I purchased a thin book with the strange title “Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas” and frighteningly careless illustrations in the late 1990s in a long-defunct intellectual book store on Mayakovskaya. Terry Gilliam had not yet released the film of the same name; Thompson in Russia was known in very narrow circles to which I did not belong, so I made the purchase based more on intuition. It was in December, and on New Year’s Eve, going to Penza, I took with me a recently purchased book. The road story in the general carriage began to sparkle with additional colors, I was simultaneously rushing through midday California in the Big Red Shark and slowly crossing the Ryazan region along the dark side of the Earth; phantasmagorical policemen, journalists, lizards, waiters and other creatures of Hunter Thompson’s altered consciousness were extremely successful in counterpointing with my fellow travelers - businessmen-baggers, grandmothers and students.
Later, I repeatedly re-read “Fear and Loathing...”, each time discovering new facets there. The crowning numbers, of course, are the drug trips of Raoul Duke and Dr. Gonzo, who go prohibitively far in self-destructive criticism of the American Dream, but to reduce the value of this book to a set of gags would be a big mistake. Duke and Gonzo use drugs not as a relaxant from the righteous labors of pumping money out of the world around them, but as a way of understanding reality, and perhaps as a way of survival. “He who becomes a beast escapes the pain of being a man.” The book was written in the early 1970s, when the movement of the 1960s was choking, and the “new stupid” and the “generation of pigs” (then personified primarily by Nixon) were moving on a victorious march towards Reaganomics and Bushism. The battle for the future was lost, and the participants in the movement of the 60s (under the guise of Duke, the author, a very radical journalist, portrayed himself, and the prototype of Doctor Gonzo was the left-wing lawyer Acosta) could only tease the fosterlings of the system, unable to shake its foundations. And although the book is filled with amazing phrases for all occasions, its essence is expressed in an extremely sad paragraph:
“It was a universal fantastic feeling that everything we are doing is right, and we are winning... And this, I believe, is that very trick - the feeling of inevitable victory over the forces of the Old and Evil. Not in any political or military sense: we didn’t need it. Our energy just prevailed. And it was pointless to fight - on our side or on theirs. We caught that magical moment; we rode the crest of a high and beautiful wave... And now, less than five years later, you can climb a steep hill in Las Vegas and look to the West, and if your eyes are okay, you can almost see the level of the full water “that point where the wave eventually breaks and rolls back.”
The strength of the book is that you physically feel the mentioned crest of the wave. And when the tide goes out, you need to remember that after the receding wave comes a new one.
Rating: 10
I re-read this reading once a year or two. And this doesn’t make the book any more boring - on the contrary, every time I find something new in it. At first it seemed to me that this was just a story about how junkies do various crazy things, but with each reading I began to understand the true value of this work. After all, what’s most interesting about it is that it’s not exactly a book of fiction; it describes reality through the prism of the author’s subjectivity. This is truly a very cool period in US history, and many regret that it ended this way. The pig generation won, and perhaps, as sad as it is to admit, it will win every time. The forces are not equal, but every person can live with dignity, even despite external circumstances. For me personally, this work has become a kind of guideline in life, in how certain things should be assessed. But, of course, “Fear and Loathing” can be read simply as a book at your leisure, without all these depths into the topic, the text is too well written.
Rating: 10
I became acquainted with the work of Hunter Thompson from the film “The Rum Diary”. After which I read the book of the same name. I liked both the film and the book very much, they touched certain strings of the soul, and stuck in my memory for a long time.
Recently I decided to experience similar sensations and discovered the most famous works Hunter. This.
Once upon a time I watched a film almost of the same name based on it - Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas. I vaguely remember that I didn’t finish watching it because I saw outright trash on the screen. Although the film's rating is quite high - 7.6/10 and in some circles it is considered a cult film.
Alas, exactly the same thing happened to me with this novel - I forced myself to finish reading about 1/3, after which I gave up this thankless task. There was no understanding this time either. In short, my opinion is drug addict nonsense.
Rating: 4
Let me make a reservation right away that I gave the rating to the film based on this work (in which the tone is set by the brilliant performances of Johnny Depp and Benicio del Toro; I deducted two points for being too long) rather than to the novel itself. As for the book, in relation to it, I did not have a clear formula in my mind that would calculate the specific value of the rating. On the one (negative) side, there is a lot of foul language in it (which I really don’t like), and the plot is too wild for my perception and is a chaotic collection of twitchy episodes, for the most part either incomprehensible or incomprehensibly grotesque (which, however, quite consistent with the theme of the novel). On the other hand, the main value of “Fear and Loathing” is the figure of Raoul Duke, that is, the author himself, Hunter Thompson. A person with enormous charisma, outstanding intelligence, an original worldview and incredible vital energy. And if the plot of the novel did not make much of an impression on me, then Thompson’s sharp and remarkable observations and reflections on American life of that era deserve all the more close attention: I would even formulate it on American Being. No matter how you feel about Thompson’s worldview, for me it is obvious and indisputable that he was a Personality. And the presence of this Personality in the book is, of course, the circumstance that made it a must-read for me and left a deep, vivid mark on my soul.
Rating: 8
About the illusory character...
Was Gonzo a real person or just a long-running glitch in the head of the main character and narrator? When watching a film, this question cannot be clearly answered, although there are reasons to think so. After all, there is a live actor in the film. At the very least, other characters will trip over him. A book is a more convenient form to describe a journey with an imaginary friend. What do we have if we simply consider the facts presented in the book?
First of all, why does a sportswriter need a lawyer on a business trip? A photographer would be more appropriate, but the photographer is a separate character. Most of the episodes of communication with Gonzo occur when Duke is already ready (including the very first episode in Polo Lange). Now I’m talking about full-fledged dialogues with a friend. It often happens that Duke is already moving away from what was accepted, but is not yet sober. At this time, Gonzo is also active, but it is minimal. While high, both characters from time to time develop a striking unity: both become doctors of journalism, both turn out to have a bad heart, etc. And throughout the entire text, they are simultaneously bombarded with the same substances. "Lawyer" is Gonzo's nickname rather than his profession. Not a single legal term was noticed in his speech. “As your lawyer” Gonzo advises only different garbage. His manner of speaking is exactly the same as that of Raoul Duke. The lawyer doesn't say, "I'm going to throw a bomb at your shitty diner." The lawyer promises to sue the eatery. But Duke sometimes has some legal rudiments in his speech. When Duke is sober (this is rare in the text, but it happens), then Gonzo disappears from the text as if he had never existed.
The author's skill was enough to ensure that all evidence of the reality/illusory nature of Gonzo turned out to be indirect. So what is Gonzo? An adviser who is thought of separately from himself, in order to preserve the remnants of logic when you are killed in the trash? In principle, an interesting solution. Except that the logic in Gonzo’s advice is about 50/50. But, probably, it’s better than nothing. Everything led to the fact that when reading the phrase “my lawyer,” I mentally remade it into “my inner lawyer.”
There is really an idea that Raoul Duke is also a fictional person. A telegram “to Hunter S. Thompson for transmission to Raoul Duke” arrives at the hotel. And even closer to the end of the book there is an episode with a photograph of journalist Thompson with Gonzo. So it is quite possible that in fact the author of the book himself came to Vegas to write another boring article about racing and a police conference. And in order not to get too bored, I came up with a couple of imaginary friends who are permanently in a deranged state in order to describe my business trip through their eyes. Why not? A perpetually murdered sportswriter, commanded or advised by his perpetually murdered lawyer. Both perform some kind of Brownian movements, but at the same time they do not end up in either a hospital or prison. And, despite all the fuss and fumes of revelry, they somehow manage to complete all the tasks. Two fairy-tale characters.
It can be complicated. Hunter S. Thompson invents his Raoul Duke, and Raoul Duke invents his Gonzo. That is why at the beginning of the book Raul is not sure about his friend’s nationality (he says that he is _most likely_ Samoan), but then the details about his friend settle in his head.
About the American Dream...
If you still try to find meaning in the book, or at least a cross-cutting theme, you will run into this phrase. It is vague enough that it can serve as a container for many meanings. A junkie journalist was sent on a business trip to cover races and write about the American dream. The hero liked the second part of the task. In the protagonist's interpretation, the American Dream is that a white guy with a journalist's ID is, in principle, trusted. They trust to go and do the work. They trust the advance. They trust you with a hotel room. Red Shark is trusted at the box office. What else can they trust to a rogue? The entire book is the answer to this question. As he says main character: “...we're on our way to Las Vegas in search of the American Dream... this is a very dangerous undertaking - you can get into so much trouble that you won't be able to break even your bones...” A white guy with the right ID can really be distrusted, and then it will really be bad . A cool car and a bunch of drugs are indispensable attributes here, without which the search for the limits of trust is impossible. So the permanent killing of the main character can be considered as a sacrifice for the benefit of a beloved cause. The high from the substances actually comes out a little. But there is still a feeling of constant betrayal. But _such_ difficulties do not frighten the main character. This quest is “only for those who have true courage.” In the end: “Okay... what was the matter? Many wonderful books were written behind bars.”
About the main character...
All the adventures of Raoul Duke can be perceived as a longing for the old days. Not even from his youth, but only from the recent past (5-6 years ago), when his life was more interesting. “The energy of an entire generation bursts forth in a delightful burst of light.” The author was lucky. However, he remained alive. Is it possible to reconnect with your former happiness and the feeling that whatever you do is right? With emphasis on the word “all”? If you really want to, then you can. True, instead of a writer, you will have to become a single-celled journalist (Thompson likes to criticize this type in other works, too), kill your own heart with the substances you take and experience a constant feeling of fear. Is it worth it?
“Now you have to excuse me, I’m overwhelmed.”
Rating: 9
How can you evaluate this) This is unique, an isolated phenomenon for all times, this is an era, this is a small piece of time that existed in the USA, this is a caustic satire of society and oneself, this is a subtle observation, this is life. I recommend a new translation, Kopytov
Rating: 10
A book that was ecstatically admired.
A book that has become a kind of “watershed”, separating genuine nonconformism from “plastic.”
What happened next is indescribable...
Translation: Alex Curvey
Hunter Thompson
Part one
Hunter Thompson
Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas. A Wild Journey into the Heart of the American Dream
Dedicated to Bob Geiger for reasons not worth explaining here.
and Bob Dylan
for Mister Tambourine Man
He who becomes a beast escapes the pain of being a man
Dr. Samuel Johnson
Part one
We were somewhere on the edge of the desert, near Barstow, when the drugs began to take effect. I remember mumbled something like: “I feel like I’m a little sick; maybe you can drive?..” And suddenly terrible screams were heard from all sides, and the sky was filled with some grunts, similar to huge bats, rushed down, shrilly squeaking, diving at the car rushing at a hundred miles per hour straight to Las -Vegas. And someone’s voice cried out: “Lord Jesus! Where did these damn things come from?”
Then everything became quiet again. My lawyer took off his shirt and poured beer on his chest - for a better tan. “Why the hell are you yelling like that?” he muttered, staring at the sun with his eyes closed behind his round Spanish sunglasses. “Never mind,” I said. “It’s your turn to lead.” And, slamming on the brakes, he stopped the Great Red Shark on the side of the highway. “No need to mention these bats,” I thought. “The poor bastard will see them in the flesh soon enough.”
It was almost noon and we still had over a hundred miles to go. Harsh miles. I knew that time was running out, we would both be pulled apart in a moment so that the skies would become hot. But there was no turning back, and no time to rest. Let's get it out as we go. Press registration for the legendary Mnit 400 is in full swing and we need to be there by four to claim our soundproof suite. A fancy New York sports magazine took care of the reservations, except for this big red open-top Chevrolet we rented from a parking lot on Sunset Boulevard... And I, among other things, am a professional journalist: so I had an obligation provide a report from the scene, Dead or Alive. The sports editors gave me three hundred bucks in cash, most of which was immediately spent on “dangerous” substances. The trunk of our car resembled a mobile police drug lab. We had at our disposal two bags of weed, seventy-five balls of mescaline, five strips of blotters of fierce acid, a salt shaker with holes full of cocaine, and an entire intergalactic parade of planets of all sorts of stimulants, trunks, squealers, laughers... as well as a quart of tequila, a quart of rum, a box Budweiser, a pint of crude ether and two dozen amyl.
All this crap had been picked up the previous night, in a frenzy of high-speed racing throughout the Los Angeles area - from Topanga to Watts - we grabbed everything we could get our hands on. Not that we have it all need to for a trip and a break, but as soon as you get stuck up to your ears in a serious chemical collection, you immediately have a desire to push it to hell.
There was only one thing that bothered me: the ether. Nothing in the world is less helpless, irresponsible and vicious than a person in the abyss of an ethereal binge. And I knew that we would very soon get our hands on this rotten product. Probably at the next gas station. We appreciated almost everything else, but now – yes, it’s time to take a fair amount of air. And then do the next hundred miles in a disgusting, salivating, spastic stupor. The only way to stay alert under ether was to take as much amyl as possible into your chest—not all at once, but in portions, just enough to keep you focused at ninety miles an hour through Barstow.
“Old man, this is how you should travel,” my lawyer remarked. He bent over, turning up the radio at full volume, humming to the beat of the rhythm section and muttering the words in a whiny voice: “One puff will carry you away. Dear Jesus... One puff will take you away..."
One puff? Oh you poor fool! Wait until you see these fucking bats. I could barely hear the radio, leaning noisily against the door, hugging the tape recorder, which was playing “Sympathy for the Devil” all the time. We only had this one tape, and we played it incessantly, over and over again - a crazy counterpoint to the radio, and also to maintain our rhythm on the road. Constant speed is good for proper gas mileage during the run - and for some reason it seemed important at the time. Of course. On such a trip, if I may say so, everyone should carefully monitor their gas mileage. Avoid sudden accelerations and jerks that will make your blood run cold.
My lawyer, unlike me, noticed the hitchhiker a long time ago. “Let’s give the kid a lift,” he said, and before I could put forward any argument for or against, he stopped, and this poor Oklahoma mudwin was already running as fast as he could to the car, smiling from ear to ear and shouting: "Damn it! I've never driven in an open-top car before!”
- Really? – I asked. - Okay, I guess you're ready for this, huh?
The guy nodded impatiently, and the Shark, roaring, rushed further in a cloud of dust.
“We are your friends,” said my lawyer. – We are not like the others.
“Oh God,” I thought, “he barely made the turn.”
“Quit this bazaar,” I abruptly interrupted the lawyer. “Or I’ll put leeches on you.”
He grinned, seemingly having moved in. Fortunately, the noise in the car was so terrible - the wind was whistling, the radio and tape recorder were blaring - that the guy lounging in the back seat could not hear a word of what we were saying. Or could he?
"How long are we still shall we hold out?" - I marveled. How much time is left until one of us, in delirium, unleashes all the dogs on this boy? What will he think then? This very lonely desert was the last known home of the Mason family. Will he draw that inexorable parallel when my lawyer starts screaming about bats and huge manta rays falling on top of the car? If so, fine, we'll just have to cut off his head and bury him somewhere. And it’s a no brainer that we can’t let the guy leave quietly. He will immediately knock on the office of some Nazis who enforce the law in this desert area, and they will overtake us like the hounds of a cornered animal.
My God! Did I really say that? Or was it just a thought? Did I speak? Did they hear me? I glanced warily at my lawyer, but he didn't seem to pay me the slightest attention - he was watching the road, driving our Great Red Shark at a hundred and ten or so. And not a sound from the back seat.
“Maybe it’s better for me to rub shoulders with this boy?” – I thought. Maybe if I will explain situation, he will relax slightly.
Certainly. I turned in my seat and gave him a wide, pleasant smile... admiring the shape of his skull.
“By the way,” I said, “there is one thing that, apparently, you should understand.”
He stared at me without blinking. Did you grind your teeth?
- Can you hear me? – I yelled.
Hunter Thompson
Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas. A Wild Journey into the Heart of the American Dream
He who becomes a beast escapes the pain of being a man
Dr. Samuel Johnson
Series "Alternative"
Hunter S. Thompson
FEAR AND LOATHING IN LAS VEGAS
Translation from English by Alex Curvey
Computer design by A. Barkovskaya
Reprinted with permission from The Estate of Hunter S. Thompson and The Wylie Agency (UK) Ltd.
© Hunter S. Thompson, 1971
© Translation. A. Kervi, 2010
© Russian edition AST Publishers, 2013
The exclusive rights to publish the book in Russian belong to AST Publishers. Any use of the material in this book, in whole or in part, without the permission of the copyright holder is prohibited.
Part one
We were somewhere on the edge of the desert, near Barstow, when the drugs began to take effect. I remember mumbled something like: “I feel like I’m a little sick; maybe you can drive?..” And suddenly terrible screams were heard from all sides, and the sky was filled with some grunts, similar to huge bats, rushed down, shrilly squeaking, diving at the car rushing at a hundred miles per hour straight to Las -Vegas. And someone’s voice cried out: “Lord Jesus! Where did these damn things come from?”
Then everything became quiet again. My lawyer took off his shirt and poured beer on his chest - for a better tan. “Why the hell are you yelling like that?” he muttered, staring at the sun with his eyes closed behind his round Spanish sunglasses. “Never mind,” I said. “It’s your turn to lead.” And, slamming on the brakes, he stopped the Great Red Shark on the side of the highway. “No need to mention these bats,” I thought. “The poor bastard will see them in the flesh soon enough.”
It was almost noon and we still had over a hundred miles to go. Harsh miles. I knew that time was running out, we would both be pulled apart in a moment so that the skies would become hot. But there was no turning back, and no time to rest. Let's get it out as we go. Press registration for the legendary Mnit 400 is in full swing and we need to be there by four to claim our soundproof suite. A fancy New York sports magazine took care of the reservations, except for this big red open-top Chevrolet we rented from a parking lot on Sunset Boulevard... And I, among other things, am a professional journalist: so I had an obligation provide a report from the scene, Dead or Alive. The sports editors gave me three hundred bucks in cash, most of which was immediately spent on “dangerous” substances. The trunk of our car resembled a mobile police drug lab. We had at our disposal two bags of weed, seventy-five balls of mescaline, five strips of blotters of fierce acid, a salt shaker with holes full of cocaine, and an entire intergalactic parade of planets of all sorts of stimulants, trunks, squealers, laughers... as well as a quart of tequila, a quart of rum, a box Budweiser, a pint of crude ether and two dozen amyl.
All this crap had been picked up the previous night, in a frenzy of high-speed racing throughout the Los Angeles area - from Topanga to Watts - we grabbed everything we could get our hands on. Not that we have it all need to for a trip and a break, but as soon as you get stuck head over heels in a serious chemical collection, you immediately feel the desire to push it to hell.
There was only one thing that bothered me: the ether. Nothing in the world is less helpless, irresponsible and vicious than a person in the abyss of an ethereal binge. And I knew that we would very soon get our hands on this rotten product. Probably at the next gas station. We appreciated almost everything else, but now – yes, it’s time to take a fair amount of air. And then do the next hundred miles in a disgusting, salivating, spastic stupor. The only way to stay alert under ether was to take as much amyl as possible into your chest—not all at once, but in portions, just enough to keep you focused at ninety miles an hour through Barstow.
“Old man, this is how you should travel,” my lawyer remarked. He bent over, turning up the radio at full volume, humming to the beat of the rhythm section and muttering the words in a whiny voice: “One puff will carry you away. Dear Jesus... One puff will take you away..."
One puff? Oh you poor fool! Wait until you see these fucking bats. I could barely hear the radio, leaning noisily against the door, hugging the tape recorder, which was playing “Sympathy for the Devil” all the time. We only had this one tape, and we played it incessantly, over and over again - a crazy counterpoint to the radio, and also to maintain our rhythm on the road. Constant speed is good for proper gas mileage during the run - and for some reason it seemed important at the time. Of course. On such a trip, if I may say so, everyone should carefully monitor their gas mileage. Avoid sudden accelerations and jerks that will make your blood run cold.
My lawyer, unlike me, noticed the hitchhiker a long time ago. “Let’s give the kid a lift,” he said, and before I could put forward any argument for or against, he stopped, and this poor Oklahoma mudwin was already running as fast as he could to the car, smiling from ear to ear and shouting: "Damn it! I've never driven in an open-top car before!”
- Really? – I asked. - Okay, I guess you're ready for this, huh?
The guy nodded impatiently, and the Shark, roaring, rushed further in a cloud of dust.
“We are your friends,” said my lawyer. – We are not like the others.
“Oh God,” I thought, “he barely made the turn.”
“Quit this bazaar,” I abruptly interrupted the lawyer. “Or I’ll put leeches on you.”
He grinned, seemingly having moved in. Fortunately, the noise in the car was so terrible - the wind was whistling, the radio and tape recorder were blaring - that the guy lounging in the back seat could not hear a word of what we were saying. Or could he?
"How long are we still shall we hold out?" - I marveled. How much time is left until one of us, in delirium, unleashes all the dogs on this boy? What will he think then? This very lonely desert was the last known home of the Mason family. Will he draw that inexorable parallel when my lawyer starts screaming about bats and huge manta rays falling on top of the car? If so, fine, we'll just have to cut off his head and bury him somewhere. And it’s a no brainer that we can’t let the guy leave quietly. He will immediately knock on the office of some Nazis who enforce the law in this desert area, and they will overtake us like the hounds of a cornered animal.
My God! Did I really say that? Or was it just a thought? Did I speak? Did they hear me? I glanced warily at my lawyer, but he didn't seem to pay me the slightest attention - he was watching the road, driving our Great Red Shark at a hundred and ten or so. And not a sound from the back seat.
“Maybe it’s better for me to rub shoulders with this boy?” – I thought. Maybe if I will explain situation, he will relax slightly.
Hunter Thompson
Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas:
A Wild Journey into the Heart of the American Dream
He who becomes a beast gets rid of the pain of being a man.
Dr. Samuel Johnson
Preface
The first two chapters from “Fear and Loathing” were published in the magazine “Ptyuch” (No. 9, 1998). Unfortunately, “Ptyuch” remained true to itself - the copyright of the author, as well as the name of the translator, were not included, despite the fact that this was the first publication of an excerpt from Hunter Thompson’s novel in Russia (the translation of which was done in 1995 under the same conditions , in which the novel itself was created - the translation was read into a tape recorder during the mescaline-fueled car rally of Alex Curvey and Mike Wallace through English cities). In the October issue, the editors of Ptyuch made a kind of apology, advertising the upcoming (at the beginning of next year) release of the book in Russian with original illustrations by Ralph Steadman in the newly created, first alternative (in these politically correct times) publishing house in Russia, Tough Press. “The underworld is great, but there is nowhere to retreat,” Georgy Osipov noted about this (and many others).
Photo of the fat chief editor of "Ptyuch" I. Shulinsky, frozen with a typewriter in the pose of Johnny Depp, who played the role of Hunter Thompson in Terry Guillaume's film "Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas" - no comments... "Gonzo" is becoming fashionable in Russia. “We wrote a lot about the last film in this issue,” writes Shulinsky. “We hunted the beast together!” - the lapdog said to the wolfhounds. The late Anton Okhotnikov is not mentioned, fragments from whose work on Hunter Thompson were used by Ptyuch - read “The Great Shark Hunt” (pp. 26–27 in the magazine issue). As for Alex Kervey, one of the members of the international artistic “Johnson Family” community TRI (which, as one of the projects, actually includes “Tough Press” in Russia), then, apparently, his “bad” international track record is dragging him down - several mysterious arrests and an even larger number of detentions on various occasions, from which he inexplicably managed to extricate himself).
This is not surprising - all mortal sins are now gradually being blamed on TRI members - aiding and abetting international terrorism (Mike Wallace [naturally, this is a pseudonym] and the legendary Doctor, who have undergone several plastic surgeries, are still being sought in this regard all over the world by everyone who not laziness), connections with the Nazis (TRI is also called the “Artistic Ahnenerbe”), British, American and Israeli (!!!) intelligence services, drug mafia (global legalization of drugs?!!!), close contacts with Masonic organizations, propaganda of Satanism (? ??!!!), aiding shady hackers, etc. And the accusation of eliminating the skinny rat Lady Di (???!!!), collaboration with the homosexual mafia (community?) looks like a completely innocent act in the activities of TRI. Some talk about a “worldwide conspiracy of liberals who, with the help of drugs and inhuman music, are trying to undermine the foundations of Western civilization” (director Paul Morrisey), others talk about a conspiracy of the “young English aristocracy” (including the artistic one). It’s good that TRI has not yet been accused of discrediting their connections with aliens and the mythical underground civilization of Vril-Ya - there is no way to avoid a “Zombies hanging by the balls” situation.
American anthropological evangelists believe that the Beast will come precisely from Russia. Well, they will get the Beast from there (where does Aslan come from?), and then go and figure out which of them knew theology better. “We must be the embodiment of absolute evil for the Enemy and his softie slaves - that is, ourselves. This is required by honor and loyalty to the power of our hoary antiquity. Be the Romeo who kills Tybalt while remaining faithful to Juliet” (Garik Osipov).
AK jumps out one January night in Croydon with a black diplomat from the service passage of a building owned by a British corporation. A few moments before, he knocks down the front door, despite the noise alarm being turned on, he gets to one office, knocks down the door there and takes something. The police meet him at the door. “Did you do this?” - they ask. “Yes, I am,” AK replies. “On what basis?” “This was done in the interests of several states; I refuse to answer further questions.” "Follow us." At the station, police and other characters (from cartoons?) search a diplomat - it contains a healthy animal tooth. And nothing more. "What is this?" - the question follows. Answer: “Bear tooth.” This is the 13th century. The golden age of the Great Emperor and his bastard descendants. Be very careful. This is a unique thing of its kind." “So let’s write it down like this – a valuable bear tooth?” “Or a wolf... It’s better to simply write down - a valuable tooth”... “Against-nickname...”, - suddenly one of those present said in Russian... “Did you try to break into the doors of the building the night before?” - he continued in English. “No, it’s probably other pro-tiv-ni-ki. However, let’s put off all explanations until the morning,” answered A-Kay. Just two hours later, without any explanation, he was released from the station with a briefcase containing the tooth. The next day, a certain R. from Canterbury, quite famous in musical circles (and not only), asked him: “So what did you do at the Full Moon Party in the Ark?”...
I wrote a story in blood - Full Moon Party.
I couldn’t believe a lot of things until I became acquainted with unique tape recordings at different authorities (let’s say this delicately). “Yes, damn it,” I thought, “Our day will come & we`ll have everything.” (song by Frankie Wiley and “Seasons”)
V. B. Shulgin
Part one
We were somewhere on the edge of the desert, not far from Barstow, when it began to cover us. I remember mumbled something like: “I feel like I’m a little sick; maybe you can drive?...” And suddenly terrible screams were heard from all sides, and the sky was filled with some grunts, similar to huge bats, rushed down, squealing shrilly, diving at the car rushing at a hundred miles per hour straight to Las Vegas. Vegas. And someone’s voice cried out: “Lord Jesus! Where did these damn creatures come from?”
Then everything became quiet again. My lawyer took off his shirt and poured beer on his chest - for a better tan. “Why the hell are you yelling like that?” - he muttered, staring at the sun with his eyes closed, hidden behind round Spanish dark glasses. “Never mind it,” I said. “It’s your turn to lead.” And, slamming on the brakes, he stopped the Great Red Shark on the side of the highway. “There’s no point in mentioning these bats,” I thought. “The poor bastard will see them in the flesh soon enough.”
It was almost noon and we still had over a hundred miles to go. Harsh miles. I knew that time was running out, we would both be pulled apart in a moment so that the skies would become hot. But there was no turning back, and no time to rest. Let's get it out as we go. Press registration for the legendary Mint 400 is in full swing and we need to be there by four to claim our soundproof suite. A fancy New York sports magazine took care of the reservations, except for this big red open-top Chevy we rented from a parking lot on Sunset Boulevard... And I, among other things, am a professional journalist; so I had an obligation to report from the scene, dead or alive. The sports editors gave me three hundred bucks in cash, most of which was immediately spent on “dangerous” substances. The trunk of our car resembled a mobile police drug lab. We had at our disposal two bags of weed, seventy-five balls of mescaline, five blotters of fierce acid, a salt shaker with holes full of cocaine, and an entire intergalactic parade of planets of all sorts of stimulants, trunks, squealers, laughter... as well as a quart of tequila, a quart of rum, a case of Budweiser , a pint of crude ether and two dozen amyl.
All this crap had been caught up the previous night, in a frenzy of high-speed racing all over Los Angeles County - from Topanga to Watts - we grabbed everything we could get our hands on. It’s not that we needed all this for the trip and fun, but as soon as you get stuck up to your ears in a serious chemical collection, you immediately feel the urge to push it to hell.
There was only one thing that bothered me - the ether. Nothing in the world is less helpless, irresponsible and vicious than a person in the abyss of an ethereal binge. And I knew that we would very soon get our hands on this rotten product. Probably at the next gas station. We've appreciated almost everything else, but now - yes, it's time to take a good sip of ether, and then do the next hundred miles in a disgusting drooling spastic stupor. The only way to stay alert under ether was to take as much amyl as possible into your chest—not all at once, but in portions, just enough to keep you focused at ninety miles an hour through Barstow.
Hunter S. Thompson Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas, orA wild journey into the heart of the American Dream.(First published in Rolling Stone magazine, NN 95 (11/11/71) and 96 (11/25/71) under the pseudonym "Raoul Duke"). Bob Geiger For reasons that no need to explain here and Bob Dylan, for the song"Mister Tambourine Man".
"He who makes himself a beast,
gets rid of the pain of being human."
Dr. Johnson.
PART ONE We were somewhere around Barstow, on the edge of the desert, when the drugs came into play. I remember I said something like: “I’m a little dizzy; maybe you’d better drive... And suddenly a wild roar arose all around us, and the sky was filled with some creatures, like huge bats, they screeched, rushed and collapsed on the car, which was going at a hundred miles an hour with the top down in side of Las Vegas. And someone’s voice screamed: “Lord Jesus!” What the hell are these beasts? Then it became quiet again. My lawyer took off his shirt and poured beer on his chest to speed up the tanning process. - Why the hell are you yelling there? - he hummed, raising his face to the sun, closing his eyes and covering them with the crescents of his Spanish sunglasses. “Nothing,” I answered. - It's your turn to drive. I slammed on the brakes and steered our Great Red Shark toward the side of the highway. There’s no point in remembering bats, I thought. This pathetic bastard will see them for himself soon. It was almost noon and we still had over a hundred miles to go. And these miles will be hard. Very soon, I knew for sure, we would both be completely exhausted. But there was no way back, no time to stop. We will have to make a breakthrough. Registration of the press for the legendary Mint-400 has already begun, and we need to get there by four to take a personal soundproof room. A prestigious sports magazine in New York took care of all the reserves, including this big red Chevy convertible we had just rented from a Sunset Strip parking lot... and I was, after all, a professional journalist; therefore, I had an obligation to cover the story, whether it turned out good or bad. In addition, the sports editors gave me $300 in pocket money, most of which had already been spent on extremely dangerous drugs. The trunk of the car looked like a mobile police drug lab. We had two bags of weed, seventy-five balls of mescaline, five sheets of high-potency acid, half a salt shaker of cocaine and a whole galaxy of multi-colored ups, downs, squeals, laughs; also a quart of tequila, a quart of rum, a case of Budweiser, a pint of pure ether, and two dozen wheels of amyl nitrate. It was all collected last night in a wild, high-speed raid across the Los Angeles area, from Topanga to Watts, picking up everything we could lay our hands on. It’s not that we needed all this for the trip, but if you are once driven to seriously collect drugs, then you have a tendency to squeeze it to the last. The only thing that really worried me was the broadcast. In the whole world there is nothing more helpless, more irresponsible and more defective than a person in the depths of the etheric parish. And I knew that we would fall into this rot, too, and quite soon. Most likely at the next gas station. We've tried a little bit of everything, and now - yes, it's time to take a good whiff of ether. And then walk the next hundred miles in a creepy, slobbering type of spasmodic stupor. The only way to avoid being stuck under ether is to put more amyl nitrate wheels on, not all at once, but little by little, just to maintain concentration at ninety miles an hour on the way through Barstow. “Dude, this is how I understand traveling,” said my lawyer. He leaned over to turn up the volume on the radio, humming along to the rhythm section and moaning out some words. - “One attack in turn, oh my God... One attack in turn...” One attack? Fool! Wait, you'll see the damn bats soon. I could barely hear the radio... collapsing on the far end of the seat, clutching the tape recorder, blasting "The Devil's Sympathy" full blast. It was our only tape, so we played it constantly, over and over again, like a crazy counterweight to the radio. And also to maintain the rhythm of the road. Constant speed is good for metering fuel - and for some reason it seemed important at the time. Seriously. On trips like this, it's important to keep an eye on your fuel consumption. Avoid any bursts of acceleration that cause blood to flow to the back of the brain. My lawyer spotted the hitchhiker long before I did. “Let’s give the guy a lift,” he suggested; and before I could come up with any argument, he slowed down, and this unfortunate Oakie boy was running towards the car, grinning widely, saying: - Oh, damn it! I've never driven in an open-top car! - What "yes? - I asked. - Well, it looks like you’re ready, huh? The boy nodded passionately, and we started with a roar. “We are your friends,” my lawyer said. - We are not like some. “Oh God,” I thought. He bent it a little. “Stop chatting,” I said sharply. - Otherwise I’ll give you leeches. He grinned and seemed to understand. Fortunately, the roar in the car was so terrible - from the wind, the radio and the tape recorder - that the guy in the back seat could not hear a single word we said. Or could he? How long can we hold out? - I was interested. How long before one of us starts going crazy and talking shit about this guy? And what will he think then? This most desolate desert was the last known refuge of the Manson family. Will he go to a nasty level of communication when my lawyer starts yelling about bats and electric stingrays descending on the car from the sky? If so, well, then we’ll have to cut off his head and bury him somewhere. Otherwise, it is clear without words that it is impossible to release him. In a moment he will hand us over to some Nazis from the local law enforcement bureau, and they will chase us like a pack of dogs. God! Did I say it out loud? Or was it just a thought? I was talking? Did they hear me? I stared at my lawyer, but he was lost in oblivion - looking at the road, driving our Great Red Shark in passing at a speed of one hundred ten or something like that. There was no sound coming from the back seat. Perhaps I should chat with the guy, I thought. Maybe if I explain what's what, he'll calm down. Naturally, I turned around in my seat and gave him a beautiful wide smile... admiring the shape of his skull. “By the way,” I said. - There is something that you should probably understand. He stared at me without blinking. Grinded his teeth, or what? - Do you hear? - I yelled. He nodded. “Okay,” I said. “Because I want you to know that we are on our way to Las Vegas in search of the American Dream,” I smiled. - That's why we rented this car. There's only one way to pull this off. Hollowed out? He nodded again, but his eyes were nervous. “I want you to have all the ins and outs,” I say. - Because this is a very formidable assignment - with overtones of extreme personal danger... Damn, I completely forgot about the beer - will you? He shook his head. - Maybe ether? - I suggested. - What? - Nothing. Let's get straight to the heart of the matter. You see, about twenty-four hours ago we were sitting in the Polo Lounge in the Beverly Hills Hotel - in the open part, of course - and so we were sitting, so, under a palm tree, when a dwarf came up to me in uniform, with a pink phone, and says, “This is probably the call you've been waiting for all this time, sir.” I laughed and opened a can of beer, which foamed all over the back seat as I continued: “And can you imagine? He was right! I was waiting for this call, but I didn’t know who it would be from. Can you keep up with me? Our boy's face was a mask of pure fear and puzzlement. I drove on: “I want you to understand that the man behind the wheel is my lawyer!” This isn't just some degenerate I picked up on the Strip. Oh my, look at him! He's not like you or me, right? This is because he is a foreigner. I think he's probably Polynesian. But it doesn't matter, right? Do you have any prejudices? - Oh hell, no! - he gurgled. “I don’t think so,” I said. “Because, despite his race, this man is extremely dear to me,” I looked at my lawyer, but his mind was somewhere else. I slammed my fist into the back of the driver's seat. - This is important, damn it! That's how it was! The car swerved sickeningly, then straightened out. - Keep your hands away from my neck, bitch! - my lawyer shouted. The guy in the back seat looked like he was ready to jump out of the car and try his luck. Our vibrations were becoming vile - but why? I was at a loss. Has the connection between human beings disappeared in this machine? Have we already degenerated to the level of stupid brutes? Because my story was true. I was sure of this. And it was extremely important, as I felt, important in order to speak absolutely clearly about the meaning of our journey. We actually sat there at the Polo Lounge - for long hours - sipping on a Singapore Sling with mezcal on the rim and beer as a drink. And when the call came, I was ready. The dwarf approached our table cautiously, I remember, and when he handed me a pink phone, I didn’t say anything, I just listened. And then he hung up, turning his face to my lawyer. “This is from headquarters,” I said. “They want me to go to Las Vegas right away and contact a photographer named Lacerda.” He has all the details. I just need to check into the room and he will find me. For a moment my lawyer did not say a word, then suddenly he came to life in his chair. - Oh, damn! - he exclaimed. - In my opinion, I see the essence of the matter... And it seems to be very difficult. He tucked his khaki T-shirt into his white jersey bell-bottoms and ordered more drinks. “You'll need a lot of legal advice before this is over,” he said. - And here's my first piece of advice: you should rent a very fast car without a top, and get the hell out of Los Angeles in at least forty-eight hours. He shook his head sadly. - My weekend is coming to an end, because, naturally, I’ll have to go with you - and we need to kill ourselves to the fullest. - Why not? - I answered. “If such things are worth doing at all, then they should be done correctly.” We will need some decent equipment and a lot of money for our pockets - at least for drugs and an ultra-sensitive tape recorder for long-term recording. - What is the report about? - he asked. “Mint-400,” I answered. - The most expensive off-road motorcycle and sand buggy race in the history of organized sports - a fantastic spectacle in honor of some fat-ass grossero named Del Webb, who owns the luxurious Mint Hotel in the heart of downtown Las Vegas... or so they say in a press release; my man in New York just read it out loud to me. “Well,” he said. - As your lawyer, I advise you to buy a motorcycle. How else can you truthfully cover such an event? “It’s no good,” I objected. -Where can we get Vincent Black Shadow? - What's this? “Fantastic bike,” I replied. “The new model has something like two thousand cubic inches, makes two hundred brake horsepower at four thousand rpm, has a magnesium frame, a double Styrofoam seat, and weighs exactly two hundred pounds with all the gear.” “Sounds right for this shit,” he said. “It is,” I assured him. - This bitch is not very good at turning, but a full paragraph in a straight line. Will bypass the F-111 before takeoff. - Before takeoff? - he asked again. - Can we cope with such sausage? “Easy,” I said. - I'll call New York about some money. 2. Seizure$300 from a sow woman in Beverly Hills The New York office was unfamiliar with Vincent Black Shadow, and from there I was redirected to the Los Angeles bureau - which is actually in Beverly Hills, just a few blocks from the Polo Lange - but when I got there there, about the money, the woman refused to give me more than $300 in cash. She has no idea who I am, she said, and by that time I was already sweating profusely. My blood is too thick for California: in this climate I can never explain anything clearly without getting wet with sweat... not with red eyes and trembling hands. So I took $300 and left. My lawyer was waiting at the bar around the corner. “There’s no show off from them,” he said. - Until they give us unlimited credit. I assured him that they would give it to us. “You Polynesians are all the same,” I tell him. - No faith in the fundamental decency of the white man's culture. God, an hour ago we were sitting there in a lousy baijinio, extinguished and paralyzed for the whole weekend, and then some absolute stranger calls from New York, tells me, they say, go to Las Vegas and don’t care about the expenses - and then sends me away in Beverly Hills, where another complete stranger gives me $300 in real money for nothing... Bro, I'm telling you, this is the American Dream in action! Yes, we are idiots if we don’t ride this wild torpedo to the very end and limit. “And that’s true,” he said. - We have to. “That’s right,” I said. - But first we need a car. And then - cocaine. And also a tape recorder for special music and a couple of Acapulco shirts. The only way to prepare for a trip like this, my heart felt, was to dress up as peacocks and tear off the roof, and then squeal through the desert and light the start. Direct responsibility must never be lost sight of. But what was the material? Nobody bothered to report. So we’ll have to drum it out ourselves. Free Enterprise. American dream. Horatio Alger goes crazy on drugs in Las Vegas. Let's get down to business - extreme journalism of the purest water. There was also a socio-psychological factor. From now on, and whenever life gets complicated and all sorts of bullshit is approaching, the only real cure is to load up on vile chemistry and then take a bastard ride from Hollywood to Las Vegas. To relax, just like that, in the womb of the desert sun. Take the top of the car off and screw it down, smear your face in white suntan lotion and head out with the music at full volume and at least a pint of ether. Getting drugs was not a problem, but it was not easy to turn on a car and a tape recorder at half past seven on a Friday evening in Hollywood. I already had a car, but it was much cramped and slower than needed for the desert. We went to a Polynesian bar, and from there my lawyer made seventeen calls until he found a convertible with adequate power and the right color. “Let him hang,” I hear him say to the phone. “We’ll come to bargain in half an hour,” and then, after a pause, he yelled. - What? Of course the gentleman has a major credit card! Bitch, do you have any idea who you're talking to? “Don’t let these pigs put pressure on you,” I said as he slammed the receiver on the phone. - And now we need an audio store with the best equipment. No spillikins. We want one of the new Belgian "Heliowatts" with a voice-activated directional microphone to pick up conversations from passing cars. We made a few more calls and finally found the equipment we needed in a store about five miles away. It was closed, but the seller promised that he would wait if we hurry. But we were delayed on the way when the Stingray in front of us hit a pedestrian on the Sunset Strip. The store had already closed by the time we got there. There were people inside, but they didn't want to approach the double glass door until we kicked it in a couple of times to show them what it was like. Finally, two salesmen who were polishing car rims came to the door, and we managed to haggle through the crack. Then they opened the door just enough to get the equipment out, then slammed it and closed it again. “Come on, take this and get the hell out of here,” one of them shouted through the crack. My lawyer turned around and shook his fist at them. “We’ll be back,” he shouted. - And somehow I’ll throw a bomb at this establishment, bitch! On my check your name ! I'll find out where you live and burn your house down! “Now he’ll have something to think about,” he muttered as we drove away. - This guy is a paranoid psychopath, no matter what. You can see them right away. Then we had problems at the car rental service again. After signing all the papers, I climbed into the car and almost lost control as I backed through the parking lot to the gas station. The rental man was visibly shaking. - Tell me, well... uh... you guys will take care of the car, right? - Certainly. - Well, my God! - he said. “You just flew backwards off that two-foot concrete pedestal and you didn’t even slow down!” Fifty-five on the back! And we barely missed a gas station! “There’s no damage,” I said. - I always check the transmission like this. Back limit. On the stress factor. My lawyer, meanwhile, was busy carrying ice and rum from the Pinto to the back seat of the convertible. The man from the rental office watched him nervously. “Tell me,” he asked. - Aren’t you guys drunk? “I’m not,” I say. “Fill the damn tank,” my lawyer blurted out. - We're in a damn hurry. We're on our way to Las Vegas for the desert races. - What? “Nothing,” I say. “We are responsible people,” I watched as he screwed the cap onto the tank, then threw the unit onto the first one, and we dived into the traffic flow. “Another nervous one,” said my lawyer. - This one was probably shaken by the body acid. - Yeah, I’d take it and treat him to some red ones. “Little red ones won’t help such a pig,” he answered. - To hell with it. We have a lot of things to take care of before we can get out on the road. “I’d like to get a couple of church robes,” I say. - They might come in handy in Las Vegas. But the costume stores were closed, and we did not rob the church. “To hell,” said my lawyer. - And don't forget that many cops are devout Catholics. Can you imagine what these bastards will do to us if we are caught completely intoxicated and drunk in stolen uniforms? God, they're castrating us. “You’re right,” I say. - And, for Christ's sake, don't smoke this pipe at traffic lights. Don't forget that we can be seen. He nodded: “We need a big bulbulator.” They would keep it here, hidden under the seat. And if anyone saw us, they would decide that it was our oxygen. We spent the rest of that evening circling around looking for materials and loading up the car. Then we ate a lot of mescaline and went swimming in the ocean. Somewhere around dawn we had a snack at a Malibu coffee shop, then very carefully drove through the city and fell onto the Pasadena Highway, smoky with exhaust fumes, leading to the east.