thunter.fearloathinglasvegas-第15部分

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k　just　outside　the　door　so　full　of　felonies　that　I'm　afraid　to　even　look　at　it。
　　But　I　can't　abandon　the　fucker。　The　only　hope　is　to　somehow　get　it　across　three　hundred　miles　of　open　road　between　here　and　Sanctuary。　But；　sweet　Jesus；　I　am　tired！　I'm　scared。　I'm　crazy。　This　culture　has　beaten　me　down。　What　the　fuck　am　I　doing　out　here？　This　is　not　even　the　story　I　was　supposed　to　be　working　on。　My　agent　warned　me　against　it。　All　signs　were　negative…especially　that　evil　Dwark　with　the　pink　telephone　in　the　Polo　Lounge。　I　should　have　stayed　there。。。anything　but　this。
　　Aaawww　。　。。　Mama　can　this　really　be　the　end？
　　No！
　　Who　played　that　song？　Did　I　actually　hear　that　fucking　thing　on　the　jukebox　just　now？　At　9：19　on　this　filthy　grey　morning　in　Wild　Bill's　Tavern？
　　No。　That　was　only　in　my　brain；　some　long…lost　echo　of　a　painful　dawn　in　Toronto。。。a　long　time　ago；　half…mad　in　another　world。。。；　but　no　different。
　　HELP！
　　How　many　more　nights　and　weird　mornings　can　this　terrible　shit　go　on？　How　long　can　the　body　and　the　brain　tolerate　this　doom…struck　craziness？　This　grinding　of　teeth；　this　pouring　of　sweat；　this　pounding　of　blood　in　the　temples。。。small　blue　veins　gone　amok　in　front　of　the　ears；　sixty　and　seventy　hours　with　no　sleep。
　　
　　And　now　that　is　the　jukebox！　Yes；　no　doubt　about　it　and　why　not？　A　very　popular　song：　〃Like　a　bridge　over　troubled　water　。　。。　I　will　lay　me　down。。。〃　BOOM。　Flashing　paranoia。　What　kind　of　rat…bastard　psychotic　would　play　that　song…right　now；　at　this　moment？　Has　somebody　followed　me　here？　Does　the　bartendress　know　who　I　am？　Can　she　see　me　behind　these　mirrors？
　　All　bartenders　are　treacherous；　but　this　one　is　a　surly　middle…aged　fat　woman　wearing　a　muu…muu　and　Iron　Boy　overalls。。。probably　Wild　Bill's　woman。
　　Jesus；　bad　waves　of　paranoia；　madness；　fear　and　loathing…intolerable　vibrations　in　this　place。　Get　out。　Flee。。。and　suddenly　it　occurs　to　me；　some　final　flash　of　lunatic　shrewdness　before　the　darkness　closes　in；　that　my　legal/hotel　checkout　time　is　not　until　noon。。。which　gives　me　at　least　two　hours　of　legitimate　high…speed　driving　to　get　out　of　this　goddamn　state　before　I　bee　a　fugitive　in　the　eyes　of　the　law。
　　Wonderful　luck。　By　the　time　the　alarm　goes　off；　I　can　be　running　full　bore　somewhere　between　Needles　and　Death　Valley…jamming　the　accelerator　through　the　floorboard　and　shaking　my　fist　up　at　Efrem　Zimbalist；　Jr。；　swooping　down　on　me　in　his　FBI/Screaming　Eagle　helicopter。
　　
　　YOU　CAN　RUN；　BUT　YOU　CAN'T　HIDE　（。。。warning　to　smack　dealers　seen　on　a　bulletin　board　in　Boulder；　CO。）
　　
　　Fuck　you；　Efrem；　that　wisdom　cuts　both　ways。
　　As　far　as　you　and　the　Mint　people　know；　I　am　still　up　there　l850…legally　and　spiritually　if　not　in　the　actual　flesh…a　〃Do　Not　Disturb〃　sign　hung　out　to　ward　off　disturb…The　maids　won't　e　near　that　room　as　long　as　that　sign　is　on　the　doorknob。　My　attorney　saw　to　that…along　with　600　bars　of　Neutrogena　soap　that　I　still　have　to　deliver　to　Malibu。　What　will　the　FBI　make　of　that？　This　Great　Red　Shark　full　of　Neutrogena　soap　bars？　All　pletely　legal。　The　maids　gave　us　that　soap。　They'll　swear　to　it。。。Or　will　they？
　　Of　course　not。　Those　goddamn　treacherous　maids　will　swear　they　were　menaced　by　two　heavily…armed　crazies　who　threatened　them　with　a　Vincent　Black　Shadow　unless　they　gave　up　all　their　soap。
　　Jesus　Creeping　God！　Is　there　a　priest　in　this　tavern？　I　want　to　confess！　I'm　a　fucking　sinner！　Venal；　mortal；　carnal；　major；　minor…however　you　want　to　call　it；　Lord。。。I'm　guilty。
　　But　do　me　this　one　last　favor：　just　give　me　five　more　high…speed　hours　before　you　bring　the　hammer　down；　just　let　me　get　rid　of　this　goddamn　car　and　off　of　this　horrible　desert。
　　Which　is　not　really　a　hell　of　a　lot　to　ask；　Lord；　because　the　incredible　truth　is　that　I　am　not　guilty。　All　I　did　was　take　your　gibberish　seriously。。。and　you　see　where　it　got　me？　My　primitive　Christian　instincts　have　made　me　a　criminal。　Creeping　through　the　casino　at　six　in　the　morning　with　a　suitcase　full　of　grapefruit　and　〃Mint　400〃　T…shirts；　I　remember　telling　myself；　over　and　over　again；　〃You　are　not　guilty。〃　This　is　merely　a　necessary　expedient；　to　avoid　a　nasty　scene。　After　all；　I　made　no　binding　agreements；　this　is　an　institutional　debt…nothing　personal。　This　whole　goddamn　nightmare　is　the　fault　of　that　stinking；　irresponsible　magazine。　Some　fool　in　New　York　did　this　to　me。　It　was　his　idea；　Lord；　not　mine。
　　And　now　look　at　me：　half…crazy　with　fear；　driving　120　miles　an　hour　across　Death　Valley　in　some　car　I　never　even　wanted。　You　evil　bastard！　This　is　your　work！　You'd　better　take　care　of　me；　Lord。。。because　if　you　don't　you're　going　to　have　me　on　your　hands。
　　
　　　12。　Hellish　Speed。。。Grappling　with　the　California　Highway　Patrol。。。Mano　a　Mano　on　Highway　61
　　
　　Tuesday；　12：30　P。M。。。。Baker；　California。。。Into　the　Ballantine　Ale　now；　zombie　drunk　and　nervous。　I　recognize　this　feeling：　three　or　four　days　of　booze；　drugs；　sun；　no　sleep　and　burned　out　adrenalin　reserves…a　giddy；　quavering　sort　of　high　that　means　the　crash　is　ing。　But　when？　How　much　longer？　This　tension　is　part　of　the　high。　The　possibility　of　physical　and　mental　collapse　is　very　real　now　。。。　but　collapse　is　out　of　the　question；　as　a　solution　or　even　a　cheap　alternative；　it　is　unacceptable。　Indeed。　This　is　the　moment　of　truth；　that　fine　and　fateful　line　between　control　and　disaster…which　is　also　the　difference　between　staying　loose　and　weird　on　the　streets；　or　spending　the　next　five　years　of　summer　mornings　playing　basketball　in　the　yard　at　Carson　City。
　　No　sympathy　for　the　devil；　keep　that　in　mind。　Buy　the　ticket；　take　the　ride　。　。　。　and　if　it　occasionally　gets　a　little　heavier　than　what　you　had　in　mind；　well　。　。　。　maybe　chalk　it　off　to　forced　consciousness　expansion：　Tune　in；　freak　out；　get　eaten。　It's　all　in　Kesey's　Bible。。。。The　Far　Side　of　Reality。
　　And　so　much　for　bad　gibberish；　not　even　Kesey　can　help　me　I　have　just　had　two　very　bad　emotional　experiences…with　the　California　Highway　Patrol　and　another　with　a　phantom　hitchhiker　who　may　or　may　not　have　been　who　I　thought　it　was…and　now；　feeling　right　on　the　verge　of　a　bad　psychotic　episode；　I　am　hunkered　down　with　my　tape　machine　in　a　〃beer　bar〃　that　is　actually　the　back　room　of　a　huge　Hardware　Barn…all　kinds　of　plows　and　harnesses　and　piled…up　fertilizer　bags；　and　wondering　how　it　all　happened。
　　About　five　miles　back　I　had　a　brush　with　the　CHP。　Not　stopped　or　pulled　over：　nothing　routine。　I　always　drive　properly。　A　bit　fast；　perhaps；　but　always　with　consummate　skill　and　a　natural　feel　for　the　road　that　even　cops　recognize。　No　cop　was　ever　born　who　isn't　a　sucker　for　a　finely…executed　hi…speed　Controlled　Drift　all　the　way　around　one　of　those　cloverleaf　freeway　interchanges。
　　Few　people　understand　the　psychology　of　dealing　with　a　highway　traffic　cop。　Your　normal　speeder　will　panic　and　immediately　pull　over　to　the　side　when　he　sees　the　big　red　light　behind　him。。。and　then　we　will　start　apologizing；　begging　for　mercy。
　　This　is　wrong。　It　arouses　contempt　in　the　cop…heart。　The　thing　to　do…when　you're　running　along　about　a　hundred　or　so　and　you　suddenly　find　a　red…flashing　CHP…tracker　on　your　trail…what　you　want　to　do　then　is　accelerate。　Never　pull　over　with　the　first　siren…howl。　Mash　it　down　and　make　the　bastard　chase　you　at　speeds　up　to　120　all　the　way　to　the　next　exit。　He　will　follow。　But　he　won't　know　what　to　make　of　your　blinker…signal　that　says　you're　about　to　turn　right。
　　This　is　to　let　him　know　you're　looking　for　a　proper　place　to　pull　off　and　talk　。　。。　keep　signaling　and　hope　for　an　off…ramp；　one　of　those　uphill　side…loops　with　a　sign　saying　〃Max　Speed　25〃。。。and　the　trick；　at　this　point；　is　to　suddenly　leave　the　freeway　and　take　him　into　the　chute　at　no　less　than　a　hundred　miles　an　hour。
　　He　will　lock　his　brakes　about　the　same　time　you　lock　yours；　but　it　will　take　him　a　moment　to　realize　that　he's　about　to　make　a　180…degree　turn　at　this　speed　。　。。　but　you　will　be　ready　for　it；　braced　for　the　Gs　and　the　fast　heel…toe　work；　and　with　any　luck　at　all　you　will　have　e　to　a　plete　stop　off　the　road　at　the　top　of　the　turn　and　be　standing　beside　your　automobile　by　the　time　he　catches　up。
　　He　will　not　be　reason