Thompson fear disgust in las vegas. Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas, or a Wild Journey to the Heart of the American Dream

Hunter Thompson

Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas:

A wild journey into the Heart of the American Dream

One who becomes a beast gets rid of the pain of being human.

Dr. Samuel Johnson

Foreword

The first two chapters from "Fear and Loathing" were published in the magazine "Ptyuch" (# 9, 1998). Unfortunately, "Ptyuch" remained true to itself - the copyright of the author and the name of the translator were not supplied, 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 on a dictaphone during the mescaline car race of Alex Kervey and Mike Wallace in English cities). In the October issue, Ptyuch's editors apologized for the forthcoming (early next year) publication of the book in Russian with original illustrations by Ralph Steadman in the newly created, the first alternative (in today's politically correct times) publishing house in Russia, Tough Press. “Great is the underworld, but there is nowhere to retreat,” said Georgy Osipov about this (and many others).

Photo of the fat editor-in-chief 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 comment ... "Gonzo" is becoming fashionable in Russia. “We wrote a lot about the last film in this issue,” Shulinsky writes. "We hunted the beast together!" - said the lapdog to the wolfhounds. The late Anton Okhotnikov is not mentioned, fragments from whose work based on Hunter Thompson were used by "Bird" - read "Great Shark Hunt" (pp. 26-27 in the magazine issue). As for Alex Kervi, one of the members of the international artistic "Johnson Family" -the TRI community (which, as one of the projects, actually includes "Tough Press" in Russia), then, apparently, pulls his "bad" international track record - several mysterious arrests and an even greater number of detentions for various reasons, from which he somehow managed to extricate himself).

This is not surprising - TRI members are now gradually starting to write off all mortal sins - complicity in international terrorism (Mike Wallace [of course, this is a pseudonym] and the legendary Doctor, who have undergone several plastic surgeries for themselves, are still looking for in this regard all over the world all who not laziness), connections with the Nazis (TRI is also called the "Artistic Anenerbe"), British, American and Israeli (!!!) special services, the drug mafia (global drug legalization? !!!), close contacts with Masonic organizations, propaganda of Satanism (? ?? !!!), aiding shadow hackers, etc. And the accusation of eliminating the skinny rat Lady Di (??? !!!), cooperation with the homosexual mafia (community?) Looks like a completely innocent act in TRI's activities. Someone speaks of "a worldwide conspiracy of liberals who, with the help of drugs and inhuman music, are trying to undermine the foundations of Western civilization" (directed by Paul Morrisy), others speak of a conspiracy of the "young English aristocracy" (including artistic ones). It is good that TRI has not yet been accused of defaming their ties with aliens and the mythical underground civilization Vril-Ya - there is no way to avoid the situation of "Zombies hanging by the balls."

American evangelical anthropozones believe that the Beast will come 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 slaves-software - that is, ourselves. This is required by honor and loyalty to the power of our hoary antiquity. Be Romeo, who kills Tybalt, while remaining loyal to Juliet "(Garik Osipov).

A.K. jumps out on a January 97 night in Croydon with a black diplomat from the back door of a building owned by a British corporation. A few moments before that, he knocks down the front door, despite the included noise alarm, he gets to one office, knocks down the door there and takes something. Police officers meet him at the door. "Did you do this?" they ask. “Yes, I am,” Hey Kay replies. "On what basis?" "This was done in the interests of several states, I refuse to answer further questions." "Follow us." At the police station, policemen and other characters (from cartoons?) Are searching a diplomat - there is a healthy animal tooth in it. And nothing more. "What is it?" - the question follows. Answer: “Bear tooth. This is the 13th century. The golden age of the Great Emperor and his greaseless bastard descendants. Be very careful. This is a unique piece of its kind. " "So we will write it down - a valuable bear tooth?" "Or a wolf ... Just write it down - a valuable tooth" ... "Opponent ...", - suddenly one of those present said in Russian ... "Did you try to break open the doors of the building the night before?" he continued in English. “No, it’s probably other opponents. However, let's postpone all the explanations until the morning, ”answered A.K. Just two hours later, without any explanation, he was released from the police station with a diplomat in which a tooth lay. The next day, someone 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?"

Wrote a story in blood - Full Moon Party.

I could not believe in many things until I got acquainted with the unique tape recordings in different instances (let's say it delicately). Damn right, I thought, Our day will come & we`ll have everything. (song by Frankie Wiley and The Four Seasons)

V. B. Shulgin

Part one

We were somewhere on the edge of the desert, not far from Barstow, when they began to cover us. I remember mumbling something like: “I feel a little sausage; can you lead? ... ”And suddenly terrible screams were heard from all sides, and the sky was filled with some boars, similar to huge bats, rushed down, screeching food, diving at the car, rushing at the limit of one hundred miles per hour straight to Las- Vegas. And a voice cried out, “Lord Jesus! Where did these damn creatures come from? "

Then everything was 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 round Spanish sunglasses. “Never mind,” I said. "It's your turn to lead." And, applying the brakes, he stopped the Great Red Shark on the side of the highway. “Mention these bats- I thought. "The poor bastard will soon see them in the flesh himself."

It was almost noon, and we still had over a hundred miles to go. Harsh miles. I knew - time is running out, both of us at the moment will be pulled apart so that the heavens will become hot. But there was no turning back, and no time for rest. Let's get out on the go. Press registrations for the legendary Mint 400 are in full swing, and we need to be in time by four to claim our soundproof suite. A fashionable New York sports magazine took care of the armor, apart from that big red open-topped Chevro we rented from the parking lot on Sunset Boulevard ... And I am, among other things, a professional journalist; so I had an obligation to present the story, 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 looked like a mobile police drug laboratory. We had at our disposal two bags of grass, seventy-five balls of mescaline, five blots of ferocious acid, a salt shaker with holes full of cocaine, and a whole intergalactic parade of planets of all kinds of stimulants, trunks, screamers, giggle ... as well as a quart of tequila, a quart of rum, a Budweiser box , a pint of crude ether, and two dozen amyl.

All this shit was hooked on the night before, in the madness of speed racing across Los Angeles County, from Topanga to Watts, we grabbed whatever we could get our hands on. Not that we needed all of this for the trip and separation, but as soon as you get stuck up to your ears in a serious chemical collection, you immediately want 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 ethereal drinking. And I knew we would get to this rotten product very soon. Probably at the next gas station. We've appreciated pretty much everything else, but now, yes, it’s time to take a big sip of ether, and then do the next hundred miles in a disgusting salivation of spastic stupor. The only way to stay alert on the air is to take as much amyl on your chest as possible — not all at once, but in portions, just enough to keep you focused at ninety miles an hour through Barstow.

A tiny little book with the strange title "Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas" and frighteningly careless illustrations I acquired in the late 1990s in the long-dead intellectual book store on Mayakovskaya. Terry Gilliam has not yet released the film of the same name, Thompson in Russia was known in very narrow circles, to which I did not belong, so he made a purchase, guided by intuition. It was in December, and under New Year going to Penza, I took with me a recently purchased book. The road story in the common carriage began to play with additional colors, I simultaneously rushed through midday California in the Big Red Shark and slowly crossed Ryazan region on the dark side of the earth; phantasmagoric policemen, journalists, lizards, waiters and other creatures of the altered consciousness of Hunter Thompson extremely successfully counterpoint with my fellow travelers - businessmen-bagmen, grandmothers and students.

Later, I repeatedly re-read "Fear and Loathing ...", each time discovering new facets there. Critical numbers, of course, are the narcotic trips of Raoul Duke and Doctor Gonzo, who go prodigiously in self-destructive criticism of the American Dream, but it would be a big mistake to reduce the value of this book to a bunch of gags. Duke and Gonzo use drugs not as a relaxant from the righteous labors of siphoning money from the outside world, but as a way of knowing reality, and possibly as a way of survival. "One who becomes a beast gets rid of the pain of being human." The book was written in the early 1970s, when the 1960s movement was drowning, and the "new dumb" and "generation of pigs" (personified then primarily by Nixon) marched victoriously towards Reaganomics and Bushisms. The battle for the future was lost, and the participants in the 60s movement (under the guise of Duke, the author, a very radical journalist, portrayed himself, and the prototype of Doctor Gonzo is Acost's left-wing lawyer) could only tease the fosterlings of the system, unable to shake its foundations. And although the book is full of amazing phrases for all occasions, its essence is expressed in an extremely sad paragraph:

“It was a general fantastic feeling that everything we do is right and we win ... And this, I suppose, is the very thing - the feeling of inevitable victory over the forces of the Old and the Evil. Not in any political or military sense: we didn't need that. Our energy just prevailed. And it was pointless to fight - on our side or on theirs. We caught that magical moment; we raced on 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 everything is in order with your eyes, then you can almost see the level of full water - the point where the wave eventually breaks and rolls back. "

The strength of the book lies in the fact that you physically feel the mentioned wave crest. And at low tide, you need to remember that after the recoiling wave comes a new one.

Score: 10

I re-read this reading once a year or two. And this does not make the book 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 madness, but with each reading I began to understand the true value of this work. After all, what is most interesting about it is that it is not quite a fiction book, it describes reality through the prism of the author's subjectivity. This is a really cool period in US history, and many regret that it ended that way. The generation of pigs won, and perhaps, sadly enough, it will win every time. The forces are not equal, but each person can live with dignity, even in spite of external circumstances. For me personally, this work has become a kind of guideline in life, in how some things should be evaluated. But, of course, "Fear and Loathing" can be read just like a book at your leisure, without all these deepening into the topic, the text is too well written.

Score: 10

I got acquainted with the work of Hunter Thompson from the film "The Rum Diary". Then I read the book of the same name. I liked the film and the book very much, touched certain strings of the soul, and sank into my memory for a long time.

Recently I decided to experience similar sensations and discovered the most famous work Hunter. This.

Once upon a time I watched an almost eponymous film based on it - Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas. I vaguely remember that I did not watch it, because I saw frank trash on the screen. Although the film's rating is quite high - 7.6 / 10, and in some circles it is considered a cult.

Alas, with this novel I had exactly the same story - I forced myself to finish reading about 1/3, after which I gave up this thankless task. The understanding did not take place this time either. In short, my opinion is drug addict delirium.

Rating: 4

I’ll make a reservation right away that I gave my assessment to the film based on this work (in which the tone is set by the brilliant play of Johnny Depp and Benicio del Toro; I took two points away for being too long), rather than 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 assessment. On the one (negative) side - there is profuse swearing in it (which I really do not like), and the plot is too wild for my perception and is a chaotic set of jerky episodes, for the most part either vague or incomprehensibly grotesque (which, however, is quite consistent with the theme of the novel). On the other hand, the main value of "Fear and Loathing" is the figure of Raoul Duke, that is, the author himself - Hunter Thompson. A person with tremendous charisma, outstanding intellect, original worldview and incredible vitality. And if the plot of the novel did not make a special impression on me, then the sharp and remarkable observations and thoughts of Thompson about American life of that era: I would even formulate - about American Being. No matter how you relate to Thompson's worldview, it is obvious and immutable to me that he was a Person. And the presence of this Personality in the book is undoubtedly the circumstance that made it obligatory for me to read and left a deep bright imprint on my soul.

Score: 8

About the illusion of characters ...

Was Gonzo a real person, or is it just a long-running glitch in the head of the protagonist and narrator? When watching a movie, this question cannot be answered clearly, although there are reasons to think so. Still, there is a live actor in the film. Other characters will at least stumble over him. A book is a more convenient form to portray a journey with an imaginary friend. What do we have if we just consider the facts stated in the book?

First of all, why does a sports columnist need a lawyer on a business trip? The photographer would be more appropriate, but there is a separate character for the photographer. Most of the episodes of communication with Gonzo take place after Duke is ready (including the very first episode in Polo Lange). I'm talking about full-fledged dialogues with a friend. It often happens that Duke is already moving away from the accepted, but not yet sober. At this time, Gonzo's activity is also there, but it is minimal. While high, both characters develop a striking unity from time to time: both become doctors of journalism, both have heart problems, and so on. And they are simultaneously thrown with the same substances throughout the entire text. "Lawyer" is more Gonzo's nickname than his profession. Not a single legal term was noticed in his speech. "Like Your Lawyer" Gonzo advises on all sorts of bullshit. His manner of speaking is exactly the same as that of Raoul Duke. The lawyer doesn't say, "I'm throwing a bomb in your shitty diner." The lawyer promises to sue the eatery. But with Duke, some legal rudiments in speech sometimes slip. When Duke is sober (this is rare in the text, but it happens), then Gonzo disappears from the text as if he never existed.

The skill of the author was enough to ensure that all evidence of the reality / illusion 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? An interesting solution in principle. Except that the logic in Gonzo's advice is somewhere around 50-50. But, probably, it's better than nothing. Everything led to the fact that reading the phrase "my lawyer", I mentally remade it to "my inner lawyer."

There is a true idea that Raoul Duke is also a fictional person. A telegram arrives at the hotel "to Hunter S. Thompson for transmission to Raoul Duke." 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 bored too much, I came up with a couple of imaginary friends who are permanently in a deranged state in order to describe their business trip through their eyes. Why not? The eternally murdered sportswriter commanded or advised by his everlasting lawyer. Both perform some kind of Brownian movements, but at the same time they do not go to the hospital or prison. And, despite all the frenzy and fumes of revelry somehow, they manage to complete all the tasks. Two fairy-tale characters.

It can be complicated. Hunter S. Thompson imagines Raoul Duke, and Raoul Duke imagines Gonzo. That is why Raoul at the beginning of the book is not sure about the nationality of his friend (he says that he is _ rather_ all_ Samoan), but then the details about the friend are settled in his head.

About the American Dream ...

If you still try to find a meaning in the book, or at least a cross-cutting theme, then you will run into this phrase. It is vague enough to serve as a container for many senses. The junkie journalist was sent on a business trip to cover the races and write about the American Dream. The hero liked the second part of the task. In the interpretation of the protagonist, the American Dream is that a white man with a journalist's certificate is, in principle, trusted. Trust to go to do the job. Trust the advance. Trust the hotel room. Trust the Red Shark at the box office. What else can be trusted to a crook? The whole book is the answer to this question. As he says main character: "... we are on our way to Las Vegas in search of the American Dream ... this is a very dangerous venture - you can get in so much that you can't collect bones ..." ... A cool car and a bunch of drugs are indispensable attributes, without which the search for the limits of trust is impossible. So the permanent murder of the protagonist can be viewed as a sacrifice for the benefit of his beloved work. The high from substances actually comes out a little. But there is still a feeling of constant betrayal. But _such_ difficulties do not frighten the protagonist. This quest is "only for those with true courage." In the end: “Okay ... what's 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 because of his youth, but just in the recent past (5-6 years ago), when his life was more interesting. "The energy of an entire generation bursts out in a delightful, bright flash." The author was lucky. At the same time, he remained alive. Is it possible to touch again the past happiness and the feeling that everything you do is right? With an emphasis on the word "everything"? If you really want to, then you can. True, instead of a writer, you will have to become a one-celled journalist (Thompson likes to criticize this type in other works too), kill his own heart with the substances taken and experience a constant feeling of fear. Is it worth it?

"And now you have to excuse me, I was covered."

Score: 9

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

Score: 10

A book that was ecstatically admired.

The book, which has become a kind of "watershed", separating genuine nonconformism from the "plastic".

The rest is indescribable ...

Translation: Alex Kervi

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

One who becomes a beast gets rid of the pain of being human

Dr. Samuel Johnson

Part one

We were somewhere on the edge of the desert, near Barstow, when the drugs began to take effect. I remember mumbling something like: “I feel a little sausage; can you lead? .. "And suddenly from all sides there were terrible screams, and the sky was filled with some boars, similar to huge bats, rushed down, screeching food, diving at the car, rushing at the limit of one hundred miles per hour straight to Las -Vegas. And a voice cried out, “Lord Jesus! Where did these damn things come from? "

Then everything was 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 round Spanish sunglasses. “Never mind,” I said. "It's your turn to lead." And, applying the brakes, he stopped the Great Red Shark on the side of the highway. “To mention these bats without a lubricant,” I thought. "The poor bastard will soon see them in the flesh himself."

It was almost noon, and we still had over a hundred miles to go. Harsh miles. I knew - time is running out, both of us at the moment will be pulled apart so that the heavens will become hot. But there was no turning back, and no time for rest. Let's get out on the go. Press registration for the legendary Mnit 400 is in full swing, and we need to be in time by four to claim our soundproof suite. A fashion sports New York magazine took care of the armor, apart from that big red open-top chevro we rented from the parking lot on Sunset Boulevard ... And I am, among other things, a professional journalist: so I had a commitment present 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 looked like a mobile police drug laboratory. We had at our disposal two bags of grass, seventy-five balls of mescaline, five strips of blotting cakes of ferocious acid, a salt shaker full of cocaine, and a whole intergalactic parade of planets of all kinds of stimulants, trunks, shrieks, laughter ... as well as a quart of tequila, a quart of rum, a box Budweiser, a pint of raw ether, and two dozen amyl.

All this shit was hooked the night before, in the madness of speed racing across Los Angeles County, from Topanga to Watts, we grabbed whatever we could get our hands on. Not that we had it all need to for a trip and a break, but as soon as you get stuck up to your ears in a serious chemical collection, you immediately want 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 ethereal drinking. And I knew we would get to this rotten product very soon. Probably at the next gas station. We have appreciated almost everything else, and now - yes, it is time to take a good sip of the ether. And then do the next hundred miles in a hideous salivation of spastic stupor. The only way to stay alert on the air is to take as much amyl on your chest as possible — not all at once, but in portions, just enough to keep you focused at ninety miles an hour through Barstow.

“Old, this is the way to travel,” my lawyer remarked. He bent all over, turning on the radio at full volume, humming to the beat of the rhythm section and forcing out the words in a whiny voice: “One puff will take you away. Dear Jesus ... One puff will take you away ... "

One puff? Oh, you poor fool! Wait until you see those fucking bats. I could barely hear the radio, noisily leaning against the door, hugging the tape recorder that played Sympathy for the Devil all the time. We only had this one cassette, and we played it incessantly, over and over again - a crazy counterpoint to the radio, and also keeping our rhythm on the road. Constant speed is good for competent gas mileage during the run - and for some reason it seemed important then. Of course. On such, if I may say so, a trip, everyone should carefully monitor the consumption of gasoline. Avoid sudden accelerations and jerks, from which the blood runs cold.

My lawyer, unlike me, noticed the hitchhiker a long time ago. “Let's give the boy a lift,” he said, and before I could put forward any argument for or against, he stopped, and this unfortunate Oklahoma mudwin was already running as fast as he could toward the car, grinning from the top of his mouth and shouting: "Damn it! I've never ridden an open-top car before! "

- Really? I asked. “Okay, I guess you're ripe for this, huh?

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

“We are your friends,” my lawyer said. - We are not like the rest.

Oh God, I thought, he barely fit into the corner.

“Stop this bazaar,” I cut off the lawyer sharply. "Or I'll put leeches on you."

He grinned, seeming to drive in. Fortunately, the noise in the car was so terrible - the wind whistled, the radio and the tape recorder shouted - that the guy lounging in the backseat could not hear a word of what we were talking about. Or could he?

"How long are we still will we hold out? " - I wondered. How much time is left until the moment when one of us, delirious, will not unleash all the dogs on this boy? What will he think then? This loneliest desert was the last known home of the Mason family. Will he draw this unforgiving parallel when my attorney yells about bats and giant manta rays raining down on the car? If so, good, 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 walk away. 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 driven beast.

My God! Did I really say that? Or was he just thinking? Did I speak? Did they hear me? I glanced apprehensively at my attorney, but he didn't seem to be paying me the slightest attention - watching the road, driving our Great Red Shark at a speed of one hundred and ten or so. And not a sound from the back seat.

"Maybe I better grind with this boy?" - I thought. Perhaps if I will explain situation, he will relax slightly.

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

“By the way,” I said, “there’s one thing that you seem to need to understand.

He stared at me without blinking. Gritting your teeth?

- Can you hear me? I yelled.

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 (25.11.71) under the pseudonym "Raoul Duke"). Bob Geiger For reasons that there is no need to explain here, and Bob Dylan, per song "Mister tambourine man".

"He who makes a beast of himself,

gets rid of the pain of being human. "

Dr. Johnson.

PART ONE We were somewhere in the outskirts of Barstow, on the edge of the desert, when drugs came into play. I remember I said something like: - My head is spinning a little; maybe you'd better lead ... And suddenly a wild roar rose up 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 lowered in side of Las Vegas. And someone's voice was screaming: - Jesus Christ! What the hell are these beasts? Then it became quiet again. My lawyer pulled off his shirt and poured beer on his chest to speed up the tanning process. - What the hell are you yelling for? he mumbled, lifting his face to the sun, closing his eyes and covering them with the crescents of Spanish sunglasses. “None,” I replied. - It's your turn to drive. I hit the brakes and steered our Great Red Shark to the side of the highway. There is no need to remember bats, I thought. This pathetic bastard will soon see them himself. It was almost noon, and we still had more than a hundred miles to go. And these miles will be heavy. Very soon, I knew for sure that we would both be completely exhausted. But there was no turning back, no time to rest. We'll have to make a breakthrough. Press registration for the legendary "Mint-400" has already begun, and we need to be there by four to get our personal soundproof number. A prestigious sports magazine in New York took care of all the reserves, including this hefty red Chevy with retractable top we just rented in the Sunset Strip parking lot ... and I was, after all, a professional journalist; therefore, I had a commitment to light the story, whether good or bad it came out. In addition, the sports editors gave me $ 300 in pocket money, most of which had already been spent on highly dangerous drugs. The trunk of the car looked like a mobile police drug addiction laboratory. We had two packets of weed, seventy-five balls of mescaline, five sheets of high-potency acid marks, half a column of cocaine, and a whole galaxy of colorful boosters, boosters, screeches, laughs; and a quart of tequila, a quart of rum, a Budweiser box, a pint of pure ether, and two dozen wheels of amyl nitrate. It was all assembled last night, in a wild high-speed raid all over Los Angeles County, from Topanga to Watts, we picked everything we could get our hands on. It's not that we needed all of this on the road, but if once you get stuck seriously collecting drugs, then there is a tendency to squeeze out to the last. The only thing that really excited me was the broadcast. In the whole world there is nothing more helpless, irresponsible and defective than a person in the depths of the etheric arrival. And I knew that we would climb into this rot, and pretty soon. Most likely at the next gas station. We tried a little bit of everything, and now - yes, it's time to take a good sniff of the air. And then walk the next hundred miles in a spasmodic stupor of an eerie, slobbering type. The only way not to get stuck under the ether is to patch up more amyl nitrate wheels, not all at once, but gradually, just to maintain concentration at ninety miles an hour on the way through Barstow. “Dude, that's what I understand, travel like that,” my lawyer said. He bent down to turn up the volume on the radio, humming to the rhythm section and holding out, perhaps, words. - "One pass in turn, oh dear God ... One pass in turn ..." One pass? You fool! Wait, you'll see the damn bats soon. I could barely hear the radio ... collapsing to the far end of the seat, clutching the tape recorder, chopped to its fullest on Devil's Sympathy. It was our only cassette, so we played it over and over and over, like a crazy counterbalance to the radio. And also to maintain a road rhythm for yourself. Constant speed is good for gauging fuel - and for some reason, it seemed important back then. Seriously. On trips like this, it's important to keep track of your fuel consumption. Avoid any bursts of acceleration that cause blood to drain to the back of the brain. My lawyer noticed the hitchhiker long before me. “Let's give the guy a lift,” he suggested; and before I could find any argument, he slowed down, and this unfortunate Oakey boy ran to the car, grinning broadly, with the words: - Ah, damn! Never ridden in an open-top car! - What "yes? I asked. - Well, so you, it turns out, like ready, huh? The boy nodded passionately, and we started with a roar. “We're your friends,” my lawyer said. - We are not like some. "Oh my God," I thought. He bent it a little. “Stop talking,” I said sharply. - And then I'll put leeches on you. He grinned and seemed to understand. Fortunately, the roar in the car was so eerie - from the wind, radio and tape recorder - that the boy in the backseat could not hear a single word we said. Or could he? How long can we hold out? - it was interesting to me. How long before one of us starts raving and blizzard this guy? And what will he think then? This most desolate desert was the last known home of the Manson family. Will he go to a disgusting level of communication when my lawyer starts yelling about bats and electric stingrays descending from heaven on a car? If so - well, then you will have to cut off his head and bury him somewhere. Otherwise, without words, it is clear that you cannot let him go. He will turn us over in a moment to some Nazis from the local law enforcement bureau, and they will chase us like a pack of dogs. God! Did I say it out loud? Or was he just thinking? I was talking? Did they hear me? I stared at my lawyer, but he sank into oblivion - staring out at the road, driving our Great Red Shark in passing at a speed of 110 or so. No sound came from the back seat. Maybe I should have a chat with the guy, I thought. Maybe if I explain what's what, he'll calm down. Understandably, I turned around in the seat and gave him a beautiful wide smile ... admiring the shape of his skull. “By the way,” I said. - There is something that you, perhaps, should understand. He stared at me without blinking. Did he grind his teeth, or what? - Do you hear? I yelled. He nodded. “Okay,” I said. “Because I want you to know that we're on our way to Las Vegas in search of the American Dream.” I smiled. “That's why we rented this car. There is only one way to do this. Dumbfounded? He nodded again, but his eyes were nervous. - I want you to have all the ins and outs, - I say. - Because this is a very formidable assignment - with overtones of extreme personal danger ... Damn, I completely forgot about beer - will you? He shook his head. - Maybe ether? I suggested. - What? - Nothing. Let's get straight to the heart of the matter. You see, about twenty-four hours ago we were sitting in the Polo Lange, which is in the Beverly Hills hotel - in the open part, of course - and now, we are sitting, it means, under a palm tree, when a dwarf comes up to me in uniform, with a pink phone, and says - "This is probably the same call that you have been waiting for all this time, sir." I laughed and opened a can of beer, which froth the entire back seat with foam as I continued on: “And, can you imagine? He was right! I was expecting this call, but did not know who it would be from. Do you keep up with me? Our boy's face was a mask of pure fright and puzzlement. I drove on: - I want you to understand that the person behind the wheel is my lawyer! This isn't just some degenerate I picked up at The Strip. E-mine, look at him! He doesn't look like you or me, does he? This is because he is a foreigner. I think he's a Polynesian. But that doesn't matter, does it? Do you have any prejudices? - Oh hell, no! he gurgled. “I don’t think so,” I said. “Because, despite his race, this person is extremely dear to me,” I glanced at my lawyer, but his mind was somewhere else. I slashed my fist against the back of the driver's seat. - It's important, damn it! And so it was! The car swerved nauseously, then leveled off. - Keep your hands, bitch, away from my neck! - shouted my lawyer. The guy in the back seat looked like he was ready to jump out of the car and try his luck. Our vibrations were getting nasty - but why? I was at a loss. In this machine, the connection between human beings has disappeared? Have we degenerated to the level of stupid brutes? Because my story was true. I was sure of that. And it was extremely important, I felt, important in order to be absolutely clear about the meaning of our journey. We actually sat there at the Polo Lange - long hours - sipping on a Singaporean sling with mescal on the rim and beer as a puff. And when the call came, I was ready. The dwarf cautiously approached our table, I remember, and when he handed me the pink phone, I said nothing, just listened. And then he hung up, turning his face to my lawyer. “This is from the headquarters,” I said. “They want me to go straight to Las Vegas and get in touch with a photographer named Lacerda. He has all the details. I just need to move into the room, and he will find me. For a moment my lawyer did not say a word, then suddenly he came to life in a chair. - Eh, damn it! he exclaimed. - In my opinion, I see the essence of the matter ... And it seems to be very difficult. He tucked his khaki T-shirt into flared white jersey trousers and ordered more drinks. “You will need a lot of legal advice before this is over,” he said. “And here's my first piece of advice: you have to rent a very fast, topless car and get the hell out of LA at least forty-eight. He shook his head sadly. “My weekend is being closed, because, of course, I’ll have to go with you - and we need to kill ourselves in full. - Why not? - I answered. - If such things are worth doing at all, then they should be done right. We will need a bit of decent equipment and a lot of money for our pocket - at least for drugs and an ultrasensitive tape recorder for long recordings. - What is the report about? - he asked. - "Mint-400", - I answered. The most expensive off-road motorcycle and sand buggy race in organized sports history, a fantastic show honoring a fat-assed grossero named Del Webb, who owns the luxurious Mint Hotel in the heart of downtown Las Vegas ... or so they say in a press release; my man in New York just read it out loud to me. “Well,” he said. “As your lawyer, I advise you to buy a motorcycle. How else can you cover such an event truthfully? “Not good enough,” I said. "Where can we get Wincent Black Shadow?" - What's this? “Fantastic bike,” I replied. “The new model has something about two thousand cubic inches, brakes at two hundred horsepower at four thousand rpm, on a magnesium frame, with a double styrofoam seat, and weighs exactly two hundred pounds with all the gear. “Sounds like a good fit for this bullshit,” he said. “It is,” I assured him. - This bitch is not very good at turns, but a full paragraph in a straight line. Will bypass the F-111 before takeoff. - Before takeoff? he asked. - Can we handle such a sausage? “Easy,” I said. “Call New York for some money. 2. Withdrawal$ 300 from a sow woman in Beverly Hills The New York office turned out to be unfamiliar with Vincent Black Shadow, and from there I was redirected to the Los Angeles office - which is actually in Beverly Hills, just a few blocks from the Polo Lange - but when I got there there, about money, - the woman refused to give me more than $ 300 in cash. She has no idea who I am, she said, and I myself was sweating by then. My blood is too thick for California: in this climate I never manage to clearly explain anything - without getting wet with sweat ... not with red eyes and trembling hands. So I took $ 300 and left. My lawyer was waiting at a bar around the corner. “They’re no pontus,” he said. - Until they give us an unlimited loan. I assured him that they would give us. “All of you Polynesians are the same,” I tell him. - No belief in the root decency of culture white man... God, an hour ago we were sitting, over there, in a lousy baijinio, extinguished and paralyzed for the whole weekend, and then a certain absolute stranger from New York calls, tells me, they say, go to Las Vegas and don’t care about the expenses - and then he sends me away in Beverly Hills, where another complete stranger gives me $ 300 in real money for nothing ... Bro, I'm telling you, here it is - the American Dream in action! Yes, we are idiots if we do not ride this wild torpedo to the very end and limit. “And that's true,” he said. - We have to. “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. To prepare for a trip like this, my heart sensed, you can only dress up as peacocks and rip off the roof, and then screech across the desert - and light the start. Direct responsibility should never be overlooked. But what was the material? Nobody bothered to report. So we have to rattle it off ourselves. Free Enterprise. American dream. Horatio Alger Goes Crazy With Drugs In Las Vegas. Go ahead, get down to business - extreme journalism of the purest water. There was also a socio-psychological factor. From now on, and whenever life gets complicated and all sorts of bullshit is approaching, the only real cure is to load up on vile chemistry and then bastardly ride from Hollywood to Las Vegas. To relax, just like that, in the womb of the desert sun. Grab, remove the top of the car and screw it on, smear your face in white suntan cream and move out with music at full volume and at least a pint of air. Getting drugs was not a problem, but a car and a tape recorder are not easy to turn around at half past six on a Friday night in Hollywood. I already had a car, but much closer and slower than needed for the desert. We went to a Polynesian bar and from there my lawyer made seventeen calls until he found a convertible with adequate power and the right color. - Let it hang, - I hear his remark addressed to the phone. “We’ll come to bargain in half an hour,” and then, after a pause, he yelled. - What? Of course the gentleman has a large credit card ! You bitch can you imagine who you're talking to? “Don't let those 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 wish one of the new Belgian Heliowatts with a voice-controlled 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 ran over a pedestrian on the Sunset Strip. The store was already closed by the time we got there. There were people inside, but they didn't want to go to the double glass door until we kicked it a couple of times to show them how and how. Finally, two salespeople who polished car rims came to the door and we managed to bargain through a crack. Then they opened the door just enough to push the equipment out, then slammed and closed it again. “Come on, take this, and get the hell out of here,” one of them shouted through the crack. My lawyer turned and shook his fist in their direction. “We'll be back,” he shouted. - And somehow I'll throw, bitch, a bomb in this institution! I have your name on my check! I'll find out where you live and burn your house! “Now he will have something to think about,” he muttered as we drove off. - This guy is a psychopathic paranoid, anyway. You can see them right away. Then we again had problems in the car rental. After signing all the papers, I climbed into the car and almost lost control as I backed it up through the parking lot to the gas station. The rental man was visibly shaking. - Tell me, well ... uh ... you guys will take care of the car, huh? - Certainly. - Well, my God! - he said. “You just flew your butt off that two-foot concrete plinth and didn't even slow down! Fifty-five on the back! And barely missed the gas station! “No damage,” I said. - I always check the transmission like that. Rear limit. The stress factor. My lawyer, meanwhile, was carrying ice and rum from the Pinto into the back of the convertible. The man from the box office watched him nervously. “Tell me,” he asked. - Aren't you guys drunk for an hour? “I’m not,” I say. “Fill the fucking tank,” my lawyer blurted out. “We're in a hell of a hurry. We're on our way to Las Vegas for the desert races. - What? “Nothing,” I say. “We are responsible people,” I watched as he screwed the lid onto the tank, then transferred the unit to the first, and we dived into the traffic. “Another nervous one,” my lawyer said. - This, probably, was smashed under hydrocyanic acid. - Yeah, I would have treated him with reds. “Little reds won't help a pig,” he replied. - To hell with him. We need to take care of a bunch of things before we can get out on the road. “I’d get a couple of church robes,” I say. - In Las Vegas can come in handy. But the costume shops were closed, and we did not rob the church. “Bastard,” my lawyer said. “And don't forget that many cops are ardent Catholics. Can you imagine what these bastards will arrange for us if we are caught completely extinguished and drunk in stolen uniforms? God, they castrate us. “You're right,” I say. - And, for Christ's sake, do not smoke this pipe at traffic lights. Don't forget that you can see us. He nodded. “We need a big bulbululator. They would have kept him here, under the seat, hidden. And if anyone saw us, they would decide that we have oxygen. We spent the rest of that evening circling around looking for materials and loading the car. Then we ate mescaline and went swimming in the ocean. Somewhere around dawn we had a bite to eat at a Malibu coffee shop, then very carefully drove through the city and tumbled out onto the smoke-filled Pasadena Highway heading east.

Hunter Thompson

Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas. A wild journey into the Heart of the American Dream

One who becomes a beast gets rid of the pain of being human

Dr. Samuel Johnson

Series "Alternative"

Hunter S. Thompson

FEAR AND LOATHING IN LAS VEGAS

Translated from English by Alex Kervey

Computer design by A. Barkovskaya

Reprinted by permission of 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

It was almost noon, and we still had over a hundred miles to go. Harsh miles. I knew - time is running out, both of us at the moment will be pulled apart so that the heavens will become hot. But there was no turning back, and no time for rest. Let's get out on the go. Press registration for the legendary Mnit 400 is in full swing, and we need to be in time by four to claim our soundproof suite. A fashion sports New York magazine took care of the armor, apart from that big red open-top chevro we rented from the parking lot on Sunset Boulevard ... And I am, among other things, a professional journalist: so I had a commitment present 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 looked like a mobile police drug laboratory. We had at our disposal two bags of grass, seventy-five balls of mescaline, five strips of blotting cakes of ferocious acid, a salt shaker full of cocaine, and a whole intergalactic parade of planets of all kinds of stimulants, trunks, shrieks, laughter ... as well as a quart of tequila, a quart of rum, a box Budweiser, a pint of raw ether, and two dozen amyl.

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 ethereal drinking. And I knew we would get to this rotten product very soon. Probably at the next gas station. We have appreciated almost everything else, and now - yes, it is time to take a good sip of the ether. And then do the next hundred miles in a hideous salivation of spastic stupor. The only way to stay alert on the air is to take as much amyl on your chest as possible — not all at once, but in portions, just enough to keep you focused at ninety miles an hour through Barstow.

- Really? I asked. “Okay, I guess you're ripe for this, huh?

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

“We are your friends,” my lawyer said. - We are not like the rest.

Oh God, I thought, he barely fit into the corner.

“Stop this bazaar,” I cut off the lawyer sharply. "Or I'll put leeches on you."

"Maybe I better grind with this boy?" - I thought. Perhaps if I will explain situation, he will relax slightly.