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Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas :: Thompson Hunter S.
Страница: 89 из 255These are people who go abso lutely crazy at the sight of an old hooker stripping down to her pasties and prancing out on the runway to the big-beat sound of a dozen 50-year-old junkies kicking out the jams on "September Song."
It was some time around three when we pulled into the parking lot of the North Vegas diner. I was looking for a copy of the Los Angeles Times, for news of the outside world, but a quick glance at the newspaper racks amde a bad joke of that notion. They don't need the Times in North Vegas. No news is good news.
“Fuck newspapers," said my attorney. "What we need now is coffee."
I agreed, but I stole a copy of the Vegas Sun anyway. It yesterday's edition, but I didn't care. The idea of entering a coffee shop without a newspaper in my hands made me nervous. There was always the Sports Section; get wired on baseball scores and pro-football rumors: "Bart Starr Beaten by Thugs in Chicago Tavern; Packers Seek Trade"… ”Namath Quits Jets to be Governor of Alabama"… and a speculative piece on page 46 about a rookie sensation Harrison Fire, out of Grambling: runs the hundred in nine flat, 344 pounds and still growing.
“This man Fire has definite promise," says the coach. "Yesterday, before practice, he destroyed a Greyhound Bus with bare hands, and last night he killed a subway. He's a natural for color TV. I'm not one to play favorites, but it looks like i'll have to make room for him."
Indeed. There is always room on TV for a man who can beat people to jelly in nine flat… But not many of these gathered, on this night, in the North Star Coffee Lounge. We had the place to ourselves - which proved to be fortunate, because we'd eaten two more pellets of mescaline on way over, and the effects were beginning to manifest.
My attorney was no longer vomiting, or even acting sick. He ordered coffee with the authority of a man long accustmed to quick service. The waitress had the appearance of a hooker who had finally found her place in life. She was definitely in charge here, and she eyed us with obvious disapproval as we settled onto our stools.
I was’nt paying much attention. The North Star Coffee Lounge seemed like a fairly safe haven from our storms. There are some you go into - in this line of work - that you know will be heavy. The details don't matter. All you know, for sure, is that your brain starts humming with brutal vibes as you approach the front door. Something wild and evil is about to happen; and it's going to involve you.
But there was nothing in the atmosphere of the North Star to put me on my guard. The waitress was passively hostile, but I was accustomed to that. She was a big woman. Not fat, but large in every way, long sinewy arms and a brawler's jawbone.
It was some time around three when we pulled into the parking lot of the North Vegas diner. I was looking for a copy of the Los Angeles Times, for news of the outside world, but a quick glance at the newspaper racks amde a bad joke of that notion. They don't need the Times in North Vegas. No news is good news.
“Fuck newspapers," said my attorney. "What we need now is coffee."
I agreed, but I stole a copy of the Vegas Sun anyway. It yesterday's edition, but I didn't care. The idea of entering a coffee shop without a newspaper in my hands made me nervous. There was always the Sports Section; get wired on baseball scores and pro-football rumors: "Bart Starr Beaten by Thugs in Chicago Tavern; Packers Seek Trade"… ”Namath Quits Jets to be Governor of Alabama"… and a speculative piece on page 46 about a rookie sensation Harrison Fire, out of Grambling: runs the hundred in nine flat, 344 pounds and still growing.
“This man Fire has definite promise," says the coach. "Yesterday, before practice, he destroyed a Greyhound Bus with bare hands, and last night he killed a subway. He's a natural for color TV. I'm not one to play favorites, but it looks like i'll have to make room for him."
Indeed. There is always room on TV for a man who can beat people to jelly in nine flat… But not many of these gathered, on this night, in the North Star Coffee Lounge. We had the place to ourselves - which proved to be fortunate, because we'd eaten two more pellets of mescaline on way over, and the effects were beginning to manifest.
My attorney was no longer vomiting, or even acting sick. He ordered coffee with the authority of a man long accustmed to quick service. The waitress had the appearance of a hooker who had finally found her place in life. She was definitely in charge here, and she eyed us with obvious disapproval as we settled onto our stools.
I was’nt paying much attention. The North Star Coffee Lounge seemed like a fairly safe haven from our storms. There are some you go into - in this line of work - that you know will be heavy. The details don't matter. All you know, for sure, is that your brain starts humming with brutal vibes as you approach the front door. Something wild and evil is about to happen; and it's going to involve you.
But there was nothing in the atmosphere of the North Star to put me on my guard. The waitress was passively hostile, but I was accustomed to that. She was a big woman. Not fat, but large in every way, long sinewy arms and a brawler's jawbone.