Beschreibung

Shoulder-length hair streaming, swastikas jangling, filthy death's-head-emblazoned denims crackling in the wind - the Hell's Angels are out on a run, and America's West Coast cowers in loathing.
Press reports of the Angels read like a plot synopsis of a thriller writer's worst dreams. Hunter S. Thompson found the reality different - but still disturbing. Here, with Rabelaisian gusto, he tells of his experiences with Little Jesus, Charger Charley the Child Molester, Big Frank ('You don't really jerk out the eyeball, you just sorta spring it so it pops outa the socket') and a host of others. This is the inner truth of a phenomenon that relegates our Rockers to the nursery.

Klappentext

A phalanx of motorcycles came roaring over the hill from the west... the noise was like a landslide, or a wing of bombers passing over. Even knowing the Angels I couldn't quite handle what I was seeing. It was like Genghis Khan, Morgan's Raiders, the Wild One and the Rape of Nanking all at once.