My father covertly slipped me a bundle of twenties and warned me that were I to procure a prostitute with them to make sure she was clean. That's how my adventure started. Those were the first words I heard uttered about this mystical, magical fairytale dreamworld they call Las Vegas, Nevada - the so-called 'city of sin'.
As I drove down Las Vegas Boulevard, gazing in awe at all the sparkling lights and dazzling exterior displays, I found myself wondering if there was such a thing as a 'clean' prostitute. Judging by the immaculate nature of these buildings and many of their upscale, well-groomed and maintained fronts, I assumed there must be such a thing, such a virginal crevasse of tender human flesh for me to bury the fruit of my loins into, for me to drink deep and lose my head in the proverbial pleasure oasis this town was known for.
I was right, but it took copious amounts of alcohol.
That's the thing about Las Vegas. It's only amazing if you can send your brain on an interstellar trip outside of your own body, an existential quantum leap brought about by a heavy duty dose of opium to relieve you of your ailments. Any thinking individual sees this fair city for the illusory folly that it is, a decrepit junk city meant to ensnare the weak. That's where inebriation comes in. It inserts itself deep into one's brain and then powers down any capacity for rational thought, rendering the lucky winner a ravenous animal hungering for a few simple delicacies.
Tits and ass. Booze. Smokes. Pretty lights. Ya know... the finer, more exquisite things in life.
Sure, one can gamble if he so sees fit. Said individual can also indulge in any number of expensive restaurants, adult shows, and fun, little rides. But all those are just distractions from the real joy of this place. It's a monument (a treasure of the world) to quick gratification - that rapid fix of adrenaline, aphrodisiac, and joy that come with imbibing near-death levels of alcohol that help manifest the lights above into solid, comprehendible sensations of pleasure that only a baby has the natural ability to see simplistic beauty in.
The massage therapy that Vegas' magic fingers work across the spine are unmatched. It's the best doctor to black out all ailments until the trip is over. And there I was caught up in the middle of it all, too numbed out of my mind to realize I was being devoured by the designers of such genius machinations and being robbed.
In all of this, the little monster came out. I'm sure you know what the little monster is? It's that little beast inside each and every one of us - that barbarian 'id' figure that pillages and plunders.
Booze. Broads. And dollars. The simple things my little barbarian was prowling for as he swung his wooden club wildly up and down the strip. The things that make him want to ram his proverbial viking spear into the moist openings of the cocktail waitresses as they waltz by in their thongs underneath their see-through get-ups at the Rio, procuring free, imported drinks for him. My inner Genghis Khan.
It was one orgasm after another for Khan. Doc N was KO-ed in the first day, torn asunder by this new monster who came crawling out through the ripped and shredded flesh of the former.
Ever see that movie Dreamcatcher? Remember that part where one of the characters' bodies was hijacked by that alien entity, and all he could do was watch from the window in his eyes as his body operated outside of his control? Yeah. That's Vegas, baby. That's the American dream. That's the maddening spiral into America's greatest consumerist corner.
Sure, a certain amount of cash is required to make this trip to Mecca. Those without it are tossed aside, some devoured wholly and left starving on the streets. Many of them make light of it while they beg for cash, jabbing humorous musings to tourists passing by, using tongue-in-cheek comments to acquire a buck or two. It's seemingly an art or maybe just assimilation. They, too, become part of the backdrop and the scenery, part of the psychotic mental breakdown as their attempts at light-heartedness play into the illusion this city was founded on.
Then again, they could just be hustlers. A few of those approached the great Genghis Khan while he was making his rounds on Freemont Street, slashing and hacking at anything that looked breakable. These hustlers crept up casually to make direct small talk, feigning interest in order to build a repertoire before asking for cash to buy a sandwich. When rejected, they sauntered off coolly, finding a nice corner to light up a smoke and wait for the next victim, readying themselves to reinforce negative stereotypes. Little spiders hiding in the strings of a web designed by a much fatter spider.
Out of all the webs though, Genghis found Caesar's Palace and New York New York to be the prettiest and most intricate designs. A sense of wonder overcame him as he wandered through both of these casinos; it was one he hadn't felt in a long time. It was the kind of wonder Khan felt as a child when he snuck horror movies into the house from the library, secretly gazing at a dazzling glow of a 70s Grindhouse bloodbath in the confines of his bedroom. Absolutely beautiful. And his alone. A feeling he felt alone in experiencing even though Khan was surrounded by thousands of equally possessed barbarian corpses littering the vast halls, all of them farting and belching from the booze like an ensemble symphony orchestra.
Genghis Khan is asleep now. He climbed back inside my skin and went into another long hibernation until I next return to such a place. 'Dream Lover' by Bobby Darin was the jingle that knocked him out as we drove out of the city with the windows down, letting that dry, warm air and bright sun mesmerize one last time.
When Doktor nOnsensical assumed full control and turned back on the radio, that familiar tune of the world going to Hell brought him back to the reality external of the adult circus play land. Some dill weed was upsetting some nutjobs by burning their holy book. Two Chicago cops had been fingered and relieved of their duties for intimidating women and raping them repeatedly. The nuclear situation in Japan was still as it was. And Libya was still getting sacked.
Vegas, baby. Vegas.
