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Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas :: Thompson Hunter S.
Страница: 133 из 255What the hell is going on down there?
I rolled up all the windows and eased down the gravel road, hunched low on the wheel… until I saw about a dozen figures pointing shotguns into the air, firing atregular intervals.
Standing on a slab of concrete out here in the mesquite - desert, this scraggly little oasis in a wasteland north of Vegas.. They were clustered, with their shotguns, about fifty yards away from a one - story concrete/block - house, half - shaded by ten or twelve trees and surrounded by cop - cars, bike - trailers and motorcycles.
Of course. The Mint Gun Club! These lunatics weren’t letting anything interfere with their target practice. Here were about a hundred bikers, mechanics and assorted motorsport types milling around in the pit area, signing in for tomorrow’s race, idly sipping beers and appraising each other’s machinery - and right in the middle of all this, oblivious to everything but the clay pigeons flipping out of the traps every five seconds or so, the shotgun people never missed a beat.
Well, why not? I thought. The shooting provided a certain rhythm - sort of a steady bass - line - to the high - pitched chaos of the bike scene. I parked the car and wandered into the crowd, leaving my attorney in his coma.
I bought a beer and watched the bikes checking in. Many
Husquavarnas, high - tuned Swedish fireballs… also Yamahas, Kawasakis, a few 500 Triumphs, Maicos, there a CZ, a Pursang… all very fast, super - light dfrt bikes. No Hogs in this league, not even a Sportster… that would be like entering our Great Red Shark in the dune buggy competition.
Maybe I should do that, I thought. Sign my attorney up as the driver, then send him out to the starting line with a head full of ether and acid. How would they handle it?Nobody would dare go out on the track with a person that crazy. He would roll on the first turn, and take out four or five dune buggies - a Kamikaze trip.
“What’s the entry fee?” I asked the desk - man.
“Two fifty,” he said.
“What if I told you I had a Vincent Black Shadow?”He stared up at me, saying nothing, not friendly. I noticed he was wearing a.38 revolver on his belt. “Forget it,” I said. “My driver’s sick, anyway.”
His eyes narrowed. “Your driver ain’t the only one sick around here, buddy.”
“He has a bone in his throat,” I said.
“What?”
The man was getting ugly, but suddenly his eyes switched away. He was staring at something else
My attorney no longer wearing his Danish sunglasses, no longer wearing his Acapulco shirt… a very crazy looking,half - naked and breathing heavily.
“What’s the trouble here?” he croaked.
I rolled up all the windows and eased down the gravel road, hunched low on the wheel… until I saw about a dozen figures pointing shotguns into the air, firing atregular intervals.
Standing on a slab of concrete out here in the mesquite - desert, this scraggly little oasis in a wasteland north of Vegas.. They were clustered, with their shotguns, about fifty yards away from a one - story concrete/block - house, half - shaded by ten or twelve trees and surrounded by cop - cars, bike - trailers and motorcycles.
Of course. The Mint Gun Club! These lunatics weren’t letting anything interfere with their target practice. Here were about a hundred bikers, mechanics and assorted motorsport types milling around in the pit area, signing in for tomorrow’s race, idly sipping beers and appraising each other’s machinery - and right in the middle of all this, oblivious to everything but the clay pigeons flipping out of the traps every five seconds or so, the shotgun people never missed a beat.
Well, why not? I thought. The shooting provided a certain rhythm - sort of a steady bass - line - to the high - pitched chaos of the bike scene. I parked the car and wandered into the crowd, leaving my attorney in his coma.
I bought a beer and watched the bikes checking in. Many
Husquavarnas, high - tuned Swedish fireballs… also Yamahas, Kawasakis, a few 500 Triumphs, Maicos, there a CZ, a Pursang… all very fast, super - light dfrt bikes. No Hogs in this league, not even a Sportster… that would be like entering our Great Red Shark in the dune buggy competition.
Maybe I should do that, I thought. Sign my attorney up as the driver, then send him out to the starting line with a head full of ether and acid. How would they handle it?Nobody would dare go out on the track with a person that crazy. He would roll on the first turn, and take out four or five dune buggies - a Kamikaze trip.
“What’s the entry fee?” I asked the desk - man.
“Two fifty,” he said.
“What if I told you I had a Vincent Black Shadow?”He stared up at me, saying nothing, not friendly. I noticed he was wearing a.38 revolver on his belt. “Forget it,” I said. “My driver’s sick, anyway.”
His eyes narrowed. “Your driver ain’t the only one sick around here, buddy.”
“He has a bone in his throat,” I said.
“What?”
The man was getting ugly, but suddenly his eyes switched away. He was staring at something else
My attorney no longer wearing his Danish sunglasses, no longer wearing his Acapulco shirt… a very crazy looking,half - naked and breathing heavily.
“What’s the trouble here?” he croaked.