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

Awkward questions would arise: “Well now, Mister… ah… Duke; you understand, of course, that it is illegal to dise a firearm of any kind while standing on a federal way?”

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 disintegrated into a reddish - brown powder, but I counted about thirty - five or forty still intact. My attorney had eaten all the reds, but there was quite a bit of speed left… no more grass, the coke bottle was empty, one acid blotter, a nice brown lump of opium hash and six loose amyls… Not enough for anything serious, but a careful rationing of the mescaline would probably get us through the four - day Drug Conference.

On the outskirts of Vegas I stopped at a neighborhood pharmacy and bought two quarts of Gold tequila, two fifths of Chivas Regal and a pint of ether. I was tempted to ask for some amyls. My angina pectoris was starting to act up. But druggist had the eyes of a mean Baptist hysteric. I told n I needed the ether to get the tape off my legs, but by that time he’d already rung the stuff up and bagged it. He didn’t give a fuck about ether.

I wondered what he would say if I asked him for $22 worth Romilar and a tank of nitrous oxide. Probably he would sold it to me.