What Happens in Vegas
Originally published in Synthesis Weekly: October 2011
This week, dear readers, we’re taking a slight detour from our normal nerd-fueled musings to discuss a semi-recent occurrence which should serve as a lesson for all you kids who think The Hangover- type events could never happen to you.
My brother Spencer went to Vegas about a year ago. He was being rewarded for his outstanding sales record at his job as a wine rep for. There was a mandatory dinner, and a mandatory meeting during the following day, but other than that they were left to their own devices. Spencer attended the dinner, wearing his custom-made, Canali suit, and Louie Voutain shoes he’d borrowed from a friend. After the dinner he and his friend Chris flagged down a cab, hoping to visit (in true male/Vegas form) a strip club. The cab driver waved off the club they’d wanted to visit, as if it were a suggestion rather than a demand. He told them, “Hey, no worries boys, that place, it’s dead. I’ll take you to the best strip joint in Vegas, just you see.”
They succumbed to his insistence, and watched silently as the Strip got smaller and smaller through their windows. When they arrived at the tiny club with the gravel parking lot, they paid the cabbie, who chuckled as he spun out and sped away. Walking into the club, they were immediately descended upon by strippers, and divided. Taking their credit cards, they racked up bills between the two topping $1200. Hours later, drunk, broke, and unable to find his friend, Spencer stumbled out of the club, and finding the parking lot suspiciously devoid of cabs, he began his long walk back to the Strip. After about an hour, he found himself walking along a set of railroad tracks, with a high chain-link fence topped with razor wire. On the other side of the fence there was a dark industrial shipping yard, menacing in its deserted state. A bum materialized out of nowhere, and asked for change. Spencer’s response of, “Sorry man, the strippers took all my money”, apparently did not suffice, as the bum stuck his hand into his jacket pocket, fumbling for Spencer’s wallet. There was a scuffle, and afterwards he found himself scaling the fence, climbing through the razor wire, and standing in the empty shipping yard. Bleeding profusely, his suit in shreds and his shoes now sandals, he jogged all the way back to his hotel. Reaching the Strip, he’d run down the median of the road, wild-eyed and scared. You haven’t truly lived until you’ve been conned into going to a shitty strip club in Vegas, then returned to your hotel in the wee hours of the morning, covered in blood, your suit in tatters.
Check back next week, when we discuss Christopher Moore’s foray into the comic world with The Griff. Cheers.