Original subtitles

� Raindrops on roses

� And whiskers on kittens

� Bright copper kettles

� And warm woollen mittens

� Brown paper packages tied up with strings

� These are a few of my favourite things �

We were somewhere around Barstow on the edge of the desert

when the drugs began to take hold.

I remember saying something like...

I feeI light-headed. Maybe you should drive.

Suddenly there was a terrible roar all around us,

and the sky was full of what looked like bats,

all swooping and screeching and diving around the car.

A voice was screaming...

Holy Jesus! What are these goddamn animals?

Hey, did you say something?

Hm?

Never mind. It's your turn to drive.

No point in mentioning these bats, I thought.

The poor bastard will see them soon enough.

Fucking pigs! Flying!

We had two bags of grass, 75 pellets of mescaline,

five sheets of high-powered blotter acid, a salt shaker half full of cocaine,

a whole galaxy of multi-coloured uppers, downers, screamers, laughers,

also a quart of tequila, a quart of rum, a case of beer,

a pint of raw ether and two dozen amyls.

Not that we needed all that.

But once you get locked into a drug collection,

the tendency is to push as far as you can.

The only thing that worried me was the ether.

There is nothing in the world more helpless and depraved

than a man in the depths of an ether binge.

I knew we'd get into that rotten stuff pretty soon.

The report says illegal drugs killed 160 American Gls last year,

40 of them in Vietnam.

One toke, man.

� One toke over the line

� Downtown in a railway station

� One toke over the line...

One toke, you poor fooI? Wait till you see those goddamn bats, man.

� Minel

- Let's give that boy a lift. - What? No!

We can't stop here. This is bat country.

Hot damn! I never rode in a convertible before!

Is that right? Well, I guess you're about ready, then.

We're your friends. We're not like the others, man. Really.

No more of that talk or I'll put the fucking leeches on you, understand?

Get in.

How long could we maintain, I wondered?

How long before one of us starts jabbering at this boy?

What will he think then?

This same lonely desert was the last known home of the Manson family.

Would he make that connection when my attorney starts screaming

about bats and huge manta rays?

If so, well, we'll just have to cut his head off and bury him somewhere.

It goes without saying that we can't turn him loose.

He'd report us to some outback Nazi law enforcement agency

and they'll run us down like dogs.

Jesus, did I say that, or just think it?

Was I talking? Did they hear me?

It's OK. He's just admiring the shape of your skull.

- No, thanks. - Maybe I'd better chat with this boy.

Perhaps if I explain things, he'll rest easy.

Listen, there's one thing you should probably understand.

Can you hear me? Good.

I want you to have all the background.

This is a very ominous assignment, with overtones of extreme danger.

I'm a doctor of journalism, man. This is important, goddamn it!

- Get your hands off my fucking neck! - Now, now, now.

Our vibrations were getting nasty, but why?

Was there no communication in this car?

Had we deteriorated to the level of beasts?

This man at the wheeI is my attorney.

He's not just some dingbat I found. He's a foreigner.

I think he's probably Samoan. It doesn't matter, though, does it?

- Are you prejudiced? - Hell, no.

I didn't think so. In spite of his race, this man is extremely valuable to me.

Oh, shit. I forgot about the beer. You want some?

- No. - How about some ether?

- What? - Never mind.

Let's get to the heart of this thing.

24 hours ago we were...

.. in the Polo Lounge of the Beverly Heights Hotel,

in the patio section, of course,

drinking Singapore Slings with mescal on the side,

hiding from the brutish realities of this foul year of our Lord... 1971.

Perhaps this is the call you've been waiting for all this time, sir.

Perhaps.

Yep?

Mm?

Mm! Really? Right. Yeah. Why not? Yeah.

Bye.

That was headquarters.

Thank you.

They want me to go to Las Vegas,

meet a Portuguese photographer, Lacerda. He'll have all the details.

AII I have to do, check into my soundproof suite, he'll seek me out.

Sounds like trouble. You're gonna need plenty of legaI advice before it's over.

Oh, yeah.

As your attorney, I advise you to rent a fast car with no top.

You'll need the cocaine. Tape recorder for speciaI music.

Acapulco shirts. Get the hell out of LA for at least 48 hours.

- Blows my weekend. - Why?

Because I'm gonna have to go with you.

We're gonna have to arm ourselves to the teeth.

Well, why not?

If a thing's worth doing it's worth doing right.

This is the American Dream in action.

Wait!

We'd be fools not to ride this strange torpedo to the end.

Indeed. We must do it.

- What kind of story is this? - The Mint 400.

It's the richest off-road race for motorcycles and dune buggies in history.

It's a fantastic spectacle in honour of some fatback grossero

who owns the luxurious Mint HoteI in Las Vegas.

That's what the press release says anyway.

As your attorney, I advise you to buy a motorcycle.

How else can you cover a thing like this righteously?

We're gonna have to drum it up on our own. Pure... Gonzo journalism.

Jesus!

Getting the drugs and shirts had been no problem.

But the car and tape recorder were not easy to round up at 6.30 on a Friday.

Sounds beautifuI. Great. Hang on to it.

Fuckin' A, the gentleman has a major credit card.

Don't take any guff from these swine.

You just said that. Do you realise who the fuck you're talking to?

Do you? Be over in 30 minutes.

- We need a sound store. - We won't make the nut without credit.

Jesus Christ, we will, man. You Samoans are all the same.

You have no faith in the essentiaI decency of the white man's culture.

The store was closed, but the salesman said he would wait if we hurried.

But we were delayed en route when a Stingray killed a pedestrian.

We had trouble again at the car rental agency.

We're all settled. If I could just get your John Hancock, you're on your way.

You're gonna be reaI carefuI with this car, right?

Oh, yeah, of course.

No, no, no, no, no!

Holy smokes.

You just backed over a concrete abutment and didn't slow down.

You were going 45 miles an hour backwards.

There's no harm done. I always test the transmission that way.

This is really a nice pen, man.

You fellas haven't been drinking, have you?

No. Not me. We're responsible people.

Goddamn it, you've got my pen!

Goddamn hippies!

We spent the rest of that night rounding up materials and packing the car.

Then we ate some mescaline and went swimming.

Our trip was different.

It was to be an affirmation of everything right in the national character,

a gross physical salute to the fantastic possibilities of life in this country.

But only for those with true grit.

And we are chock full of that.

Dead right.

My attorney understands, despite his raciaI handicap.

But do you?

He said he understood, but I could see in his eyes that he didn't.

He was lying to me.

Urgh! Aargh!

Medicine! Medicine!

Medicine? Oh, yeah, medicine. Right here.

Don't worry. This man has a bad heart.

Angina pectoris. But we have a cure for it. Here you go. All right.

Big whiff. Big whiff. Big whiff, sonny boy.

There you go. Much better.

Now for the doctor.

Ooh!

Eeeee... Ooh.

What... What the fuck are we doing out here in the middle of the desert?

Somebody call the police. We need help.

We need help. We need help.

- The truth. - Truth?

We're going to Vegas

to croak a scag baron named Savage Henry.

Why? Because I've known him for years but he ripped us off.

- You know what that means. - You know what that means, right?

- Savage Henry has cashed his cheque. - Cashed his cheque.

Now we're gonna rip his lungs out and eat them.

He won't get away with this.

What is going on in this country

when a scum-sucker can get away with sandbagging a doctor of journalism?

Thanks for the ride! I like you! Don't worry about me!

Wait a minute! Come back and have a beer!

Shit. Fuck. I'm gonna miss him.

- Move over. - Did you see his eyes?

We have to get out of California before he finds a cop.

- Scoot over, you fat bastard! - We had a reaI freak on our hands! Shit!

We had to get to the Mint Hotel before the deadline for press registration.

Otherwise we might have to pay for our suite.

Jesus! Did you see what God just did to us, man?

God didn't do that. You did it. You're a fucking narcotics agent.

That was our cocaine, you pig! You fucking pig swine whore!

You'd better be carefuI.

Plenty of vultures out here. They'll pick your bones clean.

You fucking whore.

Here's your half of the sunshine acid. Eat it.

- How long do I have? - I advise you to drive at top speed.

It'll be a miracle if we get there before you turn into a wild animaI.

Pig fucker, pig fucker, pig fucker!

Ready for that? Checking into a Vegas hoteI under a phoney name

with intent to commit capitaI fraud on a head full of acid? I sure hope so.

30 minutes. It was going to be very close.

� Well, she's all you'd ever want

� She's the kind I'd like to flaunt and take to dinner

� But she always knows her place She's got style, she's got grace

� She's a winner

� She's a lady

� Whoa, whoa, whoa, she's a lady...

Hm? Hm...

Come on. Take the ticket. I'm busy here.

Take the ticket. Take it.

Take the ticket.

- I need this, right? - I'll remember your face.

There is no way of explaining the terror I felt.

Attention, Mint Hotel guests.

Would the owner of a green Pinto, Minnesota licence...

I was pouring sweat.

My blood is too thick for Nevada.

I've never been able to properly explain myself in this climate.

OK. Be quiet. Be calm.

Name, rank and... press affiliation. Nothing else.

She's a waitress about 16 years old.

They chopped her goddamn head off right there in the parking lot.

They cut holes in her and sucked out the blood. They were after the pineaI gland.

- How's your mama? - Ignore this terrible drug.

Yeah. Pretend it's not happening.

Hi there!

My name... uh... RaouI Duke.

On the list. Free lunch. FinaI wisdom.

TotaI coverage.

I have my attorney...

.. eee... eee...

.. with me, and I realise that his name is not on that list,

but we must have that suite! Must have that suite.

What's the score here? What's next?

Y0vr sv1t3 1sn't r34dy y3t.

But someone was looking for you.

We haven't done anything yet!

I can handle this.

This man suffers from a bad heart. But I have medicine.

My name is Dr Gonzo. Prepare a suite at once. We'll be in the bar.

I'm starting to feeI that drink.

Hey, beat it. Beat it. Go on.

I like the way you did that.

Come on. Come on.

- Watch out! - Come on.

Let's get some peanuts. That's one thing that's good for you. Peanuts, man.

Two Cuba Libres, beer, and mescaI on the side.

I bet you're a Libra.

Who's Lacerda? He's gonna phone us on the twelfth floor.

Room 1215. Lacerda.

I couldn't remember.

The name rang a bell but I couldn't concentrate.

Terrible things were happening all around us.

Order some golf shoes, otherwise we'll never get out alive.

Impossible to walk in this muck. No footing at all.

�.. heartache...

Mr Roger Pratt, please call the hotel operator.

� How can I bear to see your heart break?

� To see your heart break over me?

� Amore, scusami

� Se sto piangendo

� Amore, scusami...

I was right in the middle of a fucking reptile zoo.

Somebody was giving booze to these goddamn things.

It won't be long now before they tear us to shreds.

Please! Tell me about the fucking golf shoes.

Huh?

Jesus God Almighty. Look at that bunch over there. They've spotted us.

That's the press table, man. You're gonna have to sign in for our credentials.

OK?

Are you ready?

- Hm? - Are you ready?

- Come on. - Wait! Don't leave me here!

Two club sandwiches. And two more club sandwiches.

One, two, three, four shrimp cocktails

and nine fresh grapefruit.

Vitamin C. Need all we can get.

There's a big machine in the sky. Some kind of...

- A quart of rum. - .. electric snake coming straight at us.

- Shoot it. - Not yet. I want to study its habits.

You're sure hearty eaters.

Sorry. I need the cart. I need to return with the cart.

Thank you, but the cart needs to go back. I'll be back.

- I'm hit, man! - I leave you alone for three minutes.

You start waving that marlin spike round, yelling about reptiles.

- What are you talking about? - You scared those people.

They were ready to call the cops. You're lucky I came back.

Don't come near me! Don't come fucking near me!

Leave me alone.

They only gave us press passes to get you out of there.

Oh, God, what's that?

That scene straightened me right out.

Who's at the door?

- As the bombing continues in Laos... - Just a minute.

Oh, shit! Oh, my God!

Hi. I'm Lacerda, your photographer.

Duke?

- Back there. - Duke?

Duke? Hi!

Lacerda. Your photographer.

- You're not Portuguese! - You missed the bikes checking in.

Man, what a sight. Husquavarnas, Yamahas, DMCs.

Kawasakis.

Maicos. Pursangs.

Swedish fireballs.

A couple of Triumphs here and there. A CZ. All very, very fast. Very.

What a race it's gonna be.

I'm gonna let myself out.

We know what you're up to.

I'm gonna tell you. He's Iying to us.

- I could see it in his eyes. - Eyes?

Reuters news agency says...

My God...

Turn that shit off.

The racers were ready at dawn. Very tense.

In some circles, the Mint 400 is a far, far better thing

than the Super Bowl, the Kentucky Derby

and the Lower Oakland Roller Derby Finals rolled into one.

This race attracts a very special breed.

- Fuck off. - All right.

It was time to get grounded,

to ponder this assignment and figure out how to cope.

It was time to do the job.

Those of us who had been up all night were in no mood for coffee.

We wanted strong drink.

We were, after all, the absolute cream of the national sporting press.

We were gathered here in Las Vegas for this very special moment in sport.

When it comes to a thing like this, you don't fool around.

It's just beautifuI.

Money plays, money plays.

Kill the body, the head will die. Ali-Frazier fight.

- Crazy shit, man. - A proper end to the '60s.

Ali beaten by a human hamburger.

- Both Kennedys murdered by mutants. - They're starting!

- Oh, shit. Let's go! - Ladies and gentlemen.

Welcome to the start of the $50,000 Mint 400 Desert Race,

with $50,000 going to the winner

of this gruelling, gut-wrenching, nuts-eating motocross extravaganza.

And away we gol

We've got rooster tails going. We're here to spit in your enemy's eyel

Very good. Mm.

And they're offl

All right, here we go, third grid.

There they arel Here we gol

There were something like 190 more bikes waiting to start.

They were due to go off, ten at a time, every two minutes.

There you go, buddy.

Goddamn it, what day is it? Saturday?

More like Sunday.

Hello, anyone. Have you seen the race?

By 10.00, they were spread out all over the course.

It was no longer a race. Now it was an Endurance Contest.

The idea of trying to cover this race in any conventional sense was absurd.

Hey! It's pretty great! Come on in!

I'm just gonna try different combinations of lenses and film

untiI I find something that works in this dust.

Hold on. That's fucking machine guns, man. They're firing at us.

Machine guns! Get us out of here, quick!

Quick! We're gonna be killed, for fuck's sake!

What the... Oh, no! Oh, God, oh, God, oh, God.

- Where's the damn race? - Beats me, man.

We're just good patriotic Americans like yourselves.

What outfit you fellas with?

Oh. The sporting press. We're friendlies. Hired geeks.

Yeah.

Let's go.

Good luck, gentlemen.

- Freaks. Take me back to the pits. - No, no, no, no!

We have to go on! We need TotaI Coverage!

It was time, I felt, for an agonising reappraisal of the whole scene.

You're fired.

AwfuI jackass.

- Don't drive into the dust! - I never want to see you again!

I gotta change lenses! Don't drive into the dust!

Huh? Oh...

The race was definitely underway.

I had witnessed the start. I was sure of that much.

But what now? What comes next?

Turn up the radio. Turn up the tape machine.

Roll your goddamn window down.

Let us taste this cooI desert wind.

Oh, yes. This is what it's all about.

Total control now.

Tooling along the main drag on a Saturday night in Vegas.

Two good ol' boys in a fire-apple red convertible.

Stoned. Ripped. Twisted.

Good people.

"Hot slots. " That sounds heavy.

29-cent hot dogs.

What are we doing? Are we here to entertain ourselves or do the job?

Do the job, of course. Here we go.

Crab Louie and a quart of muscateI for $20.

I advise you to drive over to the Tropicana.

Pick up on Guy Lombardo. He's in the Blue Room.

- Why? - Why? Why what?

Why should I pay my hard-earned dollars to watch a fucking corpse?

I don't know about you, but in my line of business,

it's important to be happy.

What do you think you're doing? This is not a parking area.

- You've got to move. - You can't park here.

- Excuse me. Sir. - You can't park...

- You can't park here! - Is this not a reasonable place to park?

Reasonable? You're on a sidewalk! It's the sidewalk!

- Debbie Reynolds? - You can't park on the sidewalk!

- Seems like a hot ticket. - Excuse me, sir...

Drove all the way from LA for this show.

We're friends of Debbie's.

- OK, bye. - See you later.

This was Bob Hope's turf.

Frank Sinatra's. Spiro Agnew's.

The place fairly reeked of high-grade Formica and plastic palm trees.

Clearly a high-class refuge for Big Spenders.

Have they started the show on stage?

Sorry, sir. Full house. I'm sorry, sir.

- I drove from LA for this show. - There are no seats left at any price.

Fuck seats. We're friends with Debbie.

I used to romp with her.

- Are you prepared to go to court? - That depends.

I want to talk to you for a second.

Your attitude constitutes a breach of faith.

A lot of that's illegaI.

- What's your name? - My name? Tony Pitzicatta.

Tony Pitzicatta.

What, may I ask, is your name, sir?

It's on my driver's licence. I think we've met before.

Might be able to squeeze you in, sir. Have to stand in the back.

After a lot of bad noise, he let us in for nothing,

provided we would stand quietly at the back and not smoke.

Ladies and gentlemen, proudly presenting

the one, the only, the incomparable Miss Debbie Reynolds.

Good evening. It's wonderful to be here with all you people.

Let's rock and rolll

Come on, get out of here.

Shit! We wandered into a fucking time capsule.

Scumbag! I'll find where you live and burn your house down, you piece of shit.

- What happened? - Look.

One of these days I'll toss a fucking bomb in that place.

Hey. This is the place.

They'll never fuck with us here.

Where's the ether? Mescaline's not working.

There we go. Right.

Toss that.

Yeah, why not?

Devil ether.

It makes you behave like the drunkard in some early Irish novel.

Total loss of all basic motor skills.

Blurred vision, no balance, numb tongue.

The mind recoils in horror, unable to communicate with the spinal column,

which is interesting. You can watch yourself behaving in this terrible way,

but you can't control it.

You approach the turnstiles, and know that when you get there

you have to give the man $2 or he won't let you in.

But when you get there, everything goes wrong.

Some angry Rotarian shoves you and you think, "What's happening here?"

When you hear yourself mumbling...

Dogs fucked the pope. No fault of mine.

Ether is the perfect drug for Las Vegas.

In this town, they love a drunk. Fresh meat.

Come on, buddy.

They put us through the turnstiles and turned us loose inside.

Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls,

visitors of all ages.

The Bazooko Casino Circus proudly presents

the Flying Fellinis.

Excuse me.

A drug person can cope with seeing their grandmother

crawl up their leg with a knife.

But nobody should be asked to handle this trip.

Bazooko Circus is what the whole world would be doing

if the Nazis had won the war.

This was the Sixth Reich.

Everyone's a winner. Nobody is a loser.

Shoot the pasties off the nipples of the ten-foot bull-dyke.

Step up to this fantastic machine.

Your likeness will appear 200 feet tall on a screen over downtown Las Vegas.

For just 99 cents more, you'll be able to voice-message.

They'll hear you all right. You'll be 200 feet tall!

The ether was wearing off. The acid was long gone.

But the mescaline was running strong. Good mescaline comes on slow.

The first hour is all waiting.

About halfway through its second hour,

you curse the creep who burned you as nothing's happening. Then... zangl

I hate to say this, but this place is getting to me.

I think I'm getting the Fear.

Nonsense. We came here to find the American Dream.

Now that we're in the vortex, you want to quit?

You must realise we found the main nerve.

That's what gives me the Fear.

- Look. - What?

There's two women fucking a polar bear.

Don't tell me those things.

Not now, man.

This is my last drink. How much money can you lend me?

- Not much. Why? - I have to go.

- Go? - Yeah.

- Leave the country. - Calm down!

You'll be straight in a few hours. Just sit the fuck down.

Don't fuck around, man. This is serious.

One more hour in this town, I'll kill somebody.

OK. I'll lend you some money.

Come with me. I want to leave fast.

Let's pay this bill, get up very slowly...

- I think it's going to be a long walk. - Light, sir?

- Do they pay you to screw that bear? - What?

What? What the fuck did he say to me?

- He's drunk. - You'd better take care of your friend.

Madam, sir, baby, child, whatever.

Take this. That should be enough.

Let's go downstairs and gamble.

You guys don't fucking give up.

Where did he go? Where did he go?

- When is this thing gonna stop? - Stop? It won't stop.

It's not ever gonna stop, man. Don't move. You'll come around.

Fuck, he's...

Where did he go?

Come on. Let go. Quick. Like a bunny. Come on.

- Hop. Come on. Hop. - Fucker!

Oh, you chickenshit bastard.

All right.

Oh, fuck!

- Come on. You fell. Let's go. - Son of a bitch pushed me in the back.

Go away!

You stay here and go to jaiI. I'm leaving.

Come on, you fiend. Nothing. I want nothing.

Did you see that?

Some son of a bitch just kicked me in the back.

The bartender wanted to stomp you for what you said to the waitress.

Cows are gonna kill me.

Bisexuals are gonna kill me. Where's the elevator?

Don't go near the elevator. That's what they want us to do.

Drop us in a steeI box, take us down to the basement. Come here.

Don't run, man. They'd like any excuse to shoot us.

You drive. You drive.

I think there's something wrong with me.

Wrong door. Next door.

This is not a good town for psychedelic drugs.

Extremely menacing vibrations were all around us.

We finally made it to the room, but the key wouldn't open the door.

- They've changed the lock on us, man. - Already?

They probably searched the room, man.

Jesus Christ, we're finished.

Watch out! Watch out!

Bolt everything! Use all the chains!

That's better now.

Where did this one come from?

- Um... that's Lacerda's. - Yeah, I thought we might need it.

- What for? - What for?

So we can go up there and blast him out of bed with a fire hose, man.

I think we should leave that poor bastard alone. He was going to turn in early.

I knew it. He got a hold of my woman, man!

You mean that little blonde groupie with the film crew?

- Shit. Do you think he sodomised her? - That's right. Laugh about it.

- He's glueing her eyes shut right now. - You honkies are all the same.

Goddamn honkies are all the same.

Jesus God Almighty, man. Where did you get that big fucker?

Room service sent it up.

I needed something to cut the limes, man.

Limes? What limes?

They didn't have any. They don't grow in the desert.

That dirty toad bastard.

I should have taken him out when I had the chance.

Now he has her, man.

He got a hold of my baby. Yeah.

I remembered the girl.

We'd had a problem with her a few hours earlier.

My attorney had made a fool of himself.

You must be a rider.

Hm?

She's speaking to you.

- What class are you in? - Class? What the fuck do you mean?

What do you ride?

See, we're here getting a little footage on the race for a television series.

I thought maybe we could use you.

Use me? I ride a...

"Mother of God, " I thought. "Here it comes. "

I ride the big fuckers. The big ones.

- The really big fuckers. Yeah. - The Vincent Black Shadow.

- We're with the Factory Team. - Bullshit.

- What? - Bullshit.

I think there's some kind of ignorant chicken-fucker in this town.

You pink motherfucker. I can show you better than I can tell you, asshole.

Got a light?

No.

You don't trust me, do you?

- It's OK. I know these guys. - Keep trying me, jerk-off.

You want to impress her? Well, impress her with me.

Oh, fuck.

The police are coming after you.

Give me the key.

� For your love...

� For your love...

- Put the knife away. - It's in my pocket. Come on.

Goddamn it. It's serious now.

That girI understood, man.

She fell in love with me, man. Eye contact, man.

Go up there and castrate that fucker. I'll take the blame, man.

Just leave that weird fucker alone, man.

Have you made a deaI with him? Did you put him onto her?

All right, look. You better put that goddamn blade away, man.

Get your fucking head straight. I'm gonna get the car washed.

One thing you learn after years of dealing with drug people

is that you can turn your back on a person, but never on a drug,

especially when it's waving a razor-sharp hunting knife in your eye.

What was I doing out here?

What was the meaning of this trip?

Was I just roaming around in a drug frenzy of some kind?

Or had I really come to Las Vegas to work on a story?

Who are these people? These faces?

Where do they come from?

They look like caricatures of used-car dealers from Dallas.

And sweet Jesus, there are a lot of them at 4.30 on a Sunday morning.

Still humping the American Dream,

that vision of the big winner somehow emerging from the pre-dawn chaos

of a stale Vegas casino.

- Twenty. - Your change, twenty. Thank you.

- Here we go. - The wheeI's spinning.

The wheeI's spinning. Make me rich. Make me very rich.

Eee...

- That's ten. - Oh, you bastard.

- Sorry. - No, no. Calm down.

Learn to enjoy losing.

Fuck, man. It's a fucking great deluge in here. Don't touch that.

Don't fuck with it, man.

Oh, God.

- Did you eat all this acid? - That's right. Music!

Pray there's Thorazine in that bag. Otherwise you're in trouble.

Music, man. Put that tape on.

- What tape? - Jefferson Airplane. White Rabbit.

- I need a rising sound. - You're doomed.

I'm leaving here in two hours. They're gonna beat the shit out of you there.

All right, I'll do it, I'll do it.

Just do me one last favour, will you?

Can you give me two hours? That's all I ask, man. Two hours to sleep.

I suspect it's going to be a very difficult day.

- I'll give you all the time you need. - Electrocution. We don't want that.

Fuck off.

Goddamn!

Oh, God. Oh, mother of God.

- Help! Help! I need help! - Shit! He's killing himself!

Don't touch it! Let go!

- For fuck's sake, man! - Back, back, back!

Back the tape up!

Back down!

Back down!

- Let it roll, man! - What?

When it comes to that fantastic note

when the rabbit bites its own head off,

I want you to throw that fucking radio

into... the tub... with me.

Fuck, you've gone completely sideways, man.

That'll blast you right through the wall. You'll be dead.

- They'll make me explain things. - Bullshit.

Don't fuck with me now, man. I am Ahab.

Jesus Christ.

All right, you weird fucker. Sit down.

I'll plunge this into your fucking throat.

Don't make me use this, man.

All right, man. Probably the only solution.

Let me make sure I've got this all lined up.

You want me to throw this into the tub when White Rabbit peaks?

Is that it?

I was beginning to think I was gonna have to go outside

and get one of the goddamn maids to do it.

I'll do it. Sure. What are friends for?

- �.. she'll know... - You ready?

Close your eyes. Yeah. Good boy.

�.. have fallen sloppy dead...

- Higher! - Goddamn it! You're wasting my time!

Higher, man! Higher!

OK. Close those peepers.

Ten...

nine... 111...

22... three!

Sleep.

You bastard!

Mace! Mace, man. You want this?

I guess you do.

- You'd do that, wouldn't you? - Well, why not?

- You fucking bastard. - Hell, you were asking me to kill you.

Now you want to kill me. I should call the fucking police!

Boy, are you upset!

You came apart, man. Calling the cops.

There's no choice.

I wouldn't go to sleep with you with a head full of acid,

wanting to slice me up with that goddamn knife.

Who said anything about slicing you up?

I just wanted to cut a little Z in your forehead.

Get back in the tub, eat some reds and try to calm down. Smoke some grass.

Shoot some fucking smack. Do whatever you've gotta do.

But please, give me some fucking rest, man. Please.

Please. Get up, you pig fucker!

Up! Up!

Well. I, uh... Yeah.

You need to get to work.

Goddamn. What a bummer.

You scurvy shyster bastard. I'm a doctor of journalism, man.

Don't let me keep you up, don't let me keep you up.

Clean your shorts!

Clean your shorts, goddamn it. Like a big boy. Go on.

The acid had shifted gears on him.

The next phase would probably be one of those intense introspective nightmares.

Four hours or so of catatonic despair.

Ooh.

Ignore the nightmare in the bathroom.

Just another ugly refugee from the Love Generation.

My attorney had never accepted the notion,

often espoused by former drug abusers,

that you can get a lot higher without drugs than with them.

Neither have I, for that matter.

�.. is found

� To be lies

� And all the joy

� Within you dies

� Don't you want somebody to love?

� Don't you need somebody to love?

� Don't you want somebody to love?

� You better find somebody to love

� Love, love...

1965. The great San Francisco Acid Wave.

I recall one night in a place called the Matrix.

There I was... Mother of Godl There I am.

Holy fuckl

Clearly I was a victim of the drug explosion,

a natural street freak, just eating whatever came by.

Anybody want some LSD?

I got all the makings right here.

AII I need is a place to cook.

I decided to eat only half of the acid.

But I spilled the rest on the sleeve of my red woollen shirt.

What's the trouble?

Well, all this white stuff on my sleeve...

is LSD.

With a bit of luck, his life was ruined forever,

always thinking that just behind some narrow door in all his favourite bars,

men in red shirts are getting incredible kicks from things he'll never know.

Strange memories on this nervous night in Las Vegas.

Has it been five years? Six?

It seems like a lifetime,

the kind of peak that never comes again.

San Francisco in the middle '60s

was a very special time and place to be a part of.

But no explanation, no mix of words or music or memories

can touch that sense of knowing that you were there and alive

in that corner of time in the world, whatever it meant.

There was madness in any direction, at any hour.

You could strike sparks anywhere.

There was a fantastic sense that whatever we were doing was right,

that we were winning.

And that, I think, was the handle.

That sense of inevitable victory over the forces of old and evil.

Not in any mean or military sense. We didn't need that.

Our energy would simply prevail.

We had all the momentum.

We were riding the crest of a high and beautiful wave.

So now, less than five years later,

you can go up on a steep hill in Las Vegas and look west,

and with the right kind of eyes,

you can almost see the high-water mark,

that place where the wave finally broke and rolled back.

Room service.

Good morning, sir.

What do you want?

What do you want? Get out!

This is not mine. You're in the wrong room. Get out.

I've got a gun. It's not mine.

- Uh... - What?

- The bill... Will you sign? - All right. Hurry up.

Don't move, man. Be very still.

Say nothing to no one, man.

The decision to flee came suddenly.

Or maybe not.

Maybe I'd planned it all along,

subconsciously waiting for the right moment.

The bill was a factor, I think, because I had no money to pay for it.

Our room service tabs had been somewhere between $29 and $36 per hour

for 48 consecutive hours.

Incredible. How could it happen?

By the time I asked this question, there was no one around to answer it.

That rotten attorney of mine, Dr Gonzo, was gone.

He must have sensed trouble.

Hm...

A "Z"?

Panic.

It crept up my spine like first-rising vibes of an acid frenzy.

All these horrible realities began to dawn on me.

Here I was, alone in Las Vegas, completely twisted on drugs,

no cash, no story for the magazine,

and on top of everything else, I had a gigantic goddamn hotel bill to deal with.

I didn't even know who'd won the race. Maybe nobody.

How would Horatio Alger have handled this situation?

Stay calm. Stay calm.

I'm a relatively respectable citizen.

Multiple felon, perhaps, but certainly not dangerous.

Luckily, I had taken the soap and grapefruit out to the car earlier.

Now it was only a matter of slipping the noose.

Hey, wait. Here. Take this.

Mr Duke! Mr Duke!

Oh!

- We've been looking for you. - The game was up. They had me.

Many fine books have been written in prison.

- Sir? - What?

This telegram came for you. Actually, it's for somebody named Thompson.

But it says, "Care of RaouI Duke. " Do you... Does that mean anything?

Yes, it means a lot. Thanks.

I checked the register for this man Thompson.

- I figured he might be part of your team. - He is. I'll get it to him.

What confused us was Dr Gonzo's signature on the telegram from LA,

- when we knew he was in the hoteI. - You did the right thing.

Never try to understand a press message.

We use codes. Especially with Dr Gonzo. See you.

Tell me...

- When will the doctor be awake? - What do you mean?

Well... My manager, Mr Heem, would like to meet him.

It's nothing unusuaI.

Mr Heem likes to meet all of our large accounts.

Put them on a personaI basis. Just a chat and a handshake. You understand.

Of course. But leave the doctor alone untiI after he's eaten his breakfast.

He's a very crude man. Jesus God!

No!

But he will be available, maybe later this morning?

Look, the telegram is actually all scrambled.

It's actually from Thompson, not to him, all right?

I've got to go. I've got to get to the race.

- But the race is over. - Not for me.

Well...

- Let's have lunch! - Righty-ho, man, righty-ho.

� Now the bricks lay on Grand Street...

Jesus. Bad waves of paranoia. Madness. Fear and loathing.

Intolerable vibrations in this place. Get outl

The weasels were closing in. I could smell the ugly brutes.

Lord, just give me five more hours before you bring the hammer down.

Just let me get rid of this goddamn car and off this horrible desert.

� Oh, Mama

� Is this really the end?

- � To be stuck... - Oh, you eviI bastard.

This is your work.

You better take care of me, Lord. If you don't, you'll have me on your hands.

- Pull over! - Good morning. How are you?

All right, man. Doing very well.

Few people understand the psychology of dealing with a traffic cop.

Your normal speeder will panic and immediately pull over to the side.

This is wrong. It arouses contempt in the cop heart.

Make the bastard chase you. He will follow.

But he won't understand your signal that says you're turning right.

This is to let him know you're pulling off for a proper place to talk.

It'll take him a moment to realise he's about to make a 180-degree turn.

You will be ready for it, braced for the Gs and the fast heel-toe.

Shit!

Hi. How are you?

Just what in the hell did you think you were doing? I want to know.

- Let me see your licence. - Yeah, of course.

Right here.

Oh, my gosh.

It's me.

May I please have that?

I knew I was fucked.

We have two cases of beer,

a basket of grapefruit, a stack of T-shirts and towels, light bulbs.

Do you realise what you did?

I know. I'm guilty. I understand that.

I knew it was a crime. I did it anyway.

Why argue? I'm a fucking criminaI. Look at me.

- You have a strange attitude. - Maybe.

You know, I have a feeling you need to take a nap.

There's a rest area just up ahead.

Go up there, pull over and get a few hours' sleep.

That's not gonna help me. I've been awake for three or four nights.

Can't remember. I go to sleep now, I'm dead for 20 hours.

What are you carrying two cases of soap for, son?

I want to stay clean.

No. Here's how it is.

What I put in my book as of noon

is that I apprehended you for driving too fast.

I advised you to proceed to the next rest area. Stop!

I advised you to proceed to the next rest area,

your stated destination, right?

And take a long nap.

Do I make myself clear?

Well... How far is Baker?

I was sort of hoping to stop there for lunch.

Not in my jurisdiction. City limits end 2.2 miles beyond the rest area.

- Can you make it that far? - I'll try.

I've been wanting to go to Baker for a long time.

I've heard a lot about it.

Excellent seafood.

You know, I'm thinking a guy with your kind of mind

ought to try the land-crab.

- Excellent seafood. - Land-crab.

All right. Fair enough.

Thanks for the tip.

Look at me in the eyes.

Everything all right?

May I have a little kiss before you go?

I'm very lonely here.

� Oh, Mama, can this really be the end?

I felt raped. The pig had done me on all fronts.

Now he was going off to chuckle about it,

waiting for me to make a run for LA.

Why, yes. Of course I'll take advantage of that rest area.

I can't tell you how grateful I am for this break you want to give me.

Get a grip, man.

If I boom straight for LA, he'll bust me for sure.

No. This was not the time for a showdown.

This was Death Valley.

Oh, fuck! Sweet Jesus, it's him.

Oh, my God!

Shit! Come on, you fucking bastard!

Oh, God, oh, God! I've got to go.

They've nailed me, goddamn it. I'm stuck in some desert crossroads called Baker.

I don't have much time. They'll hunt me down like a fucking beast.

- You sound a little paranoid. - I need a fucking lawyer!

What are you doing? Didn't you get my telegram?

What telegram, you worthless bastard? I'll cripple your ass for this.

You're supposed to be in Vegas. I rented a suite at the Flamingo.

You're supposed to be covering the National District Attorney's conference.

I made all the reservations. Everything is arranged.

What the fuck are you doing in the middle of the desert?

Nothing. Never mind. It's all a big joke.

I'm actually... I'm poolside at the Flamingo right now,

talking into a portable phone some dwarf brought out.

I have totaI credit here. Don't come. Foreigners aren't welcome here.

Well, this is how the world works.

All energy flows according to the whims of the Great Magnet.

What a fool I was to defy him.

I was going back to Vegas. I had no choice.

I had to get rid of the Shark. Too many people might recognise it.

Especially the Vegas police.

Luckily, my credit card was still technically valid.

This was a superior machine.

Ten grand worth of gimmicks and high-price special effects.

The rear windows leapt up like frogs in a dynamite pond.

The dashboard was full of esoteric lights and dials and meters

that I would never understand.

If the pigs were gathering in Vegas,

I felt the drug culture should be represented as well.

And there was a bent appeal in the notion

of running a burn on one Las Vegas hotel

and then wheeling across town and checking into another.

Me and 1,000 ranking cops from all over America.

Why not? Move confidently into their midst.

Welcome to the Flamingo HoteI, sir.

- Sir? - Hi. Right. OK.

� Let me stay in your arms

� I'm addicted to your charms

� You're getting to be a habit with me

� I used to think your love was something that I could take...

My arrival was badly timed.

� I couldn't do without my supplies

� I need you for my own...

Used on them little peckerheads down near Penn State.

I am a police chief from Michigan.

I have explained to you.

I have this postcard which says I have a reservation in this hoteI.

I'm very sorry, sir, but you're on the late list.

So, your reservation has been transferred to...

the...

Moonlight MoteI out on Paradise Boulevard.

We've already paid for our room.

It's a very fine place of lodging and it's only 16 blocks from here.

It has a pooI, sauna, steam...

Listen to me, you filthy faggot! I want a manager down here!

Now! Now! Now! I'm sick of listening to your dog shit!

I am very sorry, sir.

- Get off of me! - Can I call you a cab?

Sure. I'll call you a cock sucker.

I heard what the clerk was really saying.

Listen, you fuzzy little shithead!

I've been fucked around in my time

by a fairly good cross-section of mean-tempered, rule-crazy cops.

And now... it's my turn.

So fuck you, Officer. I'm in charge.

I hate to interrupt, but could I just slide on through and get out of your way?

Name is Duke, RaouI Duke. My attorney made the reservations.

Duke, RaouI.

Certainly, sir.

My bags are out there in that white Cadillac convertible.

Maybe somebody could bring them to the room for me. Uh...

Let me get a quart of Wild Turkey, two fifths of Bacardi,

a bag of ice for the room and... Let's try some lime chunks.

I say OK.

Now, you don't worry about a thing.

You don't hesitate to call me. Sven.

All right, Sven. Thank you very much.

- You... you... - I know, I know. It's hideous.

You'll be fine, though. You're doing well.

Don't touch it. Pardon me. Nice one.

Look what you did! Look what you did!

Goddamn you! We wouldn't stay in this hoteI if you begged us!

� Magic moments

� When two hearts are caring

� Magic moments

� Memories we've been sharing...

Home sweet home. What kind of...

Oh, shit! God Almighty!

Shit! What the fuck? Stop it!

She's biting my leg off! You degenerate pig.

- Can't be helped. - My fucking leg!

Lucy in the sky with diamonds.

Lucy, be cooI, goddamn it.

Remember what happened at the airport, OK? Come on.

No more of that, OK? That's my client, Lucy.

That's Mr Duke, the famous journalist.

He's paying for the suite, Lucy. He's on our side.

He loves artists.

Lucy paints portraits of Barbra Streisand.

Right?

- I do these from TV. - Really?

She came all the way down... What's the name of that town?

- Montana. - Montana.

Just to give these portraits to Barbra.

We're going over to the Americana tonight to meet her backstage.

I desperately needed peace. Rest. Sanctuary.

I hadn't counted on this,

finding my attorney on acid and locked into some kind of courtship.

Well...

They must have brought the car around by now.

So...

Why don't... ou-yay and I-yay...

o- gay and et-gay the uff-stay

out of the unk-tray?

Absolutely.

Let's get the stuff.

We'll be right back, Lucy.

Give me a kiss. One kiss.

- No! - One kiss! Why not?

OK.

Don't answer the phone.

God bless.

Well, what are your plans?

- Plans? - The child in the bedroom.

Oh, Lucy. I met her on the plane.

Yeah. She's a religious freak.

I gave her a cap before I realised...

Jesus, she's never even had a drink before.

Well, we'll keep her loaded and then peddle her ass at the drug convention.

She's perfect for this gig.

Cops will go 50 bucks a head to beat her and gang-fuck her.

We can set her up in a moteI, hang pictures of Jesus over the room,

then turn these fucking pigs loose on her.

She's strong, man. She'll hold her own.

Jesus Christ, I knew you were sick,

but I never expected to hear you say that kind of stuff, you filthy bastard.

Straight economics, man. This girI's a godsend.

- She could make us a grand a day. - That's ugly, man.

Stop talking like that.

She can do about four at a time.

If you keep her full of acid, that's more like two grand a day. Maybe three.

What if I just jump on you and beat the dog shit out of you?

Would that make you feeI better, you filthy bastard?

All right, listen to me.

In a few hours she'll be sane enough to work herself into a towering rage

at the hazy recollection of being seduced by some kind of crueI Samoan

who fed her liquor and LSD, dragged her into a Vegas hoteI room,

and then savagely penetrated every orifice in her little body

with his throbbing, uncircumcised member.

- That's so ugly, man! - Truth hurts.

That's... Oh! Oh!

That's... Oh! Oh! That's... Oh!

Oh!

I wanted to help her, man.

Well, you'll go straight to the gas chamber for this one.

Even if you beat that, they'll still get you for rape and consensuaI sodomy.

No, she's gotta go, man.

Shit.

It doesn't pay to try to help somebody these days, huh?

Yeah. Americana HoteI? I need a reservation... for my... niece.

I want her treated very gently. She's an artist...

Fuck off!

She may seem a trifle high-strung.

She's doing her masters thesis on... Barbra Streisand.

Last name? I'd rather not say.

My brother's in politics. You understand.

I felt like a Nazi, but it had to be done.

Yeah. Right. OK. Bye.

� Yummy, yummy, yummy, I got love in my tummy

� And I feel like lovin'you

� Love is such a sweet thing, good-enough-to-eat thing

� And it's just-a what I'm gonna do...

Lucy was a potentially fatal millstone on both our necks.

There was absolutely no choice but to cut her adrift

and hope her memory was fucked.

Here's an extra ten bucks. Make sure she gets there safe.

Hmm-mmm... uh...

Uh!

That's that.

Take off slowly. Don't attract attention.

� Yummy, yummy, yummy, I got love in my tummy...

Let's find a seafood restaurant and eat red salmon. I feeI a lust for red salmon.

We're gonna be late. We've gotta go.

Goddamn mescaline.

Why the fuck can't they make it a little less pure?

I welcome you to the Third NationaI DA's Convention

on Narcotics and Dangerous Drugs.

And now, without further ado,

the man who will define this cancer eating at the heart of America,

Dr L Ron Bumquist.

I didn't believe the bastards in Easy Rider were reaI.

Not like this, man. Not hundreds of them.

They're nice once you get to know them.

Know them? I know these people in my goddamn blood.

Don't say that word around here. You'll get them excited.

The most efficient way for us to do this is for each one of us

to try and attempt to imagine what it is like inside

of the possessed mind of the addict.

For example, a dope fiend

refers to the reefer butt as a roach,

because it resembles a cockroach.

What the fuck?

You've got to be crazy on acid to think a joint looks like a goddamn cockroach.

You will notice that I have distinguished four...

four distinct states of being

in the cannabis or marijuana society.

They are cooI, groovy, hip and square.

Seldom, if ever...

You're too crazy, man. They're gonna shoot you down.

What a fucking nightmare.

If he figures out what is happening,

he can rise one notch and become hip.

Then, if he can convince himself...

.. to approve of what is happening,

then he becomes groovy.

Groovy.

And then after that, he can actually raise himself to the rank of cooI.

He can become one of those... cooI guys.

Dr Bumquist.

Do you think the anthropologist Margaret Mead's strange behaviour of late

could be explained by a private marijuana addiction?

Good question.

I'm not really sure I can answer that.

But what I can tell you, sir, is if Margaret Mead, at her age,

smoked grass...

she'd have one hell of a trip!

One more layer of deviance...

This is fucking bullshit. I'll be down at the casino.

Man, I have to get out!

Thank you very much. Thank you.

Thank you for having me.

- Excuse me. - All right.

Know your dope fiend. Your life may depend on it.

You will not be able to see his eyes because of tea-shades,

but his knuckles will be white from inner tension,

and his pants will be crusted with semen

from constantly jacking off when he can't find a rape victim.

He will stagger and babble when questioned.

He will not respect your badge.

The dope fiend fears nothing.

He will attack for no reason with every weapon at his command,

including yours.

Beware.

Any officer apprehending a suspected marijuana addict

should use all necessary force immediately.

One stitch in time, on him, will usually save nine, on you.

On you...

Oh, God, oh, God. Shit, shit, shit, shit.

Oh, God, oh, God.

- Yeah? - Mr Duke, you have one message.

Call Lucy at the Americana HoteI.

Room 1600.

Hello?

Lucy called.

- What? - Lucy called.

- What? - Lucy called.

Those men in the dock...

They gave me the LSD and they took me to the hoteI.

I don't know what they done to me but I remember it was horrible.

- They gave you what? - LSD.

Castration!

Double castration!

- Where's my. 357? - Fuck knows, man.

You can't leave me alone in this snake pit.

You bastard. What did you do with my. 357?

- This room is in my name. - Tough titty, man.

OK, goddamn it.

You're right. She's my problem. I'll call her. I'll get her off our backs.

- It's gone too fucking far, man. - I'll take that into consideration.

Relax. Let me handle this.

- Where are my shoes? - The Americana HoteI, room 1600.

As your attorney, I advise you to take a hit

out of the little brown bottle in my shaving kit.

You won't need much.

Just a tiny taste.

Let's have it. Ah, there it is.

- What is this shit? - That stuff...

makes pure mescaline seem like... ginger beer, man.

- Adrenochrome. - Adrenochrome?

Hello?

Hi, Lucy. God bless!

Yeah, it's me.

What? Hell, no. I taught the bastard a lesson he'll never forget.

What? No, not dead.

But he won't be bothering anybody for a while.

Yeah, I left him out there.

I stomped him. And pulled all his teeth out.

What a terrible thing to lay on somebody with a head full of acid.

But we have a problem. He cashed a bad cheque and gave you as a reference.

They'll be looking for both of you.

I know, Lucy, but you can't judge a book by its cover.

Some people are just basically rotten.

Anyway, the last thing you want to do is call this hoteI again.

They'll trace the call and put you straight behind bars.

No, I'm moving to the Tropicana right away.

I'll probably use a different name, but I'll let you know what it is.

I gotta get off.

They probably have this phone tapped, baby.

I know, it was horrible, but it's all over now.

Oh, my God. There's someone at the door.

There's someone at the door.

Hey! Hey! No! I'm innocent!

It was Duke! It was Duke!

Don't put that thing on me!

Ooh. Ah...

Well...

That's that.

That's the last we should be hearing from Lucy, man.

She's probably stuffing herself down the incinerator about now.

You know what we need? We need some opium.

I remember slumping on the bed. His performance had given me a bad jolt.

For a moment, I thought his mind had snapped,

that he actually believed he was being attacked.

But the room was quiet again.

- Where did you get this? - Never mind. It's absolutely pure.

What kind of monster client have you hooked up with?

Satanism freak.

I think there's only one source for this stuff. The...

adrenalin gland from a... living human... body.

I know. The guy didn't have any cash to pay me.

He offered me human blood, said it would take me higher than I'd been.

I thought he was kidding,

so I told him I'd just as soon have an ounce or so of pure adrenochrome.

Or maybe just a fresh adrenaline gland to chew on.

I could already feel the stuff working on me.

The first wave felt like mescaline and methedrine.

Maybe I should take a swim, I thought.

Yes, sir.

They nailed this guy for... child molesting.

He swore he didn't do it.

"Why should I fuck with children?" he said. "They're too small. "

Christ, what could I say? Even a werewolf is entitled to legaI counseI.

Didn't dare to turn the creep down.

Might have picked up a letter opener and gone after my... pineaI gland.

- You know? Crazy. - Yeah. Why not? Shit.

We should get some of that. Just eat a big handfuI and see what happens.

Some what?

- Extract of pineaI. - Yeah, that's a good idea.

One whiff of that stuff

will turn you into something out of a goddamn medicaI encyclopaedia.

BeautifuI fucking tits, man.

Your head would swell up like a watermelon.

You'd gain 100 pounds in two hours.

Right!

Grow claws. Bleeding warts.

Yes.

Then you'd notice about six huge hairy tits swelling up on your back.

Fantastic.

You'd go blind.

Your body would turn to wax. They'd have to put you in a wheelbarrow.

And when you scream for help, you'll sound like a racoon.

Oooh... ee?

Man, I'll try just about anything,

but I'd never in hell touch a pineaI gland.

Finish the fucking story, man. What happened?

- What about the glands? - Jesus, that stuff got right on top of you.

Look at your face. You're about to explode.

Maybe you could just...

shove me into the pooI or...

If I put you in the pooI now, you'll sink like a goddamn stone.

You took too much, man. You took too much, too much.

Don't try and fight it. You'll get brain bubbles, strokes, aneurysms.

You'll just wither up and die.

.. killing innocent people...

.. allow the last hopes for peace and freedom of millions of people

to be suffocated.

So tonight, to you, the great, silent majority...

Sacrifice... Sacrifice...

Sacrifice... Sacrifice... Sacrifice...

� I hear the cottonwoods whispering above

� Tammy, Tammy

� Tammy's in love...

What kind of rat-bastard psychotic would play that song at this moment?

When I came to,

the back-alley ambience of the suite was so rotten,

so incredibly foul.

How long had I been lying there?

All these signs of violence.

What had happened?

There was evidence of consumption

of almost every type of drug known to civilised man since 1544AD.

Ah, Debbie. Thank God.

Oh, Debbie.

What kind of addict would need all these coconut husks and honeydew rinds?

Would the presence of junkies account for all these fries,

these puddles of glazed ketchup on the bureau?

Maybe so.

But then why all this booze? And these crude pornographic photos

smeared with mustard that had dried to a crust.

These were not the hoof prints of your normal God-fearing junkie.

It was too savage. Too aggressive.

- Put your hands where I can see them. - What? Jesus God, man.

Put your hands where I can see them. Put your hands where I can...

Grim memories and bad flashbacks.

Get a grip. Maintain.

How many nights and weird mornings had this shit been going on?

Something ugly had happened. I was sure.

Who's that? Shit, that's mel

- No, please! I'm only the maid! - What the fuck?

Ooh, shit.

- You're under arrest! - She must have used a pass key.

I noticed her sneaking in, so I took her.

- Who paid you off? - Nobody! I'm the maid!

- You're a part of it. - Part of what?

The dope ring. You must know what's going on in this hoteI.

- Why do you think we're here? - I... I know you're the cops.

I thought you were just here for the convention. I swear.

AII I wanted to do was clean the room.

- I don't know anything about no dope. - Come on, baby.

You've never heard of the Grange Gorman?

I swear I've never heard of that stuff.

Maybe she's telling the truth. Maybe she's not part of it.

I swear I'm not. I swear.

- In that case, maybe she can help. - Oh, yes.

I'll help you all you want. I hate dope.

- So do we. - We should put her on the payroll.

- See what she finds. - Think you can handle it?

- What? - One phone call every day.

Don't worry if it doesn't add up. That's our problem.

- You'd pay me for that? - Damn right we would.

But the first time that you say anything about this,

you will go to prison for the rest of your life.

- What's your name? - Alice.

Prove it!

Just ring Linen Service and ask for Alice.

All right, Alice.

You'll be contacted by Inspector Rock, Arthur Rock.

He'll be posing as a politician, but you'll have no problem recognising him.

Inspector Rock will pay you, in cash, $1,000 on the ninth of every month.

I'd do just about anything for that!

- You and a lot of other people. - Come here.

The password, "One hand clutches the other. "

The minute you hear that, you say, "I fear nothing. "

- Say it. - I fear nothing.

- Say it again! - I fear nothing!

Now get the fuck out of here. Listen, nice meeting you.

Don't make up the room. Just leave towels and soap outside at midnight.

That way we won't have to risk another of these little incidents.

- Whatever you say. - Thank God for decent people.

- Say it againl - I fear nothingl

Terrible gibberish. Splintered memories looming up out of the time fog.

Just press play.

This is it. The American Dream.

- We're sitting on the main nerve. - Yeah, yeah.

Don't get me started.

The owner always wanted to run away and join the circus.

Now the son of a bitch owns the circus.

Ah, man. ReaI licence to steaI.

Oh, yeah. The American Dream come true. Pure Horatio Alger.

Yeah. Welcome to the happy place.

Listen. Let's get down to brass tacks here, man.

- How much for the ape? - How much you got?

How much do you think he'd take for the ape?

Wait here. I'll be back.

Madness. It made no sense at all. I desperately needed the facts.

Oh, God, oh, God! Little old person coming through! Get out the way!

What the fuck is going on? Where's the ape, man?

Forget about it! He attacked a man, bit off the head of the bartender

and the cops came and took him away.

Is that your car?

- What's the baiI? - There's too many zoos!

- Someone should stop them! - You don't understand.

This car is property of the World Bank.

You can't call this a circus!

- This top is completely jammed. - Something's wrong with the motor.

We're all riders of the storm.

- Where are you, monkeyhead? - You can't do that!

You people voted for Hubert Humphrey! And you killed Jesus!

We'd been heading for trouble.

We'd pushed our luck a bit too far.

Oh, God! Shit!

Right... uh...

The possibility of physicaI and mentaI collapse

is now very reaI.

No sympathy for the deviI.

Keep that in mind.

Buy the ticket.

Uh... Take the ride.

Hey there. You folks want to buy some heroin?

- Hey, honkies, I'm serious. - Pull ahead.

I want to sell you some pure fucking scag.

Shit, it's the reaI stuff. I just got back from Vietnam.

Scag!

I want to sell you some pure fucking scag!

Shoot! Fuck!

Goddamn it, you bastard! Pull over! I'll kill you! I'll kill you!

Pull overl Come onl

Oh, shit.

OK.

The mentality of Las Vegas is so grossly atavistic

that a really massive crime often slips by unrecognised.

North Vegas is where you go when you've fucked up on the Strip

and when you're not even welcome in the cut-rate downtown places.

The North Star Coffee Lounge seemed like a safe haven from our storms.

No hassles, no talk. Just a place to rest and regroup.

I wasn't even hungry.

There was nothing in the atmosphere to put me on my guard.

Psst!

Two glasses of ice water with ice.

Two glasses of ice water with ice.

Two.

She looked like a burnt-out caricature of Jane Russell.

She was definitely in charge here.

He did it very casually, but I knew that our peace was about to be shattered.

What was that?

- What is this? - It's a napkin.

Don't give me that bullshit, you fat goddamn pimp bastard.

That's the name of a horse I used to own.

- What's wrong with you? - The question mark was emphasised.

You son of a bitch, I take a lot of shit in this place,

but I don't have to take it off no spic pimp.

Anybody that knows anything knows that.

Go on. Pay your check and get out of here. You want me to call the cops?

Oh, shit.

Fuck.

You want me to call the cops?

- How much is that lemon meringue pie? - Her eyes were turgid with fear.

But her brain was functioning on survival level.

- 35 cents. - How much is that lemon meringue pie?

35 cents.

What a waste of talent. No, honey. I mean, the whole pie.

The whole pie.

Mm?

Well. Three?

Three? Four?

Five?

Call it five.

I'll be in the car.

The sight of the blade had triggered bad memories.

The glazed look in her eyes said her throat had been cut.

She was still in the grip of paralysis when we left.

It was all over now.

We'd abused every rule that Vegas lived by.

Burning the locals, abusing the tourists, terrifying the help.

The only chance now, I felt,

was the possibility that we'd gone to such excess

that nobody in a position to bring the hammer down on us would believe it.

Fifteen minutes to get my attorney to the airport.

Could we make it?

Whoa!

Agh!

- Oh, fuck! - Oh, shit! Oh, shit!

Oh, God, oh, God, you son of a bitch!

- Oh, God. - Whoa!

- You're going the wrong way, man. - Fuck off, fat boy.

Stop! You fucker!

Take a right here! Take a right here!

Goddamn it. We're lost.

What are we doing out here on this godforsaken road?

The airport's over there, man. Goddamn it! It's over there.

I've never missed a plane yet.

Agh!

All right, I'm gonna drop you right next to the plane.

Fuck you. I'll have to take the blame. They'll crucify me.

Right here, right here, right here.

Just say you were hitchhiking to the airport and I picked you up.

- You bastard. - Get out.

- Hey, hey! - Hey, listen.

Don't take any guff from these swine.

If you have any trouble, you can send a telegram to the right people.

Yeah, explaining my position. Some asshole wrote a poem about that.

It's probably good advice if you have shit for brains.

There he goes. One of God's own prototypes,

a high-powered mutant never even considered for mass production.

Too weird to live and too rare to die.

� There you stood on the edge of your feather

� Expecting to fly

� While I laughed...

We're all wired into a survival trip now.

No more of the speed that fuelled the '60s.

That was the fatal flaw in Tim Leary's trip.

He crashed around America, selling "consciousness expansion",

without a thought to the grim, meat-hook realities

lying in wait for all those people who took him seriously,

those pathetically eager acid freaks

who thought they could buy peace and understanding for three bucks a hit.

But their loss and failure is ours too.

Leary took down with him the central illusion of a lifestyle he helped create,

a generation of permanent cripples, failed seekers,

who never understood the essential old-mystic fallacy of the acid culture,

a desperate assumption that somebody, or at least some force,

is tending the light at the end of the tunnel.

There was only one road back to LA, US Interstate 15.

A flat-out high-speed burn through Baker, Barstow and Berdoo.

Then onto the Hollywood Freeway, straight into frantic oblivion.

Safety, obscurity, just another freak in the freak kingdom.

� I was born in a cross-fire hurricane

� And I howled at my ma in the driving rain

� But it's all right now

� In fact it's a gas

� But it's all right

� I'm Jumpin' Jack Flash, it's a gas, gas, gas

� I was raised by a toothless bearded hag

� I was schooled with a strap right across my back

� But it's all right now

� In fact it's a gas

� But it's all right

� I'm Jumpin' Jack Flash, it's a gas, gas, gas

� I was drowned, I was washed up, left for dead

� I fell down to my feet and I saw they bled

� Yeah, yeah, I frowned at the crumbs of a crust of bread

� Yeah, yeah, yeah, I was crowned with a spike right through my head

� Oh, oh, yeah

� But it's all right now

� In fact it's a gas

� But it's all right

� I'm Jumpin' Jack Flash, it's a gas, gas, gas

� Jumpin' Jack Flash, it's a gas

� Jumpin' Jack Flash, it's a gas

� Jumpin' Jack Flash, it's a gas

� Jumpin' Jack Flash, it's a gas

� Jumpin' Jack Flash, it's a gas

� Jumpin' Jack Flash, it's a gas �

� Bright-light city gonna set my soul It's gonna set my soul on fire

� Got a whole lot of money that's ready to burn

� So get those stakes up high

� There's a thousand pretty women waiting out there

� They're all waiting, they'll never make air

� And I'm just a devil with love to spare

� So, viva Las Vegas

� Viva Las Vegas

� Viva Las Vegas

� How I wish that there were more than the 24 hours in the day

� Even if I ran out of speed

� Boy, I wouldn't sleep a minute of the way

� Oh, that blackjack and poker and the roulette wheel

� I'll poach your money lost on every deal

� All you need is sonar and nerves of steel

� So, viva Las Vegas

� Viva Las Vegas

� Viva Las Vegas

� Viva Las Vegas with the neon signs flashin'

� And the one-armed bandits crashin' All those hopes down the drain

� Viva Las Vegas, turning day into night-time

� Turning night into day-time

� If you see it once, you'll never be the same again

� Gotta keep on the run I'm gonna have me some fun

� If it costs me my very last dime

� If I wind up broke, then I'll always remember

� That I had a swingin' time

� Oh, I'm gonna give it everything I've got

� Lady Luck's with me, the dice stay hot

� Got coke up my nose to dry away the snot

� So, viva Las Vegas

� Viva Las Vegas

� Viva Las Vegas

� Viva

� Viva Las Vegas

� Wheel �