HUNTER S THOMPSON
Penguin, Harmondsworth, 1967
(first published in the USA by Random House 1966)
price: 5/-; 288 pages
To the friends who lent me money and kept me mercifully unemployed. No writer can function without them. Again, thanks.
The blurb on the back:
They shoot the hillcrest like a burst of dirty thunder, shoulder-length hair streaming from Cro-magnon faces, swastikas jangling, filthy death's-head-emblazoned denims cracking in the wind - the Hell's Angels are out on a run, and America's West Coast cowers in loathing. . .
Gang rape, pillage, murder. . . recent press reports of the Angels read like a plot-synopsis of a thriller-writer's worst dreams. Hunter Thompson found the reality different - but still disturbing. Here, with Rabelaisian gusto, he tells of his experiences with Little Jesus, Charger Charley the Child Molester, Big Frank ('You don't really jerk out the eyeball, you just sorta spring it so it pops outa the socket') and a host of others. This is the inner truth of a phenomenon which relegates our Rockers to the nursery.
This scan was created on 21 February 2005,|
in memory of Hunter S Thompson
who shot himself yesterday.