Fear & Loathing in Las Vegas Pt.1 |
“Then, to an English Pub for bottled Budweiser with Tequila
chasers beneath a Greek flag hung upside down and a massive
screen showing baseball, just like we do in England”
He did the same. We wound the Mustang up a few MPH. He did
the same. It was now bloody hot, 42 degrees, but having paid
for a cabriolet we were not going to have the roof up unless
absolutely necessary. We’d run out of cash and our last few
cents went on a small bottle of water to share. The Norwegian
was tetchy. He was struggling to understand my explanation of
‘washback’. Also his hat had got a bit squashed the night before,
I suspect he had slept in it, he thought I had sat on it. Either
could be true. The black Camaro sat about 200 metres behind
us. Single occupant. Policeman? My iPhone told us we still had
four hours drive to Vegas before packing up as it had got too
hot. The Camaro thankfully vanished.
We needed petrol and found what seemed like the only petrol
station for miles. Pull up at the pumps, open the flap, click.
Nothing. Card in the machine. Nothing. Inside the shop for help.
The harridan behind the counter had the complexion of a five
pound note that’s twice been through the wash. I’ll spare you
15