It's 9 p.m. in Las Vegas as we cruise off down the strip toward adventure. My editor wants some gambling action, preferably craps or blackjack. Cal, the journalism student from Santa Barbara, just wants to see something new. Oh, you better be careful what you wish for, sunshine.
We cruise on down the road until we reach Caesar's Palace — a casino devoted to the most decadent period of Roman history. I'm genuinely surprised not to see Christians tarred and set aflame at the entrance — so much for historical accuracy.
We stride in and are met by massive marble statues of gods and goddesses looming over our heads, all beckoning us to roll the bones. How many drinks have I already had? Damn.
Cal wants to wander around. We wander. We have a drink on a galleon. This is a floating bar. We walk through the gambling floor past a $100 minimum craps table. This is not what my editor had in mind, and we quickly move on, aided by the seeking eyes of the craps attendants. "Try your luck?" Not at the rate of one paycheck per play.
Freaks everywhere! Las Vegas is truly the most diverse place on earth. Where else can you run into this motley crew of ne'er-do-wells? Do I know that guy? Either a former public defender or someone I served time with … either hypothesis is valid.
We gotta get out of this place. Past numerous fountains and Fendi outlet stores, we lurch back onto the street. This buying-our-own-drinks shit is not working out. We need to put Vegas to work for us.
A stroll down the street leads us to the Flamingo. What a beautiful place. My editor plunges headfirst into a blackjack table as a cover band in a nearby bar area plays Journey's "Don't Stop Believin.'" Is this a sign? I watch for a while and then wander off, dragging Cal with me. We quickly find a poker room, and I proceed to donate my money to the dregs of society. At least I'm getting free drinks — and in no short supply. Do they realize they're fueling an ass-kicking machine? No, they do not.
My editor shows up, $100 richer from the blackjack tables. "Screw you," I say, "I'm up $25 at this here poker pit. Come back in a few." He does, $100 poorer, and I, likewise. So goes Vegas. What did Elvis say? "A fortune won and lost on every deal." Hell if that dead fat man didn't have it right.
The two of us grab Cal from his limit game and get on out of there, waving a hidey-ho to the pink-clad showgirls at the exit. "Room 780 of New York, New York, ladies!"
Ah, there's Paris up ahead. This joint has a full-on Eiffel Tower and Arc de Triomphe in front of it. Ain't that splendid. We enter and are assaulted by the full onslaught of a thousand beeping slot machines. Every place is the same. But at least there's a bar. We order in a round and sit back in the plush couch of this establishment unseemingly named after Voltaire. I'm sure he would have been le misérable.
There are several things noteworthy about Las Vegas. You might think of first the casinos, sure, or the strip clubs, buffets or any of that. But the one thing that keeps jumping up in my face is the bountiful cleavage. When archaeologists from the distant future dig up our present, they will note the unnatural talent of our engineers … not for their bridges or skyscrapers or Hoover dams, but for the boobs they have bestowed upon humanity. Cripes, these hooters are everywhere. Am I any less a man, well, male raccoon, to say that … look, maybe I'm just being sentimental, but it's the fifth anniversary of 9/11 and being surrounded by sets of twin towers is not working up my mojo.
We got out of Voltaire's, out of Paris. Hitched another cab. You know what? Enough of this New Strip and its Disneyland constructions. We had to see the places that made Sinatra sing and Marilyn … well, you know what she did.
Over the freeway and through some dirty turns and we're ejected onto the Old Strip. So this is It. Man, was It ugly. Drunks and degenerates staggering around, prostitutes well past their prime.
Well screw this nonsense. Let's gamble.
My editor drags us to the Four Queens. I instantly don't like it. My editor buys me a life-sized plastic football filled with beer. I instantly don't give a shit.
Over the next hour, he manages to lose $195, then turns around his last $5 into $400. Cal dances a similar tango and racks up the chips. We need more action than this washed-up stripper refuge and car park can offer. We need luxury.
It's fortunate that Cal and my editor are the generous individuals that they are.
We stagger through the grimy streets of the desolate Old Strip, and come upon an elderly Asian fellow in a tattered tuxedo. "Excuse me, my Best Man, but where can we find an establishment that might cater to our more, shall we say, 'discerning' tastes?" I inquire.
He looks us up and down, a smile slowly creeping across his face, his lips pulling back to show yellowed teeth. "Why, I know the perfect place for you!" he says in an odd, lilted French accent. "I am just on my way there myself."
The three of us follow as he leads us down a darkened alley. At the end is a half-broken neon sign reading "THE FEATHERED EAGLE."
"Come, come, you'll see!" the old man says and we enter, excited yells coming from inside. As the door slams behind us, our eyes slowly grow accustomed to the dim light coming from a single light bulb. Where the hell are we? I can just barely make out a folding table about 20 feet ahead of us and two men seated, one on either side. Why do they look so nervous?
Shit … who are these people? As my eyes adjust, I realize that the table is surrounded by a crowd of spectators, all waving fists full of cash. Is that a .38 sitting on the table?
One of the men picks up the gun and spins the barrel. He puts it to his head and pulls the trigger.
Click.
The crowd sighs. The second man, sweat streaming down his brow, takes the gun and again, spins the barrel. He holds it to his temple and squeezes.
Click.
The first man takes the gun from him and spins the barrel again. He puts it back up to his head and pulls back and BANG!
He falls to the floor and his body is quickly moved out of the chair. What have we gotten ourselves into? Why the fuck are there people walking towards us?
They grab ahold of me and throw me into the open seat.
"Now, you play!" a dangerous-looking Russian says to me.
I should have stayed on the new strip.
I'm the new jack at the table — therefore, they give me the gun first. Despite its recent action, it is a hunk of cold, unyielding metal. What is this?! I haven't even put down a bet! I see cash flying all over the room as I ponder my options. Some huge tattooed freak points at me and shouts. It's now or never. I look over to Cal and my editor, each in his own world of coping and bewilderment. I've got to get these nancies out of here.
I raise the gun to my head and cock the hammer. If I can't bet, I ain't playin'.
I swing the gun around and point it at the main instigator, a seven-foot drink of something. "Get back, asshole! GM didn't tell me anything about this in the itinerary!"
He instantly shrinks into the crowd. No one is a tough guy in the face of explosive correction. I introduce the rest of the crowd nearest the door to my newfound friend. I'm getting out of here.
We burst back through the door, and scramble down the alley. I hear angry voices following, but it's no matter as we jump into an idling cab. "To the In-n-Out, and step on it!" There's nothing like the threat of a violent death to work up a furious hunger.
The morning light is breaking as we pull up to the door of the NY, NY. Cal immediately leaps out of the cab and as he dashes through the automatic doors into hospitality obscurity, turns to shout, "You assholes are crazy!"
I guess some folks just aren't up for a little cultural broadening.
As we walk in to the hotel lobby, The Cuban materializes. "Ahr you gatos reeely jist cohming back now?"
"What the hell did I tell you?" I thoughtfully inquire. "I didn't fly over a thousand miles just to sleep — I can do that at home."
"Vale, supuesto que sí," The Cuban says introspectively. "Supuesto que sí."
A quick scramble to the rooms to recover the necessary provisions and we are back in the Escalade to the airport.
"So," The Cuban inquires as he speeds off, "deed youse lurhn anyteen?"
"Yeah," I said. "Next time, I'm bringing my own gun."
Rocky the Herald Comics Raccoon can be contacted at [email protected]. He's not going back to Vegas any time soon.