Spring Break Part 6

The following year, I had found a soft seat in the Richmond rental car business and actually had some coin to drop over spring break. Needless to say, the proper arrangements were made and I was headin to fucking vegas. We had it coincide with spring break for law school/business school/avoid a real job for as long as possible school. Once word spread that shit was going down, a large contingent was emassed for a long weekend. It was mainly guys from my fraternity, but my roommate in richmond came along because his birthday was the same weekend and damn if he didnt want to be in vegas for it. The anonimity required for his role later in the story will leave us calling him Captain Carnie, cause he was from this small hick town an hour outside of richmond and they used to have a sayin, “the only way out of farmville is the coffin or the carnival”. Actually, I made that slogan up, but I still suspect he has cousins that are in fact carnies, wouldnt be suprised if the family tree doubled as a ring toss booth. Also scheduled for arrival were my buddies grabler, the ironfoot, chris, and the dapper don of long island Gilberto Greaseballio to name a few of the many.
Captain Carnie and I hopped a ride out of the richmond airport, and started throwing back five dollar bud lights on the plane. Shits were bordering on air rage at the fact that we had an all male cabin crew, but then we just started calling all of them by the name “steward” all condescending like. “Steward, excuse me steward, another bud light please.” “Steward, I require a pillow, I grow restless.” “Steward, my air conditioning nozzle will not adjust to a comfortable level.” The drunker we got, the louder we said the word steward, but that didnt stop the beers from comin. Late in the voyage, we realized that we had been assholes the whole flight but had no idea what the name of the chick sitting next to us was. When she got up to go to the bathroom, I queried the cap’n, but he was like “dude I was going to ask you the same thing, fuck.” That led to us trying to pinpoint her surname based on her facial features, which I contend I may well be the best handicapper of in the world. I had shit pegged as cheryl, while he went with beth. As we gathered our belongings out of overhead compartments and allowed her to slide by, we each indirectly shouted our guess but no reaction was ellicited either way. Of course we both tried to claim that we saw her turn for our shit, but we knew we were lying. It sparked further debate and replay of the game with each passing passenger as we went to baggage claim. We would line up our mark from like thirty paces and then each try a name as shit was about to pass, almost like we were calling to a lost friend. Shits were shootin blanks until lucky fuck hit by calling some dude John. Pussy shit if you ask me, I was guessing based on facial features and his shit was just going off common names. I still contend that if given a random face book and a list of their real names in no particular order, shit could shoot like 40%.
We were trashed rolling off the plane and into the mirage where the first two nights of our stay would be. Once we had been united with the rest of our 16 man party, we took the rooms by force and sauntered down to the casino to engage in games of chance. From the first time I hit a craps table, I could tell it was going to be a good trip. I had a roll that went on forever, and the whole table was alive with action. I was loading up my bets when the getting was good, and it got to the point where I was playing with all profit and had come bets on literally every number. Whenever the shooter from the other end of the table would roll the shit down my way, I would scream “winnnnnnnnnnnnnna” at the top of my lungs no matter what the dice said. Regardless of the outcome, any non seven was getting the kid paid, and even a seven would win me my new come bet even though it would be disasterous elsewhere. So roll after roll, I just kept screamin “winnnnnnnnnnnnnnnna”. After about 9 such occurances, the stickman held out the dice and said “sir, the people at the other end of the table think that the point has been hit, please dont scream out winner unless they hit the point”. I collected myself and said “I am so sorry, I didnt even realize I was doing it, It wont happen again.” The point was 8 and the chick threw out a nine where I had my biggest non point action, the second shits were set I let out the loudest “winnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnna” that casino had ever heard, all the while starin down the stickman. Shit was fucking dominant. The pit boss was on the phone to someone, and I started talking shit to the stickman. “You see, your boss is calling down to the vault to make sure he can make good on my markers. If they were wise, one of your higher ups would cut me the fuck off, cause Im gonna break you tonight. You hear me? I will break you. If you continue to let me heat up this table you will all be fired. I am leaving tonight with your jobs motherfucker. Winnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnna.” Shits were just breathing contempt in my direction, but wasnt nothing gonna stop my hot hand that night. I cashed out literally up five hunny after only putting two hundred in play. As I left, I flipped them some insult like ten bucks on the hard four, and made them thank me for not taking their jobs.
Shit didnt stop there dude, the entire first two days, everything I touched turned to gold. Fucking sportsbets, blackjack, poker, I even think I hit a keno ticket while we were late night binging at a diner. Shit couldnt be fucking stopped, and the statistical probabilities were running scared. Heading into a fancy dinner at some french chinese fusion shit, I was up like 1200 on the trip, and had been droppin cash on shit like it was going out of style. The dinner was meant to celebrate both grabler and the traveling sideshows birthdays, so there was some dispute how to split the bill at the end. It was finally agreed that we would split the shit evenly 15 ways or whatever the fuck, but I added the caveat that credit card roulette would be available for anyone man enough. Turned out five of us stepped to the task including both birthday boys. We each gave a credit card to the waiter and had them hidden in a napkin for him to draw at random. One by one the plastic debt record was drawn to eliminate that name from having to foot the 75 bucks a man bill. As those being cleared of their obligation rejoyced, it was down to only myself and fucking grabler. I think he tried to make some pussy sidedeal, but I wasnt having it. All or fucking nothing dude, and I knew luck was on my side. In reached the waiter and pulled out, grablers fucking card. Leaving me footing the 375 dollar bill, and being given a free shot of tequila from the waiter out of pity. God damn do I hate that grabler. Ruined my entire lucky streak. From there, everything I touched turned to shit. I gave back a good portion of what I had won in the resulting tumult, and I blame it all on that game of credit card roulette.
Rather than join the majority for the line at bellagio’s light, I made for the hard rock with a van of people looking to hang out at a chill bar. We went to set up camp at a side area but we were short one chair. I went over to a group of wasted cowboy looking fucks and asked if they minded me grabbing one of their extras. One of the shits looked up from under the brim of a ten gallon hat and told me he was suppossed to watch the chair for a guy who he wasnt sure was coming back. I reasoned with the man sayin, “No worries, if he comes back Ill give it over to him, otherwise I would really appreciate it.” Just as I got him to relent, the original owner returned. He looked to his buddy wondering why the larceny was being allowed and I piped in, “He told me I could take it, I asked if it was anybody elses and he told me to just go ahead.” This immediately roused the wrangler from his near passed out stupor, irate with my fallicious allegations. I stood strong adding further details to my story about being offered the chair outright “I asked him like four times if he was sure it wasnt anyone elses”. At this point Gilberto Greasballio had stepped to my side, always the pugilist. He acted like he was tough and this was the way they settled shit in “the neighborhood”, but really he went to some prep school on long island and only ever had to fight his accountant on whether he could deduct olive oil as a business expense.
Cooler heads prevailed as I backed off my original position and admitted I was just fucking around. I was mid-apology which was being accepted when I threw in “then this guy turned into a huge asshole and couldnt take a joke” and it all but erupted again. Eventually, it was agreeded that I would “shut my fucking mouth” and we would all go back about our business. Another long island iced tea please. We got tanked and the night evolved into a game of ask the Ginz. The Ginz was a South African who had a strong opinon on everything and I mean everything. We would come up with inane things to compare and then give side action on which side we thought the ginz would stand on. For instance, we went which will the Ginz prefer dimes or ten dollar bills. After the proper action was placed we brought the ginz out of his isolation booth and he immediately responded in his thick almost english accent “Definitly dimes. Ten dollar bills are just derty, they are derty, derty bills filthy every one of them. Have you ever seen a derty dime?” And damnit he was right. I cleaned up on the dollar betting and we called it a night after unsuccessfully hitting on a majority of the lobby. There was of course the factor of us being obnoxiously drunk, but I contend that all of those women were lesbians.
The next day all the johnny neckties hopped planes bound for corporate bondage, and we were dwindled down to a five man crew staying in the bellagio. Only myself, captian carnie, the iron foot, and two seedy fucks from chicago remained. Picture the cast of Perfect Strangers, only instead of being really foreign one of them is really metrosexual, scratch that both are really metrosexual. In fact, lets not mention them anymore. We were all chilling in the sportsbook watching NCAA tourney games we had action on and getting hammered off the free drinks before the days of the drink ticket. The day earlier I had been at the table with a dude ordering a fruity concotion and I laid into him. Eventually, he had me try it and told me there were four different liquors involved. My suspicions had been aroused and I joined him for the next round after deciphering the name of the bright pink cocktail, singapore slinger. Now here I was in the sportsbook, and its all I was orderin. Shit was makin them doubles and I was forcing everyone in my group to join me. Eventually, I just started throwing the girl a ten everytime she came around and yelling “Slingaaaaaaaaaas all around”. I think it got to the point where I was buying complete strangers a little slice of asian heaven just to let them know. Needless to say I got blacked out by 5PM.
The resulting events, I am neither proud of nor do I recollect, but the evidence in the form of drunken confessions and eyewitness accounts is downright damning. It was Captain Carnie’s real birthday, so we were going out to some italian restaurant at the Excalibur. After abusing the waitress for damn near an hour, she finally got to get rid of us with a check. Shit was passed around and people claim they all paid their share before handing it to me, whereby I grabbed all the cash and went to the bathroom. My belief is that I thought I put my credit card down, but I had done no such thing. when I came back to rejoin them, the table was empty and I was accosted by an elderly italian woman. Shit grabbed me by the throat and said “you thought you were gonna skip out on that check?” I quickly pulled some hundreds out my roll, and begged for mercy. Disgusted but satisfied, she accepted my plea and let me go about my way.
I was immediately on the horn trying to figure out what the fuck happened. Iron foot said that once he saw the money was gone, he thought I had made like a bandit and he sure as shit wasnt payin twice. He claimed to be going to the bathroom as well and the all male cast of the showtune chicago followed suit. At some point, the captian looked around and decided he wasnt going to get screwed on his birthday so he took off as well. Turns out we would have gotten away with it if that was our original intention. But I was way to shaken up from the onslaught of slingers and an elderly woman at my jugular.
We reconvened at the room and set into motion a plan to get my boy laid on his birthday. The iron foot helped handle the arrangements, specifically requesting a certain brand of female. When the two of them went down to meet up, the rest of us sat in the room patiently waiting. What came back was not what the doctor had ordered. There was one past her prime middle aged white woman, and some sort of somoan who suited no ones fancy. Its not like she was fat or nothing, just not really attractive and immediately rubbin up on everyone sayin “who wants the pussy”. The room cleared quick and even the iron foot decided shit was below his standards. I was drunk enough to stick around and be ready to shell out for my boys birthday, but as he started gettin down to bidness with the wrinkled ravage of time the somoan approached me. I told her to take care of the birthday boy, but he immediately waved it off. Eventually, I said fine and gave her a hundo to blow me in the bathroom. Once inside, she threw a condom on my shit and tried to give me pleasure through the plastic which just wasnt doing the job. Out of nowhere, she throws another condom on her pinky and deals me an unsuspecting ace in the hole. I just about ran out of the bathroom crying bloody murder, and got the fuck out of dodge after throwing on some pants. Admittedly, I was way to drunk to properly pay a bill let alone engage in sexual activity, but that event could have died a soft death had I not been dumb and drunk enough to repeat the shit to the iron foot who was himself a regualr on the cooch for hire circuit. I decided to further propogate the tale by openly admitting it on a blog based forum, fuck. Sometimes what happens in vegas should stay between you and the streetwalker.

Spring Break Part 6

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