We'd already been awake for three days, and hours and hours of catatonic despair lay ahead. "I warned you," my attorney said, amputating his leg and plunging a speedball into his femoral artery. I eyed up the Samoan, before pulling out a blade and chopping my arm off and ramming some mescaline and ether into the stump.
Fear and loathing in las vegas full#
We went upstairs and threw the bag full of drugs on the bed.
"What are your names?" the clerk inquired, as the Great Red Shark skidded to a halt by the front reception after smashing through the hotel's plate glass doors. "And don't even think of trying to outdo me on the narcs again." "As your attorney, I strongly advise you to drive to the hotel at top speed," he yelled, pumping 27 amyls and a quart of tequila into his aorta. The kid looked freaked and we dumped him on the edge of Vegas. Right to the motherfuckin' end of the rainbow." "What's the motherfuckin' story?" I laughed. I took a half dozen tabs mixed with a few black bombers and shot a gram of scag into my eyeball.
It was the Samoan that saw the hitchhiker and said: "Let's give this Okie a lift." The kid got in and started talking. A New York magazine had taken care of the reservations and the editor had given me $300 in expenses which I'd already spent on two bags of grass, five sheets of acid, 75 hits of mescaline, a salt-shaker of cocaine, a galaxy of uppers, downers and screamers and a bottle of ether in LA before we left. There was still 100 miles to go and we had to get to Vegas by 4pm to claim our press suite for the Mint 400. The sky was full of screaming bats and my attorney, the Samoan, was pouring beer on his chest. We were somewhere on the edge of the desert when the drugs took hold.
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