Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas   ::   Thompson Hunter S.

The top was jammedabout halfway up, but I decided to try for the airport. If this goddamn junker wouldn't run right, I could always abandon it and call a cab. To hell with this gar bage from Detroit. They shouldn't be allowed to get away with it.

The sun was coming up when I got to the airport. I left the Whale in the VIP parking lot. A kid about fifteen years old checked it in, but I refused to answer his questions. He was very excited about the overall condition of the vehicle. "Holy God!" he kept shouting. "How did this happen?" He kept moving around the car, pointing at various dents, rips and crushed places.

"I know," I said. "They beat the shit out of it. This is a ter rible goddamn town for driving around in convertibles. The worst time was right out on the Boulevard in front of the Sahara. You know that corner where all the junkies hang out? Jesus, I couldn't believe it when they all went crazy at once."

The kid was none too bright. His face had gone blank early on, and now heseemed in a state of mute fear.

“Don’t worry,” I said. “I’m insured.” I showed him the contract, pointin to the small-print clause where it said I was insured against ALL damages, for only two dollars a day.

The kid was still nodding when I fled. I felt a bit guilty about leaving him to deal with the car. There was no way explain the massive damage. It was finished, a wreck, totaled out. Under normal circumstances I would have been seized and arrested when l tried to turn it in… but not at this of the morning, with only this kid to deal with. I was, all, a "VIP." Otherwise, they would never have chartered the car to me in the first place……

Let the chickens come home to roost, I thought as I hurried into the airport. It was still too early to act normal, so I hunkered down in the coffee shop behind the LA. Times. Some where down the corridor a jukebox was playing "One Toke Over the Line." I listened for a moment, but my nerve ends no longer receptive. The only song I might have been to relate to, at that point, was "Mister Tambourine." Or maybe "Memphis Blues Again…

“Aww, mama… can this really… be the end…?”

»My plane left at eight, which meant I had two hours to kill. Feeling desperately visible. There was no doubt in my mind they were looking for me; the net was closing down… only a matter of time before they ran me down like some kind of rabid animal.

I checked all my luggage through the chute. All but the satchel, which was full of drugs. And the.357.