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

“Okay,” I said finally. “You’re right. This is probably the only solution.” I picked up the tape/radio—which was still plugged in—and held it over the tub. “Just let me make sure I have it all lined up,” I said. “You want me to throw this thing into the tub when ‘White Rabbit’ peaks—is that it?”
    He fell back in the water and smiled gratefully. “Fuck yes,” he said. “I was beginning to think I was going to have to go out and get one of the goddamn
maids
to do it.”
    “Don’t worry,” I said. “Are you ready?” I hit the “play” button and “White Rabbit” started building again. Almost immediately he began to howl and moan . . . another fast run up that mountain, and thinking, this time, that he would finally get over the top. His eyes were gripped shut and only his head and both kneecaps poked up through the oily green water.
    I let the song build while I sorted through the pile of fat ripe grapefruit next to the basin. The biggest one of the lot weighed almost two pounds. I got a good Vida Blue fastball grip on the fucker—and just as “White Rabbit” peaked I lashed it into the tub like a cannonball.
    My attorney screamed crazily, thrashing around in the tub like a shark after meat, churning water all over the floor as he struggled to get hold of something.
    I jerked the AC cord out of the tape/radio and moved out of the bathroom very quickly . . . the machine kept on playing, but now it was back on its own harmless battery power. I could hear the beat cooling down as I moved across the room to my kitbag and fetched up the Mace can . . . just as my attorney ripped the bathroom door open and started out. His eyes were still unfocused, but he was waving the blade out in front of him like a man who meant to cut something.
    “Mace!” I shouted. “You want
this?”
I waved the Mace bomb in front of his watery eyes.
    He stopped, “You bastard!” he hissed. “You’d
do
that, wouldn’t you?”
    I laughed, still waving the bomb at him. “Why worry? You’ll
like
it. Shit, there’s nothing in the world like a Mace high—forty-five minutes on your knees with the dry heaves, gasping for breath. It’ll calm you right down.”
    He stared in my general direction, trying to focus. “You cheap honky sonofabitch,” he muttered. “You’d
do
it, wouldn’t you?”
    “Why not?” I said. “Hell, just a minute ago you were asking me to
kill
you! And now you want to kill
me!
What I should do, goddamnit, is call the
police!
”
    He sagged. “The cops?”
    I nodded. “Yeah, there’s no choice. I wouldn’t dare go to sleep with you wandering around in this condition—with a head full of acid and wanting to slice me up with that goddamn knife.”
    He rolled his eyes for a moment, then tried to smile. “Who said anything about slicing you up?” he mumbled. “I just wanted to carve a little Z on your forehead—nothing serious.” He shrugged and reached for a cigarette on top of the TV set.
    I menaced him again with the Mace can. “Get back in that tub,” I said. “Eat some reds and try to calm down. Smoke some grass, shoot some smack—shit, do whatever you
have
to do, but let me get some rest.”
    He shrugged and smiled distractedly, as if everything I’d said made perfect sense. “Hell yes,” he said very earnestly. “You really
need
some sleep. You have to
work
tomorrow.” He shook his head sadly and turned back toward the bathroom. “God damn! What a bummer.” He waved me off. “Try to rest,” he said. “Don’t let me keep you up.”
    I nodded, and watched him shuffle back into the bathroom—still holding the blade, but now he seemed unaware of it. The acid had shifted gears on him; the next phase would probably be one of those hellishly intense introspection nightmares. Four hours or so of catatonic despair; but nothing physical, nothing dangerous. I watched the door close behind him, then I quietly slid a heavy, sharp-angled chair up in front of the bathroom