Just got into townany hungry cocksuckers around

Added: Irisha Domenico - Date: 23.02.2022 02:56 - Views: 49574 - Clicks: 1071

Originally published, in hardcover, by Random House, Inc. All rights reserved. Reprinted by permission. We were somewhere around Just got into townany hungry cocksuckers around on the edge of the desert when the drugs began to take hold.

What are these goddamn animals? Then it was quiet again. My attorney had taken his shirt off and was pouring beer on his chest, to facilitate the tanning process. No point mentioning those bats, I thought. The poor bastard will see them soon enough. It was almost noon, and we still had more than a hundred miles to go.

They would be tough miles. Very soon, I knew, we would both be completely twisted. But there was no going back, and no time to rest. We would have to ride it out. Press registration for the fabulous Mint was already underway, and we had to get there by four to claim our sound - proof suite. The trunk of the car looked like a mobile police narcotics lab. We had two bags of grass, seventy - five pellets of mescaline, five sheets of high - powered blotter acid, a salt shaker half full of cocaine, and a whole galaxy of multi - colored uppers, downers, screamers, laughers and also a quart of tequila, a quart of rum, a case of Budweiser, a pint of raw ether and two dozen amyls.

All this had been rounded up the night before, in a frenzy of high - speed driving all over Los Angeles County - from Topanga to Watts, we picked up everything we could get our hands on. Not that we needed all that for the trip, but once you get locked into a serious drug collection, the tendency is to push it as far as you can.

The only thing that really worried me was the ether. There is nothing in the world more helpless and irresponsible and depraved than a man in the depths of an ether binge. Probably at the next gas station. We had sampled almost everything else, and now - yes, it was time for a long snort of ether. And then do the next hundred miles in a horrible, slobbering sort of spastic stupor. The only way to keep alert on ether is to do up a lot of amyls - not all at once, but steadily, just enough to maintain the focus at ninety miles an hour through Barstow.

One toke over the line. One toke? You poor fool! Wait till you see those goddamn bats. I could barely hear the radio. And also to maintain our rhythm on the road.

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A constant speed is good for gas mileage - and for some reason that seemed important at the time. On a trip like this one must be careful about gas consumption. Avoid those quick bursts of acceleration that drag blood to the back of the brain. My attorney saw the hitchhiker long before I did. I never rode in a convertible before!

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Or could he? How long can we maintain? I wondered. How long before one of us starts raving and jabbering at this boy? What will he think then? This same lonely desert was the last known home of the Manson family. Will he make that grim connection when my attorney starts screaming about bats and huge manta rays coming down on the car? Did I say that? Or just think it? Was I talking?

Did they hear me? I glanced over at my attorney, but he seemed oblivious - watching the road, driving our Great Red Shark along at a hundred and ten or so.

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There was no sound from the back seat. Of course. I leaned around in the seat and gave him a fine big smile. It was the only way to do it.

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Can you grasp that? Hell, I forgot all about this beer; you want one? I laughed and ripped open a beer can that foamed all over the back seat while I kept talking. He was right! Do you follow me? Shit, look at him! Are you prejudiced? This is a true story! The kid in the back looked like he wasready to jump right out of the car and take his chances.

Our vibrations were getting nasty - but why? I was puzzled, frustrated. Was there no communication in this car? Had we deteriorated to the level of dumb beasts? Because my story was true. I was certain of that. And it was extremely important, I felt, for the meaning of our journey to be made absolutely clear. We had actually been sitting there in the Polo Lounge - for many hours - drinking Singapore Slings with mescal on the side and beer chasers. And when the call came, I was ready. The Dwark approached our table cautiously, as I recall, and when he handed me the pink telephone I said nothing, merely listened.

And then I hung up, turning to face my attorney. Vegas at once, and make contact with a Portuguese photographer named Lacerda. My attorney said nothing for a moment, then he suddenly came alive in his chair. This one sounds like real trouble! How else can you cover a thing like this righteously? She had no idea who I was, she said, and by that time I was pouring sweat. My blood is too thick for California: I have never been able to properly explain myself in this climate.

Not with the soaking sweats. My attorney was waiting in a bar around the corner. I assured him we would. I tell you, my man, this is the American Dream in action! And after that, the cocaine. And then the tape recorder, for special music, and some Acapulco shirts.

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Never lose sight of the primary responsibility. But what was the story? Nobody had bothered to say. So we would have to drum it up on our own.

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Free Enterprise. The American Dream. Horatio Alger gone mad on drugs in Las Vegas. Do it now: pure Gonzo journalism. There was also the socio - psychic factor. Every now and then when your life gets complicated and the weasels start closing in, the only real cure is to load up on heinous chemicals and then drive like a bastard from Hollywood to Las Vegas.

To relax, as it were, in the womb of the desert sun. Just roll the roof back and screw it on, grease the face with white tanning butter and move out with the music at top volume, and at least a pint of ether. Getting hold of the drugs had been no problem, but the car and the tape recorder were not easy things to round up at on a Friday afternoon in Hollywood. I already had one car, but it was far too small and slow for desert work. We went to a Polynesian bar, where my attorney made seventeen calls before locating a convertible with adequate horsepower and proper coloring.

Of course the gentleman has a major credit card! Nothing dinky. We want one of those new Belgian Heliowatts with a voice - activated shotgun mike, for picking up conversations in oncoming cars. We made several more calls and finally located our equip - ment in a store about five miles away. It was closed, but the salesman said he would wait, if we hurried.

But we were de - layed en route when a Stingray in front of us killed a pedestrian on Sunset Boulevard. The store was closed by the time we got there.

Just got into townany hungry cocksuckers around

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