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…but the mood remains stationary.
As of late, it’s been an even split between complete numbness, or your present state of frenzied agitation, although you do take note of the steadiness in your hands as you adjust the earpiece.
*static hisses “…earing me?”
About a minute has burned off the clock since you left the limo and it looks like Coach is already calling an audible.
*static “…are you reading me? Over.” This, from the earpiece.
Like a book, my friend. Always have.
Reach for your cigarettes.
Again, from the ear piece “I repeat. Do you have a copy? You fat fucking dildo. Over.”
Light the cigarette. I’m not fat…
*static “…quit screwing around,” from Frank via comms. He continues, “…need your head in the game. And start saying ‘over’ when you’re through talking, goddamnit. Over.”
But… Exhale, I’m not fat, Frank
*static “…clock’s ticking. The wifes plane lands in three hours and I still need to hit the gym and fuck your mother. So put some pep in your step there, puddin-pop.”
Giggles and cheer echo throughout the stairwell as you ascend, while the wall mounted speakers blast out yet another round of The Worst Fucking Music You’ve Ever Heard. A fan favorite of all the middle-aged housewives parading around in negligée. The one’s passing you now have on sashes that say things like Bride To Be & Maid Of Honor, or Bridesmaid#1 and Whore.
Frank continues, “…are you all dialed in? Over.”
Hate to be the one to break it to you, Dr. Dickwad. But it’s more like perpetually lost.
*static “…go for Frank. Over.”
…presented here for your viewing pleasure, can be seen on a fading banner that’s plastered to the inside of the stairwell door, as you exit out on the ground floor level.
You are instantly enveloped in the stifling convection of a fuming stone God, which is seemingly being brought to life by the ultraviolet radiation of a Mid-June Mojave smelt.
Seen now, Deputy Dumbass is lost amongst the innards of a darkened concrete behemoth. Surrounded by sun-soaked walls that give way to pulsing resonance of heat, bringing about a deceptive animation.
So it seems…
…this 8-story tall easy-bake monster and Vicodin enhanced embryonic embrace are the closest thing you’ve had to a hug in longer than you can even recall.
Pictured here in shades of cool-hand Lukewarm well whiskey, currently taking an impromptu detour through a basement parking garage.
That right, Folks.
Sheriff Not-So Dressed to Impress and High as a Goddamn Kite, is at a steady cruising altitude of fucked right the hell on up. Thanks in part to the dehydration, but mostly due to the Dilaudid.
Captain Drunk as a Skunk and Dressed to the Nines is being cooked to a perfect med-rare by gamma rays. Incinerated by cosmic photons that burned out thousands of years before you ever got the chance to…
*static “I need you to be on top of your shit, you're supposed to be me, remember?”
…a million summer solstices before you knew what it felt like to envy the dead.
The arduous journey through the beast’s belly, has you arriving at a tinted entranceway, where you’re met by a spectral mass staring back at you through the glassy surface of the doors. A hollow rendition of a former self.
A fleshy void.
Dumb as a Box of Dicks, and sweating like a paedo at a Jungle gym.
This vacant distortion of a person may just be the most accurate reflection of yourself that you’ve ever seen.
Reach towards the handles that glisten in a lavish golden allure.
The precious-metal glamor embodies the very soul of the city at large.
The extraordinary bouillon nature of what makes this place so much more than just some city in a desert.
A reminder of what’s in store. Of what lies ahead…
…or more appropriately, of what does not.
Through Stage Left, Shit for Brains and Fucked from Jump Street, sailing through the breach between a set of ornate double doors.
Mindful as always to remain atop the wretched churning of an ever-present undertow.
Tanned in a crisp tailor fitting of white phosphorus rage, yet defiantly juxtaposed by shades of subdued Oxford blue. Swaying calmly on self-righteous waves of manic euphoria, as you pass the Craps table.
Loaded & Shameless and going around in fucking circles. Consensual conformity, in a 34 Long Banana Republic button-down, complete with a rounded hem that should be tucked in but remains aloft, nonetheless.
*static “…ear me? You fuck. Over.”
Above you, the Casino’s never-ending quest for excess has manifested as endless rows of haphazard crystal outposts.
Swarovski stalactites worth more than what dual income households brings in yearly.
Lined with precision and working together in unison to blanket the gaming room floor with glowing bars of incandescent light, painting you in your own zebra stripes of mid-day regret.
Artificial lighting for artificial people.
Delusions of grandeur and fabricated façades. Overestimated abilities combined with pipe dreams of jackpots.
Everything is designed with the utmost care, by the best of the best, in each of their respective industries.
Monitored from every angle, at all times. So much control, for the sake of losing all control.
Pinpoint precision for blanketed nonchalance.
*static “…what’s your status? You better not be in the fucking pits. Over.”
So much preparation and meticulous planning, aimed at aiding and abetting an air of illusion.
Themes made to relax you. Odds offered to entice you.
Reality’s there to piss in your cheerios.
This place is an amplification of our collective cultural absence. Stereotypical American over-abundance.
A throw away destination for throw away actions.
Built to fleece, not to last.
A personification of what’s really important to us, or more specifically, what isn’t.
The vacancy signs should be on our heads.
Closing in, now…
You decide to cut through the main slots area, where you see the masses are gathered to pay tribute to the great glowing Gods.
As far as the eye can see, the robotic movement of arms are touching screens and pulling levers, in an almost effortless and rhythmic symphony.
*static “…ou say you’re not there…”
The roller coasters of dopamine release. Hypnotized and mesmerized, they pump their pensions into supercomputers. An endless chase for perfect pacing of near misses and close calls.
More about the maintenance than the thrills now. A desperate search on a hopeless path.
Now mostly split between two main demographics: those trying to escape and those who can’t.
Attempting to synthesize alternate realities which are better suited to their individual needs.
Daily routines get planned around the fix…
…enough to force grown men into adult diapers, so they don’t have to leave their machine.
Spot the sign for the rendezvous, and you remove the earpiece. Toss it in the trash can as you hold the door for an older couple, who’s bedazzled masks match their rhinestone track jackets.
You can tell yourself that what happens here, stay here, til you’re blue in the face…
…as if geographic proximity somehow negates consequences. Like state lines somehow alleviate guilt.
But this pseudo-city wasn’t built on long-shots beating the odds, or Joe Blows striking it rich.
Fact of the matter is, from the moment you step foot on the property, you are already being lulled into a catastrophic seduction.
From the ground up, your senses are bound and gagged, only to be poked and prodded.
Laboratory crafted scents fill the air, while subtle echoes of orchestrated beats bounce off every wall, aimed at stimulating your adrenal glands, geared towards inciting a desire to participate.
To have a “…fuck it. It’s Vegas, Baby!” Moment
Impulsive behavior is encouraged.
Decision making skills get hijacked by a malevolent spirit who specializes in accomplishing only two things: looting your savings account and personally seeing to it that you succumb to alcohol poisoning before noon.
The real sinister part of the whole ordeal is the ruthless cocksucker’s careful consideration to crank out the ol’ congratulatory reach around that seems to keep you and the other 50 million annual visitors hankering for a round 2.
The thing is…
If one isn’t ready, the ruthless predators that roam this savannah will eat you alive, without fail.
Make no mistake…
If one isn’t careful, what happens in Vegas, could just happen to you.
Approach the desk, where a purple haired person man’s their post. Place the dossier down on the podium and sign into the check-in list.
“Hi, who are you here for?” She says to you.
Tina… Trisha. Trish. 1:00…
“Ok, can you take seat over in the waiting area and I’ll get somebody right out to talk with you,” as she pushes you to the side and sets a paper cup of liquid on top of your qualifications paragraph.
Approach the waiting area and post up against a wall facing the bar area.
Your phone vibrates in your pocket.
You recognize the rude little fairies face, but can’t recall if from one of the various digital courting arenas, or if she’s was a customer.
You don’t recall if she’s a Watercress Salad or a 10-piece taco.
You can recall if you swiped left or right.
You make eye contact with her and receive a pursed lip smile in return, followed by a waving hand, as she now beckons you back up to the podium, then rolls her eyes in response to the walk-in party of ten. Now into the phone, “ …can I place you on a brief hold? Thank you.” Now to you, “…who are you here for again? Tonya?”
Condensation sweats another bead of liquid onto your fabricated accolades.
The paper begins to wick up the mystery juice, blurring together and blending all of the job history and personal character references.
You wonder if the inconsiderate little fairy can fly.
“Sir?” She says to you.
In all the places. Of all the times… Over the left shoulder of plum-haired Grimace.
Across the bar area. In the main lobby walkway….
Walking hand in hand with a younger, more handsome version of you…
The sparkle from her left hand catches the light perfectly.
Your left eye begins to twitch uncontrollably…