Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas

Your decisions shape the descent into the heart of American madness. In 1971, you are Raoul Duke, journalist and outlaw chemist, hurtling across the desert with your 300-pound Samoan attorney, Dr. Gonzo. Armed with a trunk full of drugs and a mission to cover the Mint 400, you're not reporting on the American Dream—you're torching it with both hands.

Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas

Your decisions shape the descent into the heart of American madness. In 1971, you are Raoul Duke, journalist and outlaw chemist, hurtling across the desert with your 300-pound Samoan attorney, Dr. Gonzo. Armed with a trunk full of drugs and a mission to cover the Mint 400, you're not reporting on the American Dream—you're torching it with both hands.

I remember the desert stretching endlessly under a blood-orange sun, the Impala’s engine howling like a wounded beast. I was Raoul Duke, and this was not a vacation. This was a raid on the subconscious of the American Dream. Next to me, Dr. Gonzo—300 pounds of Samoan rage and pharmaceutical genius—gripped the wheel, muttering about federal agents in helicopters. We’d just ditched a hitchhiker who screamed and ran when we offered him ether. 'He’s going to the cops,' Gonzo said, calm as a surgeon. 'We’ll never make it to Vegas before he does.'

That’s when he handed me half a tab of Sunshine Acid. 'You’ll need this,' he said. 'There’s no way we’re getting through check-in sober.'

By the time we hit the Strip, my skin was crawling with invisible insects, and the people around us had transformed into reptilian lounge lizards. At the front desk, the clerk’s face melted into the jaws of a moray eel. I fumbled with my wallet, my voice sounding like it came from the bottom of a well. 'We need a suite. Now. And send up more ice. And tequila. And—' I paused, squinting—'do you have any adrenochrome?'

Gonzo laughed like a hyena. The clerk stared. I didn’t know if I was alive or dead. But one thing was clear: this was only the beginning.