Hunter S. Thompson's writing changed my life. His exposed and cynical true story Fear and Loathing In Las Vegas is the most honest and well crafted peice of writing I've read since Gatsby. The first sentence hooks you so instantaneously that it's amazing everyone hasn't read it: "We were somewhere around Barsdow, on the edge of the desert when the drugs began to take hold."
I want to start a community writing prompt based on the openings of famous books. Let's expand our skills and our consciousness together with this prompt based on Hunter S. Thompson's Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas.
You are given a car, a full tank of gas and 5000 dollars in cash. You are driving to Vegas. Write the beginning of this story, 500 word limit. Submit your entry in the comments below and I'll add it to the card.
Try to emulate Thompson's short, choppy style. Use vivid imagery and the occasional quote.
Fear and Loathing In Las Vegas Writing Challenge
Top down, seat back I can still see the desert sand whirling in the wind. Horizon, nothing to overwhelm the sky, not like in the city. You can see the stars, the way you'd dream of Gods as big.
2:24 A. M. is not a good time to rent a car, but this man gave us one. On a split second decision on a hot July night we all decided to tell the city to go fuck itself. And we fled for Vegas.
None of us had any credit, not the good kind. The glassy-eyed gargoyle behind the counter at the Stop-N-Go rent-a-car off I-15 knew something was wrong.
I remember him saying something like, "There's something dangerous about you", but he handed me the key.
The car was a 1968 Ford Fairlane convertible --wing tipped for absolute style. The interior, ravaged by a decade passed long before our births, was all scratched up. Cigarette burns and gouges from someone's pocket knife peppered it's once lush leather seats.
The busted tail lights begged for a police officer to stop us, but nobody could. We dumped the min-van and took the hot rod in favor of adventure and thousands of miles in the desert.
Out in the wilds of the highway man can come to find he is no longer civilized.
Check out this response by @hikayamm here on Vingle:
If the others had been given a choice, they would have said to take the convertible. The plush seats of an Astro van being rather hot, and all. The windows barely capable of cracking. The AC fucking busted. The sparkly blue and red stripes anything but classy on the giant beast that would stand out in this desert. But with just five thousand bucks to blow on the other end we weren't shelling out for anything other than this shit. The others didn't need to know that. "Sucks, guys, but this is all there is. Whatever, it'll go," I slipped out, throwing the keys to Keith. "Let's go." I knew Pat and Cody were scratching their heads at this point. But my hands were already grasping the burning black handle, sliding the heavy door open. They had no reason to doubt my lies. My hot breath exhaling when they climbed in the front gave add another degree to the van we were doomed to sweat in. Maybe the door could stay open, I considered, before sliding it shut harshly. Pat started her up, and we rolled away, leaving a dust trail behind us that blocked out the station where we only dropped a couple hundred. Plush grey cushioning enveloped me as I kicked back. The material sucked the sweat off my back, my mind quickly figuring out where the dank smell probably lived. The sun hadn't set yet. It shone down, sending us heat, speeding up the trapped air surrounding our trio. Holding up the crystal medallion that had sat, quietly...safely tucked in my shirt. I looked through it, past it into the sun. When I looked back to the van's dirty, carpeted floor to see that it's message was being refracted into the shadows, I tucked it away again. Pat and Cody would have to understand.
Here's a colorful rendering by @VinMcCarthy another great writer here on Vingle:
Cocksuckers. Fucking cocksuckers. "Yeah, we'll give you a car, just get to Vegas by tomorrow night." How in the rickety fuck do they expect me to do that in this? A beat-to-shit Jeep wrangler is sitting in front of me. No bumpers, one headlight, no doors, windshield half black from what I can only assume was a catastophic, fiery engine failure. "This is gonna be a real shitshow, my friend," I say to my esteemed colleague, Dr. Edmund Volniere. "Ai, mon ami, it will do just fine, I'm sure. Here, let's take this ugly edge off you," he says back to me, smile so wide he needs 6 extra teeth just to have make sense. He opens his doctor bag and brings out several pill bottles and a bullet. He takes out two pills, rips off the rear-view mirror, opens the back of the bullet, dumps some coke on it. He smashes the pills against the mirror, cuts up the mix of powder into two fat lines, then pulls out an eye dropper and adds two drops to each. He pulls out his custom sniffing straw, a bizzare fuckin' tiki necklace hollowed through the middle, and blows his line. I eagerly take the straw from his extended hand and blow mine. "Yes my good sir, I am of the thinking now that this will be a most entrancing ride to the city of lights." He laughs. "That's Paris, cabron. We're going to the city of sin!" he yells as he clambers into the passenger seat of the Jeep. "Whatever! The city of sinful lights, then! Let's go see the fucking wizard, get you half a brain, maybe, you mongoloid voodoo man!" "Haha! Maybe get you some balls as well? Eh?" This was going to get weird. Just the way I wanted.