Fear and Loathing and Sensibility

What would happen if Jane Austen and Hunter S Thompson had a love child? (PARODY)

The opening of “Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas” written in the style of Jane Austen’s “Sense and Sensibility”:

No one who had ever seen Mr Thompson in his infancy would have supposed him to be born a cokehead. Bald, wearing polygonal sunglasses of the variety preferred by paederasts, he seemed to unite some of the best blessings of that movement popularly known as the gonzo style, and had lived nearly thirty-four years with very little to distress or vex him when he found himself driving, somewhere around Barstow at the edge of the desert, as the drugs he had taken began to take hold.

He heard a terrible roar. Mr Thompson was instantly possessed of a pique in which a vision of enormous bats had engulfed him. Later, he had supposed that he had understood what John of Patmos must have encountered when receiving the vision of the Apocalypse, for a voice was screaming: “Holy Jesus! What are these goddamn animals?”

“My dear Mr Thompson,” said his attorney to him as their vehicle, a great, vermillion charcarodon, sped off towards the village of Las Vegas, “what on Earth are you yelling about?” It was quiet now. This was invitation enough, for Mr Thompson had indeed been feeling a bit light-headed.

“Never mind,” he said, “although I would be most grateful if you could drive.” He hit the brakes, deciding not to talk about the bats, for he supposed that the poor brute would see them soon enough, having poured ale on his shirt to facilitate the rejuvenation of his skin.

It was almost noon, and they had more than a hundred miles to go. Very soon, he supposed, the two would be completely addled.

“Are you inebriated?” asked his attorney.

“Inebriated? Nonsense! How can you talk so! Not when we have two bags of grass, 75 pellets of mescaline, five sheets of high-powered blotter acid and a salt-shaker half full of cocaine.”

“And a whole galaxy of multi-coloured uppers, downers, screamers and laughers, I believe,” the attorney added.

“Sir, you flatter me. I certainly have had my share of illicit substances, though I will admit to an additional quart of tequila, a quart of rum, a case of that ale you seem so fond of, a pint of raw ether and two dozen amyls.”

All of this had been rounded up the night before, in a frenzy of driving across the county. The real evil indeed of Mr Thompson’s situation was the fact that they did not need all of that for their trip; locked into their serious collection, however, the tendency was to push it as far as they could. The danger, however, was the ether, at present so unperceived, and you, dear reader, should know that there is nothing in the world more helpless and irresponsible and depraved than a man in the depths of an ether binge.

Sorrow came –a gentle sorrow– they had sampled almost everything else, and now, yes, Mr Thompson thought it should be fitting to take a long snort of ether. This was not at all in the shape of any disagreeable consciousness — for the only they would be able to keep alert on ether would be to do up a lot of amyls. However little known the feelings or views of such a man may be on his first entering an etherous stupor, Mr Thompson knew that he would have to do the amyls not all at once, but steadily, just enough to maintain the focus at 90 miles an hour through Barstow.

With sincere apologies to Austen and Thompson. Okay, maybe not so sincere.