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Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas :: Thompson Hunter S.
Страница: 163 из 255Times and scour the sports section for a Mint400 story. Get the details. Cover myself. Even on the Run, in the grip of a serious Fear…
I knew it was Lacerda in that plane, heading back to New York. He told me last night that he meant to catch the first flight.
So there he goes… and here I am, with no attorney, slumped on a red plastic stool in Wild Bill’s Tavern, nervously sipping a Budweiser in a bar just coming awake to an early morning rush of pimps and pinball hustlers… with a huge Red Shark just outside the door so full of felonies that I’m afraid to even look at it.
But I can’t abandon the fucker. The only hope is to somehow get it across three hundred miles of open road between here and Sanctuary. But, sweet Jesus, I am tired! I’m scared. I’m crazy. This culture has beaten me down. What the fuck am I doing out here? This is not even the story I was supposed to be working on. My agent warned me against it. All signs were negative - especially that evil Dwark with the pink telephone in the Polo Lounge. I should have stayed there… anything but this.
Aaawww… Mama
can this really be the end?»
No!
Who played that song? Did I actually hear that fucking thing on the jukebox just now? At 9:19 on this filthy grey morning in Wild Bill’s Tavern?
No. That was only in my brain, some long - lost echo of a painful dawn in Toronto… a long time ago, half - mad in another world…, but no different.
HELP!
How many more nights and weird mornings can this terrible shit go on? How long can the body and the brain tolerate this doom - struck craziness? This grinding of teeth, this pouring of sweat, this pounding of blood in the temples… small blue veins gone amok in front of the ears, sixty and seventy hours with no sleep.
And now that is the jukebox! Yes, no doubt about it and why not? A very popular song: “Like a bridge over troubled water… I will lay me down… ”
BOOM. Flashing paranoia. What kind of rat - bastard psychotic would play that song - right now, at this moment? Has somebody followed me here? Does the bartendress know who I am? Can she see me behind these mirrors?
All bartenders are treacherous, but this one is a surly middle - aged fat woman wearing a muu - muu and Iron Boy overalls… probably Wild Bill’s woman.
Jesus, bad waves of paranoia, madness, fear and loathing - intolerable vibrations in this place. Get out.
I knew it was Lacerda in that plane, heading back to New York. He told me last night that he meant to catch the first flight.
So there he goes… and here I am, with no attorney, slumped on a red plastic stool in Wild Bill’s Tavern, nervously sipping a Budweiser in a bar just coming awake to an early morning rush of pimps and pinball hustlers… with a huge Red Shark just outside the door so full of felonies that I’m afraid to even look at it.
But I can’t abandon the fucker. The only hope is to somehow get it across three hundred miles of open road between here and Sanctuary. But, sweet Jesus, I am tired! I’m scared. I’m crazy. This culture has beaten me down. What the fuck am I doing out here? This is not even the story I was supposed to be working on. My agent warned me against it. All signs were negative - especially that evil Dwark with the pink telephone in the Polo Lounge. I should have stayed there… anything but this.
Aaawww… Mama
can this really be the end?»
No!
Who played that song? Did I actually hear that fucking thing on the jukebox just now? At 9:19 on this filthy grey morning in Wild Bill’s Tavern?
No. That was only in my brain, some long - lost echo of a painful dawn in Toronto… a long time ago, half - mad in another world…, but no different.
HELP!
How many more nights and weird mornings can this terrible shit go on? How long can the body and the brain tolerate this doom - struck craziness? This grinding of teeth, this pouring of sweat, this pounding of blood in the temples… small blue veins gone amok in front of the ears, sixty and seventy hours with no sleep.
And now that is the jukebox! Yes, no doubt about it and why not? A very popular song: “Like a bridge over troubled water… I will lay me down… ”
BOOM. Flashing paranoia. What kind of rat - bastard psychotic would play that song - right now, at this moment? Has somebody followed me here? Does the bartendress know who I am? Can she see me behind these mirrors?
All bartenders are treacherous, but this one is a surly middle - aged fat woman wearing a muu - muu and Iron Boy overalls… probably Wild Bill’s woman.
Jesus, bad waves of paranoia, madness, fear and loathing - intolerable vibrations in this place. Get out.