Hey Rube

by Hunter S. Thompson

  And thank you. It feels good to be back in the Fast lane, for good or ill—and I did, incidentally, Lose big on the Miami-Tennessee game, along with Carolina-Minnesota and Cincinnati–New England. I won with the Raiders, San Francisco, and the Colts.… But what the hell? It is a far far better thing to lose Now than in December, when the humor goes out of the gambling business. That is when I plan to spring the final ambush on gloating screwheads like John Walsh. He thinks he’s Ahead now, but in truth I am just baiting him into the trap. He will learn soon enough. Don’t worry. I know exactly what I’m doing.

  —September 10, 2001

  PART TWO

  WHERE WERE YOU WHEN THE FUN STOPPED? FEAR AND LOATHING IN AMERICA: BEGINNING OF THE END.… EVEN ESPN WAS BROADCASTING WAR NEWS.… GUERRILLA WARFARE ON A GLOBAL SCALE.… WELCOME TO THE STADIUM LIFE.… ALL WAR AND NO FOOTBALL MAKES JACK A DULL BOY.… I AM SEAN PENN, SHOULD I ENTER THE HONOLULU MARATHON? … WHY DIDN’T YOU TELL ME YOU HAD SUCH A BEAUTIFUL SISTER, OMAR? … FAILURE, FOOTBALL, AND VIOLENCE ON THE STRIP.… GETTING BRACED FOR THE LAST FOOTBALL GAME.… ARE TERRORISTS SEIZING CONTROL OF THE NFL? AND WHO LET IT HAPPEN? … HAD I FINALLY LOVED SPORT TOO MUCH?

  Fear and Loathing in America: Beginning of the End

  It was just after dawn in Woody Creek when the first bomb hit New York City this morning, and as usual I was writing about sports. But not for long. Football suddenly seemed irrelevant, compared to the scenes of destruction and utter devastation coming out of New York on TV.

  Even ESPN was broadcasting war news. It was the worst disaster in the history of the United States, including Pearl Harbor, the San Francisco earthquake, and probably the battle of Antietam in 1862, when 23,000 American soldiers were slaughtered in one day.

  The battle of the World Trade Center lasted about 99 minutes and cost 20,000 lives in two hours (according to unofficial estimates as of midnight on Tuesday). The final numbers, including those from the supposedly impregnable Pentagon, across the Potomac River from Washington, will likely be higher. Anything that kills 300 trained firefighters in two hours is a world-class disaster.

  And it was not even Bombs that caused this massive damage. No nuclear missiles were launched from any foreign soil, no enemy bombers flew over New York and Washington to rain death on innocent Americans. No. It was four (4) commercial jetliners.

  They were the first flights of the day from American and United Airlines, “piloted” by skilled and loyal U.S. citizens, and there was nothing suspicious about them when they took off from Newark, Logan, and Dulles on routine cross-country flights to the West Coast with fully loaded fuel tanks—which would soon explode on impact and utterly destroy the world-famous Twin Towers of downtown Manhattan’s World Trade Center. Boom! Boom! Just like that.

  The towers are gone now, reduced to bloody rubble, along with all hopes for Peace in Our Time, in the U.S. or any other country. Make no mistake about it: we are At War now—with somebody—and we will stay At War with that strange and mysterious Enemy for the rest of our lives.

  It will be a Religious War, a sort of Christian Jihad, fueled by religious hatred and led by merciless fanatics on both sides. It will be guerrilla warfare on a global scale, with no front lines and no identifiable enemy. Osama bin Laden will be a primitive “figurehead”—or even dead, for all we know—but whoever put those all-American jet planes loaded with all-American fuel into the 110-story-high Twin Towers and the Pentagon did it with chilling precision and accuracy. The second one was a dead-on bull’s-eye. Straight into the middle of the skyscraper.

  Nothing ever Claimed by George W. Bush’s $350 billion “Star Wars” missile defense system could have prevented Tuesday’s attack, and it cost next to nothing to pull off. The efficiency of it was terrifying. Fewer than 20 unarmed Suicide soldiers from some apparently primitive country somewhere on the other side of the world took out the World Trade Center and half the Pentagon with three quick and costless strikes on one day. That is terrifying.

  We are going to punish somebody for this attack, but just who or where will be blown to smithereens for it is hard to say. Maybe Afghanistan, maybe Pakistan or Iraq, or possibly all three at once. Who knows? Not even the Generals in what remains of the Pentagon or the New York papers calling for war seem to know who did it or where to look for them.

  This is going to be a very expensive war, and Victory is not guaranteed—for anyone, and certainly not for a baffled little creep like George W. Bush. All he knows is that his father started the war a long time ago, and that he, the goofy child-President, has been chosen by Fate and the global Oil industry to finish it off. He can declare a National Security Emergency and clamp down Hard on Everybody, no matter where they live or why. If the guilty won’t hold up their hands and confess, he and the Generals will ferret them out by force.

  Good luck. He is in for a profoundly difficult job—armed as he is with no credible Military Intelligence, no witnesses, and only the ghost of Bin Laden to blame for the tragedy.

  Okay. It is 24 hours later now, and we are not getting much information about the Five Ws of this thing. Not even the numbers of dead and wounded can be established. CNN reports “more than 800 people standing in line to donate blood at St. Vincent’s Hospital in Greenwich Village, but only fewer than 500 victims brought to the Emergency Room.” The numbers don’t add up. I am confused.

  The numbers out of the Pentagon are baffling, as if Military Censorship had already been imposed on the media. It is ominous. The only news on TV comes from weeping victims and ignorant speculators.

  The lid is on, Loose Lips Sink Ships. Don’t say anything that might give aid to The Enemy.

  —September 12, 2001

  When War rums Roll

  Johnny Depp called me from France last night and asked what I knew about Osama bin Laden.

  “Nothing,” I said. “Nothing at all. He is a ghost, for all I know. Why do you ask?”

  “Because I’m terrified of him,” he said. “All of France is terrified. I was in the American Embassy today when they caught some terrorists trying to blow it up. I freaked out and rushed to the airport, but when I got there my flight was canceled. All flights to the U.S. were canceled. People went crazy with fear.”

  “Join the club,” I told him. “Almost everybody went crazy over here.”

  “Never mind that,” he said. “Who won the Jets-Colts game?”

  “There was no game,” I said. “All sport was canceled in this country—even Monday Night Football.”

  “No!” he said. “That’s impossible! I’ve never known a Monday night without a game on TV. What is the stock market doing?”

  “Nothing yet,” I said, “It’s been closed for six days.”

  “Ye gods,” he muttered. “No stock market, no football—this is Serious.”

  Just then I heard the lock on my gas tank rattling, so I rushed outside with a shotgun and fired both barrels into the darkness. Poachers! I thought. Blow their heads off! This is War! I fired another blast in the general direction of the gas pump, then I went inside to reload.

  “Why are you shooting?” Anita screamed at me. “What are you shooting at?”

  “The enemy,” I said gruffly. “He is down there stealing our gasoline.”

  “Nonsense,” she said. “That tank has been empty since June. You probably killed a peacock.…”

  At dawn I went down to the tank and found the gas hose shredded by birdshot and two peacocks dead.

  So what? I thought. What is more important right now—my precious gasoline or the lives of some silly birds?

  Indeed, but the New York Stock Exchange opens in thirteen minutes, so I have to get a grip on something solid. The Other Shoe is about to drop, and it may be extremely heavy. The time has come to be strong. The fat is in the fire. Who knows what will happen now?

  Not me, buster. That’s why I live out here in the mountains with a flag on my porch and loud Wagner music blaring out of my speakers. I feel lucky and I have plenty of ammunition. That is God�
�s will, they say, and that is also why I shoot into the darkness at anything that moves. Sooner or later I will hit something Evil, and feel no Guilt. It might be Osama bin Laden. Who knows? And where is Adolf Hitler, now that we finally need him? It is bad business to go into War without a target.

  In times like these, when the War drums and the bugles howl for blood, I think of Vince Lombardi and I wonder how he would handle it.… Good old Vince. He was a zealot for Victory at all costs, and his hunger for it was pure—or that’s what he said and what his legend tells us, but it is worth noting that his career won-lost record in the NFL is not even in the top ten.

  No, that honor goes to George Seifert, who inherited a 49er dynasty at the top of its form and won a Super Bowl in his first year. His winning percentage in three downhill years was .75. Then he retired and went fishing. It was a good career move.

  The San Francisco empire crumbled after that. It was a horrible process to watch. Bill Walsh went to Stanford, Joe Montana to Kansas City, and the owner was busted for trying to bribe the monumentally sleazy Governor of Louisiana—who argued successfully that while it may have been a crime to offer a bribe to him, it was not a crime for him to accept a bribe.

  It was profoundly twisted legal reasoning, but it worked in Louisiana. Gov. Edwin Edwards walked on that one, saying cheerfully that the Law would never get him unless he were “caught in bed with a live boy or a dead girl.”

  Good old Edwin. He was a barrel of laughs in his day, but he is in Federal prison now, for fraud—or at least that’s what they say, but who knows where he really is. The slippery little bugger might be hunkered down in a salt cave near Kabul—probably with Osama bin Laden, disguised as a teenage whore.

  Whoops. This may not be the time for eerie humor. We are At War now, according to President Bush, and I take him at his word. He also says this War may last for “a very long time.”

  Generals and military scholars will tell you that eight or ten years is actually not such a long time in the span of human history—which is no doubt true—but history also tells us that ten years of martial law and a wartime economy are going to feel like a Lifetime to people who are 20 years old today. The poor bastards of what will forever be known as Generation Z are doomed to be the first generation of Americans who will grow up with a lower standard of living than their parents enjoyed.

  That is extremely heavy news and it will take a while for it to sink in. The 22 babies born in New York City while the World Trade Center burned will never know what they missed. The last half of the 20th Century will seem like a wild party for rich kids, compared to what’s coming now. The party’s over, folks. The time has come for loyal Americans to Sacrifice.… Sacrifice.… Sacrifice. That is the new buzzword in Washington. But what it means is not entirely clear.

  Winston Churchill said, “The first casualty of War is always the Truth.” Churchill also said, “In wartime, the Truth is so precious that it should always be surrounded by a bodyguard of Lies.”

  That wisdom will not be much comfort to babies born last week. The first news they get in this world will be News subjected to Military Censorship. That is a given, in wartime, along with massive campaigns of deliberately planted Disinformation, and it makes life difficult for people who value real news. Count on it. That is what Churchill meant when he talked about Truth being the first casualty of War.

  In this case, however, a next casualty was Football. All games were canceled last week. And that has Never happened to the NFL. Never. That gives us a hint about the Magnitude of this War. Terrorists don’t wear uniforms, and they play by inscrutable rules—the Rules of World War III, which has already begun.

  So get ready for it, folks. Buckle up and watch your backs at all times. That is why they call it “Terrorism.”

  —September 17, 2001

  Will Sports Survive Bin Laden?

  There was strangeness in the NFL on Sunday, weird upsets that baffled fans and rattled the teeth of gamblers from Boston to Morro Bay.

  The Vikings got waxed by the supposedly Lame Chicago Bears, Miami punctured Oakland, and the mighty Baltimore Ravens were blown off their pedestal by the wretched Cincinnati Bengals. Thus, there were three sure-thing play-off teams beaten like curs in the second week of the season. I was stunned, frankly, and I wept for my long-term bets.

  A few things were normal in the NFL last week: St. Louis beat the 49ers, Denver trashed Arizona, and the Colts flogged Buffalo. Miami’s last-second victory over Oakland was an exceptional piece of football, and Tennessee’s second loss in a row was not a real shock—not like seeing the Ravens get whipped by Cincinnati. Even bookies cried about that one. It was horrible. In the old days I would have bet both my thumbs against it, but I didn’t. No. I am older and wiser now—and I have a powerful need for my thumbs, if only to write about football.

  I broke more or less even on Sunday, but it was not an easy trick. In any case, 50-50 is unacceptable in this business, unless you’re skimming 10 percent off the top—in which case you’re just another bookie with rotten self-esteem.

  That is tempting, on some days. Ten percent of everything looks pretty comfortable in the ominous new economy—compared to being a ticket agent at Dulles International Airport, anyway, or working as a skycap in Boston. I have done both of these things in my time, and all things considered, I think I’d prefer to be a bookie.

  I have never done that, but I have some friends who still do it vigorously, regardless of the risks. Most bookies bear the scars of workplace disasters that go with the territory, such as pain, cruelty, and violence in all its forms. It can be a brutal business for losers. A plunge into debt can be a life-altering experience, even terminal. Death and disfigurement are routine punishments in the trade, and fear is a constant companion. A long losing streak can mean the end of the world as you know it.

  Ah, but never mind those things. I must be watching too much bad news on TV. Let us turn away from ugliness and embrace our Happy thoughts.

  Breaking even on our football bets is extremely good luck, compared to being on trial in Afghanistan for trying to subvert the Taliban religion. That is where the rubber meets the road.

  Osama bin Laden is like a vampire that casts no shadow, yet his shadow is over us all. People call me on the phone and jabber like fruit bats in heat.

  These are not triumphant times for people with bullish hopes for the future—unless you are part of the Military-Industrial complex, and then your future is bright, very bright. If you own stock in military/munitions suppliers like Raytheon, Lockheed, Northrop Grumman, L-3 Comm, or General Dynamics, your profit picture is golden. Your ship has come in. The power balance has shifted drastically in this country since the World Trade towers were destroyed September 11, and your people are in charge now. We are at War, and I’m glad to be your friend. We are all in this thing together.

  What business are you in, brother? Your face is familiar. Do we know each other? Where have I seen you before? Was it Hong Kong? Beirut? Johannesburg? Where do you live?

  Where indeed. The universal soldier has no home. He is always on the move. He has many names, and he pays his rent with cash. Yes sir, cash and carry. I know him well, I think, and I know his habits better than I like to admit. Beware, he comes quietly, but with terrifying force. Raw gold is his only currency, and Death is what he sells. We all know him, but describing him is difficult. He is a “Master of War,” in Bob Dylan’s words, and Warren Zevon has called him “Roland, the Headless Thompson Gunner.”

  Now is a good time to buy Disney stock, they say, because sport and entertainment are undervalued now, and they might be all we have left. “War is hell,” say the Generals. “Prepare to make many sacrifices, especially in your Standards of Living.” Our Enemy is cruel and evil and strong, but our Faith will be victorious, sooner or later.

  The big thing now is to make sure the football season continues without interruption, which I think it will. Football is necessary now. Until recently, it was only a brutal diversi
on, but now it is a key to the national sanity. We are still deep in shock from the attacks on New York and Washington. We still can’t figure out what it all means, or how to keep it from happening again—and who is this horrible bastard bin Laden, anyway?

  That is a serious question for a country on the brink of a $400-Billion-a-year war against an unseen enemy. That is almost half a Trillion dollars, which is sure to make a dent, if not a bottomless pit, in many budgets. It is a staggering number to behold, and the President says this War will continue for many years, against many enemies in many countries all over the world, until America feels safe again.

  Wow! Stand back! That is likely to be quite a while, eh? The NFL could play for 600 years at that price. We could have football every Day, with money left over for beer and Polish sausage. Rabid football fans—and even nonfans, for that matter—would happily queue up to buy time-shares in high-end luxury boxes in gigantic new stadiums, which would also serve as their Homes for as many days of the week as they could afford to pay. Stadium living would become a whole new Way of Life. Hell, most of those boxes already have full-service kitchens and 36-inch TV sets with close-up seating and personal parking spaces. It would be like a dream come true—the new American Dream, I suspect, with 21st-Century features and supermodern gimmicks in every drawer. I have already drawn up the plans, and my patent is pending.