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HUNTER S THOMPSON THE RUM DIARY PDF

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Download The Rum Diary by Hunter S. Thompson PDF novel free. The Rum Diary is jealousy, romantic, treachery and fiction novel on the love. Posts about Hunter S. Thompson The Rum Diary PDF written by In early , Hunter S. Thompson was just 22 years old and his journalism career was already on the skids. His last two jobs had ended badly.


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Published (Last):12.06.2015
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The Rum Diary The Long Lost Novel by Hunter S. Thompson eVersion / Notes at EOF Back Cover Blurbs Begun in by. Thompson, Hunter - The Rum Diary. Read more · The Rum Diary: A Novel Thompson, Hunter S - The Rum Diary v · Read more · Thompson, Hunter S. Editorial Reviews. echecs16.info Review. "Disgusting as he usually was," Hunter Thompson writes in this, his novel, "on rare occasions he showed flashes.

Begun in by a twenty-two-year-old Hunter S. Thompson, The Rum Diary is a brilliantly tangled love story of jealousy, treachery, and violent alcoholic lust in the Caribbean boomtown that was San Juan, Puerto Rico, in the late s. The narrator, freelance journalist Paul Kemp, irresistibly drawn to a sexy, mysterious woman, is soon thrust into a world where corruption and get-rich-quick schemes rule, and anything including murder is permissible. I often drank there, but I was never accepted because I wore a tie. The real people wanted no part of me.

Kemp also meets Moburg, a deadbeat reporter who can't be fired. While waiting for an interview, Kemp meets Sanderson, a freelance realtor, who offers him a job writing ads for his latest venture. Sanderson is engaged to Chenault, who pretends not to know Kemp. Later, Kemp moves in with Sala, who also rooms with Moburg. Kemp begins to see the poverty of San Juan, but Lotterman doesn't want him to write about it, as it's bad for tourism.

Moburg returns with leftover filters from a rum plant; they contain high-proof alcohol. Moburg has been fired, and rants about killing Lotterman.

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Kemp visits Sanderson and spies him making love to Chenault. He meets Zimburger and Segarra, who want him to help with a real estate scam. Later, Sala and Kemp go to a restaurant and berate the owner for refusing them service; Kemp senses that the owner wants to kill them, and he and Sala beat a hasty retreat, pursued by angry locals. The police arrive and break up the fight, then throw Sala and Kemp in jail. Sanderson bails them out.

The next day, Kemp meets with Sanderson's crew, who tell him that the US military is relinquishing the lease on some prime real estate, and is asked to pick up Chenault from her house. We turned a corner and he suddenly hit his brakes. Just ahead of us was some kind of a gang-fight, a shouting mob, trying to enter an old greenish building that looked like a warehouse.

I banged my fist on the back of the seat. No move -- no pay.

He stopped as we came abreast of the building and I saw that it was a gang of about twenty Puerto Ricans, attacking a tall American in a tan suit. He was standing on the steps, swinging a big wooden sign like a baseball bat. There was a flurry of movement and I heard the sound of thumping and shouting.

One of the attackers fell down in the street with blood on his face. The large fellow backed toward the door, waving the sign in front of him. Two men tried to grab it and he whacked one of them in the chest, knocking him down the steps. The others stood away, yelling and shaking their fists. He snarled back at them: "Here it is, punks -- come get it! He waited a moment, then lifted the sign over his shoulder and threw it into their midst. It hit one man in the stomach, driving him back on the others.

I heard a burst of laughter, then he disappeared into the building. It dawned on me that we were sitting in front of the Daily News -- my new home. I took one look at the dirty mob between me and the door, and decided to go back to the hotel. Just then I heard another commotion. A Volkswagen pulled up behind us and three cops got out, waving long billyclubs and yelling in Spanish.

Some of the mob ran, but others stayed to argue. I watched for a moment, then gave the driver a dollar and ran into the building. A sign said the News editorial office was on the second floor. I took an elevator, half expecting to find myself lifted into the midst of more violence. But the door opened on a dark hall, and a little to my left I heard the noise of the city room.

The moment I got inside I felt better. There was a friendly messiness about the place, a steady clatter of typewriters and wire machines, even the smell was familiar.

The room was so big that it looked empty, although I could see at least ten people. The only one not working was a small, black-haired man at a desk beside the door. He was tilted back in a chair, staring at the ceiling. I walked over and as I started to speak he jerked around in the chair. He grumbled something about being "robbed blind," and "watching it like a hawk.

The first thing you learn here is to avoid restaurants. He leaned back and stared again at the ceiling, scratching his wiry head from time to time and apparently drifting off to some happier land where there were good restaurants and no thieves. He looked out of place here -- more like a ticket-taker at some Indiana carnival. His teeth were bad, he needed a shave, his shirt was filthy, and his shoes looked like they'd come from the Goodwill.

We sat there in silence until two men came out of an office on the other side of the room. One was the tall American I'd seen fighting in the street. The other was short and bald, talking excitedly and gesturing with both hands. He looked. It's some kind of a wildcat strike -- nobody knows what it means. Then he smiled broadly and held out both hands. Good to see you, boy. When did you get in? I wouldn't put you to work tonight. Yeamon came toward us with a long bow-legged stride, smiling politely when Lotterman introduced me.

He was tall, with a face that was either arrogant or something else that I couldn't quite place.

The Rum Diary: A Novel

Lotterman rubbed his hands together. He waved me toward the door. We'll go out the back way -- I don't feel like a fight. I nodded and followed Sala into the hall. At the rear of the building a stairway led down to a metal door.

Sala poked at it with a pocket knife and it swung open. His car was a tiny Fiat convertible, half eaten away by rust. It wouldn't start and I had to get out and push. Finally it kicked over and I jumped in. The engine roared painfully as we started up the hill. I didn't think we'd make it, but the little car staggered manfully over the crest and started up another steep hill. Sala seemed unconcerned with the strain, riding the clutch whenever we threatened to stall.

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We parked in front of Al's and went back to the patio. Then he leaned back in his chair and lit a cigarette. I nodded. Sala laughed. Nobody worth a shit can work here. I've been here longer than anybody -- except Tyrrell, the city editor, and he's going soon.

Lotterman doesn't know it yet -- that'll be it -- Turrell's the only good head left. He's writing the governor's biography. Any time of the day or night he's writing the governor's biography -- can't be disturbed. He smiled. You may like it -- there's a type that does. It's only forty-five dollars to New York. He grinned.

There's nobody on the island greedier than me. Sometimes I feel like kicking myself in the balls. Sala grabbed his off the tray -- and opened them up on the table, throwing the lettuce and tomato slices into the ashtray. He won't last. None of us will last. Lotterman's scared shitless of him -- couldn't you see it? He flipped this table for no reason at all -- this very table. He's so scared of him that he lent him a hundred dollars and Yeamon went out and blew it on a motorscooter.

This place will turn a man queer and crazy. She's bound to be on the beach somewhere. Just then Yeamon appeared in the doorway; he saw us and came over to the table. Sala groaned miserably. How old are you, Robert -- about ninety? He stared at me. He didn't know either, but finally a man came over from the bus stop and told us where it was.

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We drove down a cobblestone hill toward the waterfront. There was no sign of a newspaper, and I suspected he was bringing me down here to get rid of me. We turned a corner and he suddenly hit his brakes. Just ahead of us was some kind of a gang-fight, a shouting mob, trying to enter an old greenish building that looked like a warehouse.

I banged my fist on the back of the seat. No move -- no pay. He stopped as we came abreast of the building and I saw that it was a gang of about twenty Puerto Ricans, attacking a tall American in a tan suit.

He was standing on the steps, swinging a big wooden sign like a baseball bat. There was a flurry of movement and I heard the sound of thumping and shouting. One of the attackers fell down in the street with blood on his face.

The large fellow backed toward the door, waving the sign in front of him. Two men tried to grab it and he whacked one of them in the chest, knocking him down the steps. The others stood away, yelling and shaking their fists. He snarled back at them: "Here it is, punks -- come get it!

The pdf hunter s thompson rum diary

He waited a moment, then lifted the sign over his shoulder and threw it into their midst. It hit one man in the stomach, driving him back on the others. I heard a burst of laughter, then he disappeared into the building. It dawned on me that we were sitting in front of the Daily News -- my new home.

I took one look at the dirty mob between me and the door, and decided to go back to the hotel. Just then I heard another commotion. A Volkswagen pulled up behind us and three cops got out, waving long billyclubs and yelling in Spanish. Some of the mob ran, but others stayed to argue. I watched for a moment, then gave the driver a dollar and ran into the building.

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A sign said the News editorial office was on the second floor. I took an elevator, half expecting to find myself lifted into the midst of more violence. But the door opened on a dark hall, and a little to my left I heard the noise of the city room. The moment I got inside I felt better. There was a friendly messiness about the place, a steady clatter of typewriters and wire machines, even the smell was familiar.

The room was so big that it looked empty, although I could see at least ten people. The only one not working was a small, black-haired man at a desk beside the door. He was tilted back in a chair, staring at the ceiling.

I walked over and as I started to speak he jerked around in the chair. He grumbled something about being "robbed blind," and "watching it like a hawk. The first thing you learn here is to avoid restaurants. He leaned back and stared again at the ceiling, scratching his wiry head from time to time and apparently drifting off to some happier land where there were good restaurants and no thieves.

He looked out of place here -- more like a ticket-taker at some Indiana carnival. His teeth were bad, he needed a shave, his shirt was filthy, and his shoes looked like they'd come from the Goodwill. We sat there in silence until two men came out of an office on the other side of the room. One was the tall American I'd seen fighting in the street. The other was short and bald, talking excitedly and gesturing with both hands.

He looked. It's some kind of a wildcat strike -- nobody knows what it means. Then he smiled broadly and held out both hands. Good to see you, boy. When did you get in? I wouldn't put you to work tonight. Yeamon came toward us with a long bow-legged stride, smiling politely when Lotterman introduced me. He was tall, with a face that was either arrogant or something else that I couldn't quite place. Lotterman rubbed his hands together.

He waved me toward the door. We'll go out the back way -- I don't feel like a fight. I nodded and followed Sala into the hall.

At the rear of the building a stairway led down to a metal door. Sala poked at it with a pocket knife and it swung open. His car was a tiny Fiat convertible, half eaten away by rust. It wouldn't start and I had to get out and push. Finally it kicked over and I jumped in.

The engine roared painfully as we started up the hill. I didn't think we'd make it, but the little car staggered manfully over the crest and started up another steep hill. Sala seemed unconcerned with the strain, riding the clutch whenever we threatened to stall. We parked in front of Al's and went back to the patio. Then he leaned back in his chair and lit a cigarette.

I nodded. Sala laughed. Nobody worth a shit can work here. I've been here longer than anybody -- except Tyrrell, the city editor, and he's going soon. Lotterman doesn't know it yet -- that'll be it -- Turrell's the only good head left.

He's writing the governor's biography. Any time of the day or night he's writing the governor's biography -- can't be disturbed.

He smiled. You may like it -- there's a type that does.

It's only forty-five dollars to New York. He grinned. There's nobody on the island greedier than me. Sometimes I feel like kicking myself in the balls. Sala grabbed his off the tray -- and opened them up on the table, throwing the lettuce and tomato slices into the ashtray. He won't last. None of us will last. Lotterman's scared shitless of him -- couldn't you see it? He flipped this table for no reason at all -- this very table. He's so scared of him that he lent him a hundred dollars and Yeamon went out and blew it on a motorscooter.

This place will turn a man queer and crazy.