Hunter Stockton Thompson (July 18, 1937 - February 20, 2005)
I have spent half my life trying to get away from journalism, but I am still mired in it - a low trade and a habit worse than heroin, a strange seedy world full of misfits and drunkards and failures.
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. And I knew we'd get into that rotten stuff pretty soon. 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.
Hunter S. Thompson describing the popular conception of the Hell's Angels, in the book Hell's Angels
Filthy Huns breeding like rats in California and spreading east. Listen for the roar of the Harleys. You will hear it in the distance like thunder. And then, wafting in on the breeze, will come the scent of dried blood, semen, and human grease...the noise will grow louder and louder and then they will appear, on the west horizon, eyes bugged and bloodshot, foam on the lips, chewing some rooty essence smuggled in from a foreign jungle...they will ravish your women, loot your liquor stores and humiliate your mayor on a bench in the village square...
I had a dream last night. It scared me worse than anything that ever happened to me. It was so horrible and so real that I woke up screaming and burned all that skin off the back of my hand, but I was so crazy I never even noticed it. I didn't even feel it when that bitch bit me in the face.
Hell, it was nothing. This time I saw the devil and scared the shit out of me. He tried to get his hands on my throat but I kept stabbing at him.
And then I saw all those people running out of the White House and screaming about murder. I thought they had killed Bush, but it turned out that Bush has murdered Quayle. Shot him with a Luger. The night cook said she heard them screaming and fighting all night and drunk whiskey in the Lincoln Room. It was nothing new, but this time George started slapping him around a little bit. He said Quayle was stealing from him. He just stepped back and shot him nine times in the stomach and gouged out one of his eyes while he was dying.
"Call immediately. Time is running out. We both need to do something monstrous before we die." Ralph Steadman to Hunter S. Thompson
"Time is running out. We must both do something monstrous before we die" Hunter S. Thompson to Ralph Steadman