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

said. “You better hope there’s some thorazine in that bag, because if there’s not you’re in bad trouble tomorrow.”
    “Music!” he snarled. “Turn it up. Put that tape on.”
    “What tape?”
    “The new one. It’s right there.”
    I picked up the radio and noticed that it was also a tape recorder—one of those things with a cassette-unit built in. And the tape,
Surrealistic Pillow,
needed only to be flipped over. He had already gone through side one—at a volume that must have been audible in every room within a radius of one hundred yards, walls and all.
    “‘White Rabbit,’” he said. “I want a
rising
sound.”
    “You’re doomed,” I said. “I’m leaving here in two hours—and then they’re going to come up here and beat the mortal shit out of you with big saps. Right there in the tub.”
    “I dig my own graves,” he said. “Green water and the White Rabbit . . . put it on; don’t make me use this.” His arm lashed out of the water, the hunting knife gripped in his fist.
    “Jesus,” I muttered. And at that point I figured he was beyond help—lying there in the tub with a head full of acid and the sharpest knife I’ve ever seen, totally incapable of reason, demanding the White Rabbit. This is it, I thought. I’ve gone as far as I can with this waterhead. This time it’s a suicide trip. This time he wants it. He’s ready. . . .
    “OK,” I said, turning the tape over and pushing the “play” button. “But do me one last favor, will you? Can you give me two hours? That’s all I ask—just two hours to sleep before tomorrow. I suspect it’s going to be a very difficult day.”
    “Of course,” he said. “I’m your
attorney.
I’ll give you all the time you need, at my normal rates: $45 an hour—but you’ll be wanting a cushion, so why don’t you just lay one of those $100 bills down there beside the radio, and fuck off?”
    “How about a check?” I said. “On the Sawtooth National Bank. You won’t need any ID to cash it there. They know me.”
    “Whatever’s right,” he said, beginning to jerk with the music. The bathroom was like the inside of a huge defective woofer. Heinous vibrations, overwhelming sound. The floor was full of water. I moved the radio as far from the tub as it would go, then I left and closed the door behind me.
    Within seconds he was shouting at me. “Help! You bastard! I need help!”
    I rushed back inside, thinking he’d sliced off an ear by accident.
    But no . . . he was reaching across the bathroom toward the white formica shelf where the radio sat. “I want that fuckin radio,” he snarled.
    I grabbed it away from his hand. “You fool!” I said. “Get back in that tub! Get away from that goddamn radio!” I shoved it back from his hand. The volume was so far up that it was hard to know what was playing unless you knew
Surrealistic Pillow
almost note for note . . . which I did, at the time, so I knew that “White Rabbit” had finished; the peak had come and gone.
    But my attorney, it seemed, had not made it. He wanted more. “Back the tape up!” he yelled. “I need it again!” His eyes were full of craziness now, unable to focus. He seemed on the verge of some awful psychic orgasm . . .
    “Let it roll!” he screamed. “Just as high as the fucker can go! And when it comes to that fantastic note where the rabbit bites its own head off, I want you to throw that fuckin radio into the tub with me.”
    I stared at him, keeping a firm grip on the radio. “Not me,” I said finally. “I’d be happy to ram a goddamn 440-volt cattle prod into that tub with you right now, but
not
this radio. It would blast you right through the wall—stone-dead in ten seconds.” I laughed. “Shit, they’d make me
explain
it—drag me down to some rotten coroner’s inquest and grill me about . . . yes . . . the
exact details.
I don’t need that.”
    “Bullshit!” he screamed. “Just tell them I wanted to get
Higher!
”
    I thought for a moment.