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

confidently into their midst. Register at the Flamingo and have the White Caddy sent over at once. Do it right; remember Horatio Alger. . . .
    I looked across the road and saw a huge red sign that said B EER . Wonderful. I left the Shark by the phone booth and reeled across the highway into the Hardware Barn. A Jew loomed up from behind a pile of sprockets and asked me what I wanted.
    “Ballantine Ale,” I said . . . a very mystic long shot, unknown between Newark and San Francisco.
    He served it up, ice-cold.
    I relaxed. Suddenly everything was going right; I was finally getting the breaks.
    The bartender approached me with a smile. “Where ya headin’, young man?”
    “Las Vegas,” I said.
    He smiled. “A great town, that Vegas. You’ll have good luck there; you’re the type.”
    “I know,” I said. “I’m a Triple Scorpio.”
    He seemed pleased. “That’s a fine combination,” he said. “You can’t lose.”
    I laughed. “Don’t worry,” I said. “I’m actually the district attorney from Ignoto county. Just another good American like yourself.”
    His smile disappeared. Did he understand? I couldn’t be sure. But that hardly mattered now. I was going back to Vegas. I had no choice.

PART TWO

About 20 miles east of Baker I stopped to check the drug bag. The sun was hot and I felt like killing something. Anything. Even a big lizard. Drill the fucker. I got my attorney’s .357 Magnum out of the trunk and spun the cylinder. It was loaded all the way around: Long, nasty little slugs—158 grains with a fine flat trajectory and painted aztec gold on the tips. I blew the horn a few times, hoping to call up an iguana. Get the buggers moving. They were out there, I knew, in that goddamn sea of cactus—hunkered down, barely breathing, and every one of the stinking little bastards was loaded with deadly poison.
    Three fast explosions knocked me off balance. Three deafening, double-action blasts from the .357 in my right hand. Jesus! Firing at nothing, for no reason at all. Bad craziness. I tossed the gun into the front seat of the Shark and stared nervously at the highway. No cars either way; the road was empty for two or three miles in both directions.
    Fine luck. It would not
do
to be found in the desert under these circumstances: firing wildly into the cactus from a car full of drugs. And especially not now, on the lam from the Highway Patrol.
    Awkward questions would arise: “Well now, Mister . . . ah . . . Duke; you understand, of course, that it
is
illegal to discharge a firearm of any kind while standing on a federal highway?”
    “What? Even in self-defense? This goddamn gun has a
hair trigger,
officer. The truth is I only meant to fire
once
—just to scare the little bastards.”
    A heavy stare, then speaking very slowly: “Are you saying, Mister Duke . . . that you were
attacked
out here?”
    “Well . . . no . . . not literally attacked, officer, but seriously
menaced.
I stopped to piss, and the minute I stepped out of the car these filthy little bags of poison were all around me. They moved like
greased lightning!”
    Would this story hold up?
    No. They would place me under arrest, then routinely search the car—and when that happened all kinds of savage hell would break loose. They would never believe all these drugs were necessary to my work; that in truth I was a professional journalist on my way to Las Vegas to cover the National District Attorneys’ Conference on Narcotics and Dangerous Drugs.
    “Just samples, officer. I got this stuff off a road man for the Neo-American Church back in Barstow. He started acting funny, so I worked him over.”
    Would they buy this?
    No. They would lock me in some hellhole of a jail and beat me on the kidneys with big branches—causing me to piss blood for years to come. . . .
    Luckily, nobody bothered me while I ran a quick inventory on the kit-bag. The stash was a hopeless mess, all churned together and half-crushed. Some of the mescaline pellets had