. “Never mind,” I said. “It’s your turn to lead.” And, slamming on the brakes, he stopped the Great Red Shark on the side of the highway. “No need to mention these bats,” I thought. “The poor bastard will see them in the flesh soon enough.”

It was almost noon and we still had over a hundred miles to go. Harsh miles. I knew that time was running out, we would both be pulled apart in a moment so that the skies would become hot. But there was no turning back, and no time to rest. Let's get it out as we go. Press registration for the legendary Mnit 400 is in full swing and we need to be there by four to claim our soundproof suite. A fancy New York sports magazine took care of the reservations, except for this big red open-top Chevrolet we rented from a parking lot on Sunset Boulevard... And I, among other things, am a professional journalist: so I had an obligation provide a report from the scene, Dead or Alive. The sports editors gave me three hundred bucks in cash, most of which was immediately spent on “dangerous” substances. The trunk of our car resembled a mobile police drug lab. We had at our disposal two bags of weed, seventy-five balls of mescaline, five strips of blotters of fierce acid, a salt shaker with holes full of cocaine, and a whole intergalactic parade of planets of all sorts of stimulants, trunks, squealers, laughers... as well as a quart of tequila, a quart of rum, a box Budweiser, a pint of crude ether and two dozen amyl.

All this crap had been picked up the previous night, in a frenzy of high-speed racing throughout the Los Angeles area - from Topanga to Watts - we grabbed everything we could get our hands on. Not that we have it all need to for a trip and a break, but as soon as you get stuck head over heels in a serious chemical collection, you immediately feel the desire to push it to hell.

There was only one thing that bothered me: the ether. Nothing in the world is less helpless, irresponsible and vicious than a person in the abyss of an ethereal binge. And I knew that we would very soon get our hands on this rotten product. Probably at the next gas station. We appreciated almost everything else, but now – yes, it’s time to take a fair amount of air. And then do the next hundred miles in a disgusting, salivating, spastic stupor. The only way to stay alert under ether was to take as much amyl as possible into your chest—not all at once, but in portions, just enough to keep you focused at ninety miles an hour through Barstow.

“Old man, this is how you should travel,” my lawyer remarked. He bent over, turning up the radio at full volume, humming to the beat of the rhythm section and muttering the words in a whiny voice: “One puff will carry you away. Dear Jesus... One puff will take you away..."

One puff? Oh you poor fool! Wait until you see these fucking bats. I could barely hear the radio, leaning noisily against the door, hugging the tape recorder, which was playing “Sympathy for the Devil” all the time. We only had this one tape, and we played it incessantly, over and over again - a crazy counterpoint to the radio, as well as maintaining our rhythm on the road. Constant speed is good for proper gas mileage during the run - and for some reason it seemed important at the time. Of course. On such a trip, if I may say so, everyone should carefully monitor their gas mileage. Avoid sudden accelerations and jerks that will make your blood run cold.

My lawyer, unlike me, noticed the hitchhiker a long time ago. “Let’s give the kid a lift,” he said, and before I could put forward any argument for or against, he stopped, and this poor Oklahoma mudwin was already running as fast as he could to the car, smiling from ear to ear and shouting: "Damn it! I've never driven in an open-top car before!”

- Really? – I asked. - Okay, I guess you're ready for this, huh?

The guy nodded impatiently, and the Shark, roaring, rushed further in a cloud of dust.

“We are your friends,” said my lawyer. – We are not like the others.

“Oh God,” I thought, “he barely made the turn.”

“Quit this bazaar,” I abruptly interrupted the lawyer. “Or I’ll put leeches on you.”

He grinned, seemingly having moved in. Fortunately, the noise in the car was so terrible - the wind was whistling, the radio and tape recorder were blaring - that the guy lounging in the back seat could not hear a word of what we were saying. Or could he?

"How long are we still shall we hold out?" - I marveled. How much time is left until one of us, in delirium, unleashes all the dogs on this boy? What will he think then? This very lonely desert was the last known home of the Mason family. Will he draw that inexorable parallel when my lawyer starts screaming about bats and huge manta rays falling on top of the car? If so, fine, we'll just have to cut off his head and bury him somewhere. And it’s a no brainer that we can’t let the guy leave quietly. He will immediately knock on the office of some Nazis who enforce the law in this desert area, and they will overtake us like the hounds of a cornered animal.

My God! Did I really say that? Or was it just a thought? Did I speak? Did they hear me? I glanced warily at my lawyer, but he didn't seem to pay me the slightest attention - he was watching the road, driving our Great Red Shark at a hundred and ten or so. And not a sound from the back seat.

“Maybe it’s better for me to rub shoulders with this boy?” – I thought. Maybe if I will explain situation, he will relax slightly.

A book that was ecstatically admired.

A book that has become a kind of “watershed”, separating genuine nonconformism from “plastic.”

What happened next is indescribable...

Translation: Alex Curvey

Hunter Thompson

Part one

Hunter Thompson

Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas. A Wild Journey into the Heart of the American Dream

Dedicated to Bob Geiger for reasons not worth explaining here.

and Bob Dylan

for Mister Tambourine Man

He who becomes a beast escapes the pain of being a man

Dr. Samuel Johnson

Part one

It was almost noon and we still had over a hundred miles to go. Harsh miles. I knew that time was running out, we would both be pulled apart in a moment so that the skies would become hot. But there was no turning back, and no time to rest. Let's get it out as we go. Press registration for the legendary Mnit 400 is in full swing and we need to be there by four to claim our soundproof suite. A fancy New York sports magazine took care of the reservations, except for this big red open-top Chevrolet we rented from a parking lot on Sunset Boulevard... And I, among other things, am a professional journalist: so I had an obligation provide a report from the scene, Dead or Alive. The sports editors gave me three hundred bucks in cash, most of which was immediately spent on “dangerous” substances. The trunk of our car resembled a mobile police drug lab. We had at our disposal two bags of weed, seventy-five balls of mescaline, five strips of blotters of fierce acid, a salt shaker with holes full of cocaine, and an entire intergalactic parade of planets of all sorts of stimulants, trunks, squealers, laughers... as well as a quart of tequila, a quart of rum, a box Budweiser, a pint of crude ether and two dozen amyl.

- Really? – I asked. - Okay, I guess you're ready for this, huh?

The guy nodded impatiently, and the Shark, roaring, rushed further in a cloud of dust.

“We are your friends,” said my lawyer. – We are not like the others.

“Oh God,” I thought, “he barely made the turn.”

“Quit this bazaar,” I abruptly interrupted the lawyer. “Or I’ll put leeches on you.”

“Maybe it’s better for me to rub shoulders with this boy?” – I thought. Maybe if I will explain situation, he will relax slightly.

Certainly. I turned in my seat and gave him a wide, pleasant smile... admiring the shape of his skull.

“By the way,” I said, “there is one thing that, apparently, you should understand.”

He stared at me without blinking. Did you grind your teeth?

- Can you hear me? – I yelled.

Hunter Thompson - Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas. Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas, or a wild journey into the heart of the American Dream Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas novel

Hunter Thompson - Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas. Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas, or a wild journey into the heart of the American Dream Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas novel

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