Vivas Vices: Las Vegas

Las Vegas, where people act on every depraved whim, without regard for God or money.   Inhibitions blown into the desert winds, to bake and die amongst the tumble weeds. Vegas is a seductive city of sin.   With bright flashing lights, shameless exhaustion, irrepressible disgrace and public drinking for all, Vegas welcomes you.   Here, where nobody knows your real name, gladly.   Escape the world, escape yourself.  Ride high and remind yourself the breath.   Drown yourself in the sea of mortal pleasures; this is Satan’s haven and it time to Vivas la vice life: Las Vegas.

There are beautiful women all over the city, everyone is there to sin too.   Its no surprise to wake up in a room i didn’t recognize.  However, I didn’t expect that to be an apartment 20 minutes from The Strip.    Either way, she had bacon, so I chugged some water and fried it up.

The Devil snarls malice, with his grotesque claws clutched around Vegas’ heart.   Lucifer’s tender touch consistently pumps the economy.   Deviously, day in and out, the city is fueled by our wicked worldly desires.  It’s beautifully insane.

There is plenty to do, & only the same shit, over and over, and over, again.   A casino, a show, a club, a bar, a restaurant…  Everything is one variation or another with more glitz, glamour and facade than the last.   Anything goes, and remember why.   Vegas is a massive washing machine for California’s dirty money.   Pimps, drug dealers, crooked cops, and the alike venture to viva la vice life, gambling cash and counting it clean upon departure.   Any un-reported income best be eaten, and there is no Beast hungrier than the City of Sin.

Leave your problems home, here they aren’t real.  In Vegas, you’re considered a king.   Party, gamble, dance, take drugs, sex, scream, drink your face off and be swept away by satanic rage.  All through the night, day and week.

The dealers were often dead inside, lonely and annoyed.  Dealing for 30+ years.   I wanted the dealer to be my buddy, to cheer me on, and act excited when I won.   They sometimes just dealt, fast, added up the score and told you who won before you could figure it out.  Of course, they’ve been practicing simply mental math night after night, but I felt dumb when they did it quicker than me.  It killed my mojo, ruined my flow, I felt out of control and belittled by their lack of enthusiasm and care.     I admitted to one women I was going to try my luck elsewhere, and moved 2 tables down.   It was almost a team effort that created good energy.   My first move, I “saved the table” as noted by the fella next to me.  He thanked me because I took the “4 of Hearts” which would have gave the dealer Black Jack.  The same pressure applies for the reverse, as if your decisions change the fate of the others.  They do, but it’s fallacious to consider it.

I gambled alone the morning of my flight.  I was total moo-shahd, in my party shirt and shoes, eyes blood shot, teeth freshly brushed, weeded, running on nothing but whisky, adrenaline and regret.   The black jack I played earlier, at the Monte Carlo felt like a reasonable pastime.  This morning I felt like I was with the losers.   I was.

I couldn’t figure at first what game we were playing, but I was winning.  I was overthinking the possibilities.  The dudes were welcoming as they needed a third person, and I was happy to accept the invite.   But, WTF is this game?  The rounds kept ending before I could get a handle on how everything related.    Embarrassed, I admitted I have no idea what we’re playing.  The embarrassment shifted dramatically when they exclaimed proudly “Casino War”!

It was time to go.

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