JК
Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas :: Thompson Hunter S.
Страница: 197 из 255There was simply no call, at this conference, for anything but a massive consumption of Downers: Reds, Grass and Booze, because the whole program had apparently been set up by people who had been in a Seconal stupor since 1964.
Here were more than a thousand top-level cops telling each other "we must come to terms with the drug culture," but they had no idea where to start. They couldn't even find the goddamn thing. There were rumors in the hallways that maybe the Mafia was behind it. Or perhaps the Beatles. At one point somebody in the audience asked Bboomquist if he thought Margaret Mead's "strange behavior," of late, might possibly be explained by a private marijuana addiction.
"I really don't know," Bboomquist replied. "But at her age, if she did smoke grass, she'd have one hell of a trip."
The audience roared with laughter at this remark.
My attorney leaned over to whisper that he was leaving. "I'll be down in the casino," he said. "I know a hell of a lot better ways to waste my time than listening to this bullshit." He stood up, knocking his ashtray off the arm of his chair, and plunged down the aisle toward the door.
The seats were not arranged for random movement. People tried to make a path for him, but there was no room to move.
"Watch yourself!" somebody shouted as he bulled over them.
"Fuck you!" he snarled.
"Down in front!" somebody else yelled.
By now he was almost to the door. "I have to get out!" he shouted… "I don’t belong here!"
“Good riddance,” said a voice.
He paused, looking around - then he seemed to think better of it, and kept moving. By the time he got to the exit the whole rear of the room was in turmoil. Even Bloomquist, far up front on the stage, seemed aware of a distant trouble. He stopped talking and peered nervously in the direction of the noise. Probably he thought a brawl had erupted - maybe a racial conflict of some kind, something that couldn't be helped.
I stood up and plunged toward the door. It seemed like as good a time as any to flee. "Pardon me, I feel sick," I said to the first leg I stepped on. It jerked back, and I said it again:
"Sorry, I'm about to be sick… sorry, sick…, beg pardon, yes, feeling sick…
This time a path opened very nicely. Not a word of protest. Hands actually helped me along. They feared I was about to vomit, and nobody wanted it - at least not on them. I made it to the door in about forty-five seconds.
My attorney was downstairs at the bar, talking to a sporty - looking cop about forty whose plastic name - tag said he was the DA from someplace in Georgia.
Here were more than a thousand top-level cops telling each other "we must come to terms with the drug culture," but they had no idea where to start. They couldn't even find the goddamn thing. There were rumors in the hallways that maybe the Mafia was behind it. Or perhaps the Beatles. At one point somebody in the audience asked Bboomquist if he thought Margaret Mead's "strange behavior," of late, might possibly be explained by a private marijuana addiction.
"I really don't know," Bboomquist replied. "But at her age, if she did smoke grass, she'd have one hell of a trip."
The audience roared with laughter at this remark.
My attorney leaned over to whisper that he was leaving. "I'll be down in the casino," he said. "I know a hell of a lot better ways to waste my time than listening to this bullshit." He stood up, knocking his ashtray off the arm of his chair, and plunged down the aisle toward the door.
The seats were not arranged for random movement. People tried to make a path for him, but there was no room to move.
"Watch yourself!" somebody shouted as he bulled over them.
"Fuck you!" he snarled.
"Down in front!" somebody else yelled.
By now he was almost to the door. "I have to get out!" he shouted… "I don’t belong here!"
“Good riddance,” said a voice.
He paused, looking around - then he seemed to think better of it, and kept moving. By the time he got to the exit the whole rear of the room was in turmoil. Even Bloomquist, far up front on the stage, seemed aware of a distant trouble. He stopped talking and peered nervously in the direction of the noise. Probably he thought a brawl had erupted - maybe a racial conflict of some kind, something that couldn't be helped.
I stood up and plunged toward the door. It seemed like as good a time as any to flee. "Pardon me, I feel sick," I said to the first leg I stepped on. It jerked back, and I said it again:
"Sorry, I'm about to be sick… sorry, sick…, beg pardon, yes, feeling sick…
This time a path opened very nicely. Not a word of protest. Hands actually helped me along. They feared I was about to vomit, and nobody wanted it - at least not on them. I made it to the door in about forty-five seconds.
My attorney was downstairs at the bar, talking to a sporty - looking cop about forty whose plastic name - tag said he was the DA from someplace in Georgia.