Fear and loathing in Las Vegas, and other American stories by Hunter S. Thompson

a razor-sharp hunting knife in your eyes.
    “Take a shower,” I said. “I’ll be back in twenty minutes.” I left quickly, locking the door behind me and taking the key to Lacerda’s room—the one my attorney had stolen earlier. That poor geek, I thought, as I hurried down the escalator. They sent him out here on this perfectly reasonable assignment—just a few photos of motorcycles and dune buggies racing around the desert—and now he was plunged, without realizing it, into the maw of some world beyond his ken. There was no way he could possibly understand what was happening.
    What were we doing out here? What was the meaning of this trip? Did I actually have a big red convertible out there on the street? Was I just roaming around these Mint Hotel escalators in a drug frenzy of some kind, or had I really come out here to Las Vegas to work on a
story?
    I reached in my pocket for the room key; “1850,” it said. At least that much was real. So my immediate task was to deal with the car and get back to that room . . . and then hopefully get straight enough to cope with whatever might happen at dawn.
    Now off the escalator and into the casino, big crowds still tight around the crap tables. Who
are
these people? These faces! Where do they come from? They look like caricatures of used-car dealers from Dallas. But they’re
real.
And, sweet Jesus, there are a hell of a
lot
of them—still screaming around these desert-city crap tables at four-thirty on a Sunday morning. Still humping the American Dream, that vision of the Big Winner somehow emerging from the last-minute pre-dawn chaos of a stale Vegas casino.
    Big strike in Silver City. Beat the dealer and go home rich. Why not? I stopped at the Money Wheel and dropped a dollar on Thomas Jefferson—a $2 bill, the straight Freak ticket, thinking as always that some idle instinct bet might carry the whole thing off.
    But no. Just another two bucks down the tube. You bastards!
    No. Calm down. Learn to
enjoy
losing. The important thing is to cover this story on its own terms; leave the other stuff to
Life
and
Look
—at least for now. On the way down the escalator I saw the
Life
man twisted feverishly into the telegraph booth, chanting his wisdom into the ear of some horny robot in a cubicle on that other coast. Indeed: “L AS V EGAS A T D AWN —The racers are still asleep, the dust is still on the desert, $50,000 in prize money slumbers darkly in the office safe at Del Webb’s fabulous Mint Hotel in the bright heart of
Casino Center.
Extreme tension. And our
Life
team is here (as always, with a sturdy police escort. . .).” Pause. “Yes, operator, that word was
police.
What else? This is, after all, a
Life
Special. . . .”
    The Red Shark was out on Fremont where I’d left it. I drove around to the garage and checked it in—Dr. Gonzo’s car, no problem, and if any of your men fall idle we can use a total wax job before morning. Yes, of course—just bill the room.
    •      •      •

    My attorney was in the bathtub when I returned. Submerged in green water—the oily product of some Japanese bath salts he’d picked up in the hotel gift shop, along with a new AM/FM radio plugged into the electric razor socket. Top volume. Some gibberish by a thing called “Three Dog Night,” about a frog named Jeremiah who wanted “Joy to the World.”
    First Lennon, now this, I thought. Next we’ll have Glenn Campbell screaming “Where Have All the Flowers Gone?”
    Where indeed? No flowers in this town. Only carnivorous plants. I turned the volume down and noticed a hunk of chewed-up white paper beside the radio. My attorney seemed not to notice the sound-change. He was lost in a fog of green steam; only half his head was visible above the water line.
    “You ate this?” I asked, holding up the white pad.
    He ignored me. But I knew. He would be very difficult to reach for the next six hours. The whole blotter was chewed up.
    “You evil son of a bitch,” I