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

My attorney pulled on a pair of elephant - leg pants and a glaze - black shirt, then we hurried out of the room. I could see he was having trouble getting oriented, but I refused to humor him.

“Well…“ I said. “What are your plans?”

“Plans?”

We were waiting for the elevator.

“Lucy,” I said.

He shook his head, struggling to focus on the question.

“Shit,” he said finally. “I met her on the plane and I had all that acid.” He shrugged. “You know, those little blue barrels. Jesus, she’s a religious freak. She’s running away from home for something like the fifth time in six months. It’s terrible. I gave her that cap before I realized… shit, she’s never even had adrinkf’

“Well,” I said, “it’ll probably work out. We can keep her loaded and peddle her ass at the drug convention.”

He stared at me.

“She’s perfect for this gig,” I said. “These cops will go fifty bucks a head to beat her into submission and then gang - fuck her. We can set her up in one of these back - street motels, hang pictures of Jesus all over the room, then turn these pigsloose on her… Hell, she’s strong; she’ll hold her own.”

His face was twitching badly. We were in the elevator now, descending into the lobby. “Jesus Christ,” he muttered. “I knew you were sick, but I never expected to hear you actually say that kind of stuff.”

He seemed stunned.

I laughed. “It’s straight economics. This girl is a godsend!” I fixed him with a natural Bogart smile, all teeth… Shit, we’re almost broke! And suddenly you pick up some muscle - bound loony who can make us a grand a day.”

“No!” he shouted. “Stop talking like that!” The elevator door opened and we walked toward the parking lot.

“I figure she can do about four at a time,” I said.

“Christ, if we keep her full of acid that’s more like two grand a day; maybe three.”

“You filthy bastard!” he sputtered. “I should cave your fucking head in!” He was squinting at me, shielding his eyes from the sun. I spotted the Whale about fifty feet from the door. “There it is,” I said. “Not a bad looking car, for a pimp…

He groaned. His face reflected the struggle that I knew he was having, in his brain, with sporadic acid rushes: Bad waves of painful intensity, followed by total confusion.

When I opened the trunk of the Whale to get the bags, he got angry. “What the hell are you doing?” he snapped.

“This isn’t Lucy’s car.