No need to panic. I'll just lash together a few raw facts, a little bit of old Negro wisdom, and this nightmare is over.
[Urging his dog to attack a Nixon mannequin] Bronco ... Nixon.
There, chew on that gibberish for awhile, you heartless scum!
I was a working journalist, a hired geek of sorts, and Lazlo was great copy and sometimes a great lawyer. It was a fast, strange time and we worked in a fast, strange ways.
[Reacting to a police officer's testimony in court] You were looking for a bomb in a pack of cigarettes?
I hate to advocate alcohol, violence or insanity to anyone but they've always worked for me.
You couldn't invent someone like Carl Lazlo. He was a ... he was one of a kind. He was a mutant. A real heavyweight water buffalo type ... who could chew his way through a concrete wall and spit out the other side covered with lime and chalk and look good in doing it.
He became a man the day of the greatest game he ever played. Everything he ever knew about common decency and morality he learned that day in December from Alan "The Horse" Ameche; and today in the Superbowl he would earn his wings. The crowd had assembled; a crowd of America's elite. Toyata salesmen from all around the country -- orientals and even those suspected of being orientals -- stacked on the thirty yard line watching him sweat and wipe caked blood from his face. The Gallow brothers -- Ernest and Julio -- party guys who had skinned a few Mexicans and forced them to carry them on their shoulders down to the pre-game tailgate parties at the colosseum. The Pepsi and Coca Cola bottlers of America -- Coke adds life; It's the real thing -- bombarded by missiles; flying flaming matchbook covers. The waterheads from General Motors up in the top seats where they belong; getting the worst of the pollution. All sorts of weird motherfuckers were at the game.
Super Sunday. Dawn. My recollections of the last twelve hours are very dim. All that I know for certain is that shortly after I checked in, two third-world drug abusers disguised as hotel employees forced their way into my room; ransacked it, drank all my liquor, did all my drugs, stole my dinner. If the security precautions aren't beefed up at this hotel; I'm looking for safer accommodations. It's a sad state of affairs when this reporter has to go heavily armed to breakfast.
Well I guess if I had to swear one way or another, I'd say Lazlo wasn't insane. He just had very strange rhythms. But he stomped on the terra. Lord Buckley said that. It's hard to say he got what he deserved, because he never really got anything, at least not in this story. And right now, this story is all we have ... It's sad. But what's really sad is it never got weird enough for me. I moved to the country when the boat got too crowded. Then I learned that President Nixon had been eaten by white cannibals on an island near Tijuana for no good reason at all. Golly, you hear a lot of savage and unnatural things about people these days. Lazlo and Nixon are both gone now, but I don't think I'm going to believe that 'til I can gnaw on their skulls with my very own teeth. Fuck those people, huh? If they're out there, I'm going to find them, and I'm going to gnaw on their skulls. Because it still hasn't gotten weird enough for me.
[Thompson, posing as a reporter for The Washington Post, is alone in an airport restroom when the "Candidate" (Richard Nixon) enters and starts using the urinal.]
Dr. Hunter S. Thompson: Hi sir, it's Harris from the Post. Can I get you anything sir?
Candidate: How's the family Harris?
Dr. Hunter S. Thompson: Oh the family, well that's bad news. The screwheads finally came and took my daughter away. Let me ask you a question sir, what is this country doing for the doomed? There are two kinds of people in this country, the doomed and the screwheads. Savage tribal thugs who live off their illegal incomes, burrowed deep out there; no respect for human dignity. They don't know what you and I understand, you know what I mean.
Candidate: You ever play football, Harris?
Dr. Hunter S. Thompson: Yes sir, thank you sir. I played in college, and they're gonna get your daughter too sir. I've heard their rallies, they like Julie but Tricia... and they really hate you sir. You know that one and a half of the State Senate of Utah are screwheads. You know I was never really frightened by the bopheads and the potheads with their silliness never really frightened me either, but these goddam screwheads, they terrify me. And the poor doomed, the young, and the silly, the honest, the weak, the Italians ... they're doomed, they're lost, they're helpless, they're somebody else's meal, they're like pigs in the wilderness.
Candidate: Come here Harris, come here. Fuck the doomed!
[Thompson is at a university, lecturing an auditorium full of enthusiastic students.]
College student: I was just wondering if you could tell me, um, if you thought drugs and alcohol would make me a better writer.
Dr. Hunter S. Thompson: That's a good question. Let me see ...
[The crowd cheers as Thompson lights a marijuana joint. Some more joints are thrown onto the stage.]
Dr. Hunter S. Thompson: In my case, you know, I hate to advocate drugs, alcohol, violence, or insanity to anyone, but they've always worked for me.
[Thompson has barricaded himself in a hospital room, taken a young female nurse hostage and is handing her some pills.]
Dr. Hunter S. Thompson: Let me recommend ... ah, try blue.
Nurse Cookie: Really? Wow!
Dr. Hunter S. Thompson: Little bugger gets right on top of you doesn't it?
[Thompson is driving a car in San Francisco while also using a typewriter to take dictation from his attorney, Lazlo.]
Carl Lazlo, Esq.: You're really getting all this?
Dr. Hunter S. Thompson: I'm a total professional.
[Thompson is in the hallway of a courthouse, doing pushups while the trial he is supposed to be writing about is going on. His editor comes to see him.]
Dr. Hunter S. Thompson: Marty, where the hell you been? I've been looking all over for you.
Marty Lewis: You are not registered at your hotel. Your rental car is reported stolen. Personally I couldn't give a shit, but you owe me a story.
Dr. Hunter S. Thompson: Is it due? Am I late?
Marty Lewis: You've got a deadline in 19 hours. Now where's my story?
Dr. Hunter S. Thompson: It's right in there. [Thompson points towards the courtroom] I'm working on it. Great, too. It's developing very fast. I think it could be the best thing I've ever done. All I've got to do now is write it up.
Marty Lewis: [mutters]] Write it up. [sternly, pointing at Thompson] You have 19 hours.
[Marty turns and walks back down the hallway as Thompson watches.]
Dr. Hunter S. Thompson: You move like a cat, Marty
[Thompson has just arrived at a hotel in the back of a limousine. He is sprawled out and apparently unconscious. The chauffeur attempts to wake him.]
Chauffeur: Sir? Hey, sir. Hey sir!
[Thompson is immediately awake and dashes from the limo, holding his head.]
Chauffeur: Sir, is anything wrong?
Dr. Hunter S. Thompson: My head!
Chauffeur: Your head?
Dr. Hunter S. Thompson: Who sent you here? Give me some answers ... straight answers.
Chauffeur: Yeah, okay, what do you want to know.
Dr. Hunter S. Thompson: Where am I?
[Thompson has just arrived at the hotel's front desk and is checking in.]
Dr. Hunter S. Thompson: Dr. Thompson, Blast magazine. I hope you have my suite ready because I need some supplies sent up right away. I'm going to need an IBM Selectric, heavy duty; a Xerox telecopier, the 516 model. Uh, I'm also going to need one of those Sony cassettees, big mother, 1800 ... lots of white paper, heavy bond, Bic pens, medium point blue ...
[Thompson grimaces, grunts, coughs and punches the hotel desk]
Hotel clerk: Sir! Please!
Dr. Hunter S. Thompson: May as well get the room service cracking. Give me three crab louies for starters. A quart of Chivas, lots of ice, quart of mezcal, 16 grapefruit ...
[Thompson is on the telephone with his editor.]
Dr. Hunter S. Thompson: What was that noise?
Marty Lewis: What noise?
Dr. Hunter S. Thompson: [yelling into the receiver]] Get the tap off the goddamn telephone! Do you think you're playing with children here?!
[Lazlo enters a restaurant wearing a rubber mask of Richard Nixon.]
Restaurant cashier: Sir, you can't come in here looking like that.
Carl Lazlo, Esq.: I'm the president of the United States and I can do what I want.