Sin-City for the Seven Deadlies
Lust and envy..... Um, then
comes... WRATH, I suppose. Honestly, there wasn't that much WRATH
in Vegas that the Wolfman and I didn't instigate first.
Yeah, there were a few tiffs in the street between whores
and pimps, and yes, I did see a few losers kick some slot machines
in rage after they blew their monthly medication money, but I
found that it was really up to my furry friend and I to really
raise the bar in making Sin-City a hell. So one evening we went
around punching and biting random people in the face and crotch,
spray painting hateful graffiti on the facades of various hotels
and restaurants ("Barry Manilow Sukz It!" being my
fave), and shouting out hurtful remarks such as "Hey you!
You in the fat blue dress! Yeah you, fatty! Why don't you eat
some more food, you fat fuck! Yeah, I hear they just killed an
elephant in your honor down at the Mandalay Bay! That should
be a nice appetizer for you, you fatty elaphant eating ho!"
I must say, the Wolfman was truly inspired that night.
met this singing and dancing fool down near the bordello district
one night. He was pretty rugged and he knew how to play the air-guitar
like Bill and Ted on acid. He gave me a few lessons and afterwards
I challenged him to a hasty contest (like that song where the
Devil goes down to Georgia). I kicked his ass and then swallowed
his soul to use as currency later.... There's not much more to
the story than that. Sorry if I got your hopes up. I did get
some heartburn though.
I suppose that our actions that night didn't really qualify
as WRATH per se, but they did get other tourists pissed at us.
Which led to some serious mad-monkey fighting (a style of Mortal
Kombat that Carl invented based on his thoughts and dealings
with the Monkey of Madness). Yeah, Monkey-fu is basically only
good for show (and for throwing one's feces twice as far as would
normally be possible), and we both got our asses handed to us
by a mob armed with gambling tokens and diseased panties....
I also think the Wolfman got the clap from some bitch who forced
a pair of knickers on his hairy melon.
After wrath, both the Wolfman
and I started to feel a bit proud of ourselves. Yes, PRIDE reared
its arrogant (and sexy) head when we realized that if we could
survive a maelstrom of a melee from crazed Vegasonians we could
survive anything! Plus we also knew that we could look good doing
it.... and that we were way cooler than everybody else in town.
And that I rock the casbah just by existing and rocking hard.
Anyway, pride made the furry one and me want to check out
Old Vegas in order to compare it to New Vegas and get some satisfaction
that I ranked one above the other in a sort of simplified proud
moment of rankiness. After a short cab trip we found ourselves
about 5 miles away from the famed strip, and smack dab in the
middle of Poor Vegas (where the mob-run casinos first appeared
all those years ago). Holy fuck! The whole place had a total
"60s decor" feel to it and everything reeked of old
people. And tapioca pudding. And in some shady corners shrimp
coctails that had been under a heat lamp for too long.
The waitresses at every restaurant that we checked out were
all old too. Wrinkly old! The bellboys, dealers, vacationers
and even the hucksters on the street were able to legally collect
social security. The steak I had at the Golden Nugget sucked
too. The only thing that saved Old Vegas from getting an "F"
rating from myself was the fact that it had a huge neon cowgirl
in the center of town. That and the Amazing Jonathan was playing
I also learned that belching extremely loud and gritty-like
is apparently bad etiquette even in the tackiest city in the
world. After that I started feeling a lot less proud.
found that I was PROUD to be myself later on in my trip when
I came across Caesar, Cleopatra and the rest of their holy Roman
entourage. You see, at least I don't have to dress up all goofy
like for my job and walk around a casino in moronic outfits that
show off my tits like a common $5 street whore. Sure, I can still
do it for recreation, but the knowledge that my paycheck doesn't
depend on it is priceless.
the Italians were done worshiping me they all ran to the nearest
store that sells cool clothes and bought enough black baseball
hats and lumberjack shirts to go around. I guess it's hard to
"know" good taste if you've never experienced it first
hand.... My point being that they finally experienced it after
having met me.