It isn't every day that you find yourself in a Las Vegas hotel room mixing cocktails in your bathroom sink. At least I hope not, cause if it is you're fucked up beyond belief and I don't want to talk to you, go away. Well, just because it isn't everyday doesn't mean it's not any day. And it was just this weekend that I found myself doing that very thing. I doubt that they tasted very good, but even more so I doubt that anyone cared. By the time people found their way into room 404 at the MGM Grand that evening I don't think they could have told the difference between sloppy shit and chocolate pudding, let alone an elephant and Bill Cosby. Why my place became the setting for this awkward get together I am still not quite sure. It is not as though I would have invited all these people, and I received such variable answers to my query from the variable guests that I still have not had sufficient temporal displacement from this singular level of debauchery that I have come to a decision as to the truth-value of the various stories I received. I do, however, have a favorite. It came from a woman dressed in nothing more than chips from a blackjack table, and it was clear that she had not had much luck. The inebriated lady in the one-dollar tokens proceeded to enlighten me as to how she ended up ass up in my bathtub screeching for more mescaline. It was very long and confusing I must say, and I have personally never been a fan of that style. So I shall summarize for your convenience. She had been down playing cards at her favorite table when she caught wind of some drastic news; her two children had been found and were at guest services. This was all the more surprising because she did not know that they were missing. Well of course she promptly pursed her 17 dollars in 1-dollar chips and scuffled off to find her kids. She had told Ronnie that they shouldn't bring them (I still have not determined the sex of this "Ronnie" but for convenient fantical reasons I envision it as a woman) but Ronnie had been adamant about showing them some "culture" at their early age, being that they were originally from Minnesota, which we all know has no culture whatsoever. Her original level of surprise at hearing where her children were was no match for her surprise when she arrived at guest services to discover that they were dead. Murdered in a most hideous manner, that I gather included an oatmeal spoon, those little things you put in the end of corncobs so you can eat them without burning your hands, and little sour hard candies in the shape of bunnies and ducks. When she arrived at the counter and dinged the cute little bell, no one came to help her and she found that odd, until again the former oddness was replaced with a greater quantity of oddness when she was pulled over the counter by a strong and bloody hand. Anyway the following scene shall be omitted from my story because I'm not a sicko and would get no pleasure from vividly describing the depth of sexual depravity that this poor former mother endured at the hands of her dead children, who, being puppeted by their chuckling death father, fondled and fist fucked their birth mother. Needless to say he tired of this when some of the little fingers broke off and stuck somewhere up inside her. So then he left, video camera tucked under his arm. When the poor naked woman finally got over the shock of being left naked and raped amidst the leftovers of her two beautiful kids, apparently with the helping hand of massive doses of drugs, she fashioned herself a dress made out of 17 black jack dollar chips and stumbled around until she found someone who brought her to the most happening party in town, namely, that surprise party for me in my own hotel room that greeted me when I arrived back from a hard night of nickel slots.
And that, my friends, is, at the moment, the leading response to my question asked of everyone there, "Who the fuck are you and what the fuck are you doing in my hotel room and would you like that on the rocks?" |