Disclaimer: I own Josie Rowe and this cup of coffee. That's about it though. No, I don't own Fear and Loathing, Hunter S. Thompson, or his work.

Dedication 1: Firstly and most importantly, I deem this here bit of cyberspace a dedication to the real Doctor, Hunter S. Thompson. The world's a lot sadder without him.

Dedication 2: This fic is also fondly co-dedicated to the rude reviewers of American Beauty. Thanks for nothing, dooshbags. :sticks out tongue:

A/N: Um... I talk too much. Here's the story...

"Hate and Mayhem in Las Vegas"

After the company logos roll, the picture opens with nothing but a black screen. Then, the chatter of a large group of people can be heard growing more and more audible. We can just make out the tone of a certain Gonzo journalist and a woman's voice over all the others. The woman laughs, a laugh that quickly turns into a petrified scream followed by the terrible squeal of tires on road. And then suddenly the blackness of the screen is broken with-

I was sitting next to the Great Man himself as we accelerated straight out of the convention center's parking lot and onto the main road. My heart raced in my chest with the force of some Native American war drum.

"What the hell are you doing?" I yelled, my voice high and panicked. "What the fuck do you think you're doing?"

The notepad and pen I had been jotting quotes down on had escaped out of the corvette and into the wind. The tape recorder clamped in my sweat-drenched hand was bouncing up and down with all the severe bumps and potholes we sped over in the street.

Up until this moment, Duke –as he liked to be called- had been giving an odd kind of soliloquy compiled around lots of "uhs" and "ums," until, at last words finally seemed to have channeled their way to his mouth.

"Hm? What? Oh. Yeah. Well, you wanted an interview, didn't you?" He said, more to the road than me.

Freeze frame on a shot of DUKE and CUT TO:

The constant madness of the place was getting to me. Everywhere I turned there was either a lung cancer charity stand or a woman selling German sugared pecans. It was too much. I was beginning to get, the Fear.

"Mr. Thompson, sir?" Called out an eager-faced teenager from my left. He was smiling like a loony, every pearly-yellow tooth showing and then some.

Christ, I thought, how was that thing natural?

The kid shoved a book and a pen roughly into my hands. That face of his just flashing the same smile, wide and terrifying. I was transfixed by the sight of this boy for a while, then looked down at the volume in my hand and realized it to be some kind of novel. I might have said thank you, but there's no way to be certain.

Moments passed and the kid didn't move, and I sure as hell wasn't about to. It all came boiled down to a childish story of "I was here first, damnit."

Then it all dawned on me and I scrawled my name on the novel's inner cover. I handed it back to him cautiously, as if that grin was going to jump right out and swallow me whole. The kid analyzed his book, the smile fading into an utter confusion.

"Raoul Duke?" He asked dumbly.

"Hell yes!" I cried. My blood was torrid; I couldn't take this guff any longer. "That's my name, you swine! Now get out!"

He did, Heaven bless him.

I pulled my hat down over my eyes to try and drown out any and all evidence of this brutish reality. Maybe if I forgot about it all, they'd disappear…

"Mr. Thompson!" Came another voice from my left.

Just from the habit of it, I turned. A woman, bright, attractive and smiling, was making her way over to me. She had mid-length brown hair that flew carelessly in every direction and wore a pin-stripe suit that hugged her figure. I liked her immediately.

"Enjoying the convention?" She asked me.

"Christ no," I answered, more bitterly than I meant. "Who are you?"

She laughed. "Josie Rowe," she said. "I'm a journalist with the Times."

"New York?" I inferred.

"Oh God no," she answered seriously. "The Beverly Wills Times. They just stole the name. The editor thought it sounded… groovy or something."

"Oh," I muttered.

She went on, "I'd like to get an interview if I could, Mr. Thompson-"

"Duke," I broke in. "My name's Raoul Duke."

There was a tense pause.

"Right-o," said Josie slowly after a moment. "Whatever you want. Duke, huh? So how about that interview, sailor?"

"Sure," I said.

"Great," said Josie.

Why not? I thought. It wasn't as if a few questions were going to kill me. And hell, anything unlike this hellish mayhem had to be worth going for, right? Which brought on the issue…

"But not here," I said. "Too goddamn loud!" I added as an excuse.

Josie didn't even pause to think before she nodded. "Most definitely. Let's go outside. I saw a patio bar or something on the way in."

And so we did. I left that tormenting nightmare to lounge at a bar and be given an interview by a nice-looking girl. Not bad.

Josie had been right about the place, patio and all. No cheap tricks with this lass. The only hitch about the spot were the few conventioneers who had weaseled their way out for a drink, the vermin. There were the "Hendrix afros and drooping mustaches and bell bottoms and love beads" scattered around that made things somewhat typical, but everyone else was a tourist, plain and simple. It was a vile sight. I felt the first great thirst for my case rush over me like a cold shower-

"So," Josie began. She'd already retrieved writing tackle from her handbag including a crude and battered old excuse for a tape recorder, which she set on the counter and hit 'rec.' I went ahead and ordered us two rums.

"Before we really get things out of the hat, I've gotta know," she started casually. "What's with the name?"

"Name?" I echoed.

"Yeah," she said. "Raoul Duke. Where'd that come from?"

I shrugged indifference and lit a cigarette. It didn't help. Goddamn thing wasn't even burning the right way.

I began to think dangerously.

Fade to black.