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Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas :: Thompson Hunter S.
Страница: 164 из 255Flee… and suddenly it occurs to me, some final flash of lunatic shrewdness before the darkness closes in, that my legal/hotel checkout time is not until noon… which gives me at least two hours of legitimate high - speed driving to get out of this goddamn state before I become a fugitive in the eyes of the law.
Wonderful luck. By the time the alarm goes off, I can be running full bore somewhere between Needles and Death Valley - jamming the accelerator through the floorboard and shaking my fist up at Efrem Zimbalist, Jr., swooping down on me in his FBI/Screaming Eagle helicopter.
YOU CAN RUN, BUT YOU CAN’T HIDE
(… warning to smack dealers seen on a bulletin board in Boulder, CO.)
Fuck you, Efrem, that wisdom cuts both ways.
As far as you and the Mint people know, I am still up there l850 - legally and spiritually if not in the actual flesh - a “Do Not Disturb” sign hung out to ward off disturb - The maids won’t come near that room as long as that sign is on the doorknob. My attorney saw to that - along with 600 bars of Neutrogena soap that I still have to deliver to Malibu. What will the FBI make of that? This Great Red Shark full of Neutrogena soap bars? All completely legal. The maids gave us that soap. They’ll swear to it… Or will they?
Of course not. Those goddamn treacherous maids will swear they were menaced by two heavily - armed crazies who threatened them with a Vincent Black Shadow unless they gave up all their soap.
Jesus Creeping God! Is there a priest in this tavern? I want to confess! I’m a fucking sinner! Venal, mortal, carnal, major, minor - however you want to call it, Lord… I’m guilty.
But do me this one last favor: just give me five more high - speed hours before you bring the hammer down; just let me get rid of this goddamn car and off of this horrible desert.
Which is not really a hell of a lot to ask, Lord, because the
incredible truth is that I am not guilty. All I did was take your
gibberish seriously… and you see where it got me? My primitive Christian instincts have made me a criminal.
Creeping through the casino at six in the morning with a suitcase full of grapefruit and “Mint 400” T - shirts, I remember telling myself, over and over again, “You are not guilty.” This is merely a necessary expedient, to avoid a nasty scene. After all, I made no binding agreements; this is an institutional debt - nothing personal. This whole goddamn nightmare is the fault of that stinking, irresponsible magazine. Some fool in New York did this to me. It was his idea, Lord, not mine.
And now look at me: half - crazy with fear, driving 120 miles an hour across Death Valley in some car I never even wanted.
Wonderful luck. By the time the alarm goes off, I can be running full bore somewhere between Needles and Death Valley - jamming the accelerator through the floorboard and shaking my fist up at Efrem Zimbalist, Jr., swooping down on me in his FBI/Screaming Eagle helicopter.
YOU CAN RUN, BUT YOU CAN’T HIDE
(… warning to smack dealers seen on a bulletin board in Boulder, CO.)
Fuck you, Efrem, that wisdom cuts both ways.
As far as you and the Mint people know, I am still up there l850 - legally and spiritually if not in the actual flesh - a “Do Not Disturb” sign hung out to ward off disturb - The maids won’t come near that room as long as that sign is on the doorknob. My attorney saw to that - along with 600 bars of Neutrogena soap that I still have to deliver to Malibu. What will the FBI make of that? This Great Red Shark full of Neutrogena soap bars? All completely legal. The maids gave us that soap. They’ll swear to it… Or will they?
Of course not. Those goddamn treacherous maids will swear they were menaced by two heavily - armed crazies who threatened them with a Vincent Black Shadow unless they gave up all their soap.
Jesus Creeping God! Is there a priest in this tavern? I want to confess! I’m a fucking sinner! Venal, mortal, carnal, major, minor - however you want to call it, Lord… I’m guilty.
But do me this one last favor: just give me five more high - speed hours before you bring the hammer down; just let me get rid of this goddamn car and off of this horrible desert.
Which is not really a hell of a lot to ask, Lord, because the
incredible truth is that I am not guilty. All I did was take your
gibberish seriously… and you see where it got me? My primitive Christian instincts have made me a criminal.
Creeping through the casino at six in the morning with a suitcase full of grapefruit and “Mint 400” T - shirts, I remember telling myself, over and over again, “You are not guilty.” This is merely a necessary expedient, to avoid a nasty scene. After all, I made no binding agreements; this is an institutional debt - nothing personal. This whole goddamn nightmare is the fault of that stinking, irresponsible magazine. Some fool in New York did this to me. It was his idea, Lord, not mine.
And now look at me: half - crazy with fear, driving 120 miles an hour across Death Valley in some car I never even wanted.