Raoul Duke: That bastard isn't gonna get away with this. I mean, what is going on in this country when a scumsucker like that can get away with sandbagging a doctor of journalism? Can you tell me that?
Raoul Duke: The possibility of physical and mental collapse is now very real. No sympathy for the Devil, keep that in mind. Buy the ticket, take the ride.
Raoul Duke: Panic. It crept up my spine like first rising vibes of an acid frenzy. All these horrible realities began to dawn on me. There I was. Alone in Las Vegas, completely twisted on drugs, no cash, no story for the magazine, and on top of everything else, a gigantic god damned hotel bill to deal with. How would Horatio Alger handle this situation? Stay calm. Stay calm.
Raoul Duke: There was only one road back to L.A. - U.S. Interstate 15. Just a flat-out high speed burn through Baker and Barstow and Berdoo. Then onto the Hollywood Freeway, and straight on into frantic oblivion. Safety. Obscurity. Just another freak, in the freak kingdom.
Raoul Duke: Kill the body, the head will die. Ali-Frazier fight. Crazy shit, man.
Magazine Reporter: Upper end of the Sixties. Ali beaten by a human hamburger.
Raoul Duke: Both Kennedys murdered by mutants? Shit.
Raoul Duke: If the pigs were gathering in Vegas, I felt the drug culture should be represented as well. And there was a certain bent appeal in the notion of running a savage burn on one Las Vegas hotel, and then just wheeling across town and checking into another. Me and a thousand ranking cops from all over America. Why not? Move confidently into their midst.
Raoul Duke: Shit, he's killing himself.
Raoul Duke: Those of us that had been up all night were in no mood for coffee and donuts, we wanted strong drink. We were, after all, the absolute cream of the national sporting press.
Raoul Duke: With a bit of luck, his life was ruined forever. Always thinking that just behind some narrow door in all of his favorite bars, men in red woolen shirts are getting incredible kicks from things he'll never know.
Raoul Duke: Of course, I could hear what the clerk was really saying.
Clerk at Flamingo Hotel: 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.
Raoul Duke: You better take care of me, Lord. If you don't you're gonna have me on your hands.
Raoul Duke: Yeah, I know. I'm guilty. I understand that. I knew it was a crime, and I did it anyways. Shit, why argue? I'm a fucking criminal, look at me.
Raoul Duke: Jesus, bad waves of paranoia, madness, fear and loathing - intolerable vibrations in this place. Get out. The weasels were closing in. I could smell the ugly brutes.
Raoul Duke: Dogs fucked the Pope... no fault of mine.
Raoul Duke: The store was closed, but the salesman said he could wait if we hurry. But we were delayed en route when a stingray in front of us killed a pedestrian.
Raoul Duke: Oh god... did you eat all this acid?
Dr. Gonzo: That's right. music.
Dr. Gonzo: The truth.
Raoul Duke: Truth?
Dr. Gonzo: We're going to Vegas... to croak a scag baron named Savage Henry.
Raoul Duke: It's true.
Dr. Gonzo: Why, because I've known him for years, but he ripped us off.
Raoul Duke: And you know what that means.
Dr. Gonzo: And you know what that means. Savage Henry has cashed his check.
Raoul Duke: Cashed his check.
Dr. Gonzo: And we're gonna rip his lungs out. And eat them.
Dr. Gonzo: It's okay. He's just admiring the shape of your skull.
Dr. Gonzo: Lucy is an artist. Lucy paints portraits of Barbara Streisand.
Dr. Gonzo: I have to go.
Raoul Duke: Go?
Dr. Gonzo: Yes. Leave the country.
Raoul Duke: Calm down. You'll be straight in a few hours. Just sit down, sit the fuck down.
Dr. Gonzo: Don't fuck around, man. This is serious. One more hour in this town and I'll kill somebody.
