The Doomed Generation
By Hunter S. Thompson
Page [1] [2]
We jumped off the radio van at Wilbur's and immediately set up a full wet-bar and Command Center next to the curb and for the next few minutes we just stood there in the rain and heaped every conceivable kind of verbal abuse on the Runners coming up.
"You're doomed, man, you'll never make it."
"Hey, fat boy, how about a beer?"
"Run, you silly bastard."
"Lift those legs."
"Eat shit and die," was Skinner's favorite.
One burly runner in the front ranks snarled back at him.
"I'll see you on the way back."
"No, you won't. You'll never make it back. You won't even
finish! You'll collapse."
It was a rare kind of freedom to belch any kind of cruel and brutal insult that came to mind because the idea of anybody stopping to argue was out of the question. Here was this gang of degenerates hunkered down by the side of the racecourse with TV sets, beach umbrellas, cases of beer and whiskey, loud music and wild women, smoking cigarettes.
It was raining - a light warm rain, but steady enough to keep the streets wet, so we could stand on the curb and hear every footfall on the pavement as the runners came by.
The front-runners were about thirty seconds behind us when we jumped off the still-moving radio van, and the sound of their shoes on the wet asphalt was not much louder than the rain. There was no sound of hard rubber soles pounding and slapping on the street. That noise came later, when the Racers had passed and the first wave of Runners appeared.
The Racers run smoothly, with a fine-tuned stride like a Wankel rotary engine. No wasted energy, no fighting the street or bouncing along like a jogger. These people flow, and they flow very fast.
From The Curse of Lono
Page [1] [2]
Page [1] [2]
We jumped off the radio van at Wilbur's and immediately set up a full wet-bar and Command Center next to the curb and for the next few minutes we just stood there in the rain and heaped every conceivable kind of verbal abuse on the Runners coming up.
"You're doomed, man, you'll never make it."
"Hey, fat boy, how about a beer?"
"Run, you silly bastard."
"Lift those legs."
"Eat shit and die," was Skinner's favorite.
One burly runner in the front ranks snarled back at him.
"I'll see you on the way back."
"No, you won't. You'll never make it back. You won't even
finish! You'll collapse."
It was a rare kind of freedom to belch any kind of cruel and brutal insult that came to mind because the idea of anybody stopping to argue was out of the question. Here was this gang of degenerates hunkered down by the side of the racecourse with TV sets, beach umbrellas, cases of beer and whiskey, loud music and wild women, smoking cigarettes.
It was raining - a light warm rain, but steady enough to keep the streets wet, so we could stand on the curb and hear every footfall on the pavement as the runners came by.
The front-runners were about thirty seconds behind us when we jumped off the still-moving radio van, and the sound of their shoes on the wet asphalt was not much louder than the rain. There was no sound of hard rubber soles pounding and slapping on the street. That noise came later, when the Racers had passed and the first wave of Runners appeared.
The Racers run smoothly, with a fine-tuned stride like a Wankel rotary engine. No wasted energy, no fighting the street or bouncing along like a jogger. These people flow, and they flow very fast.
From The Curse of Lono
Page [1] [2]
Sold out!
The Curse of Lono
Hardcover, slipcase, 33 x 44 cm (13 x 17.3 in.), 202 pages
$ 1000.00
$ 1000.00
Lono is back: Hunter S. Thompson's most eccentric book in a signed, limited edition
Illustration by Ralph Steadman