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.

I 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 there.

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.

When the Wolfman and I got back to New Vegas that night, we went on a mini-mission to see if anybody else in Glitter-City was being vain. I was expecting a long night and as such had packed a picnic basket of food I stole from people who needed to learn to guard their plates better while sitting on the verandas of a bunch of restaurants next to the casinos, but in the end all we had to do was watch the elevators for examples of PRIDE. Just about every other person off the lifts was dressed all hoity-toity and carrying him/herself off as a big gay Adonis. They all walked past us like their shit didn't stink, even though they ironically still held their noses up high.

Well, the poop hit the jet engine when one guy bumped into the Wolfman and whispered, "Bunny licker!" into his ear (actually, I thought he said, "Excuse me", but that's not the point). The Wolfman reverted back to his WRATH mode and jumped the man like Oprah taking out a Chinese buffet. Hair, blood and articles of clothing were scattered to the winds as Wolfy tore into the poor fucker. I just sat back and watched, especially when that chick with the funky white hat on snuck up behind my friend and smacked his head with a folding chair like Hulk Hogan to Roddy Piper. Unfazed, the Wolfman backhanded her and ripped off her left arm and began using it to continue pounding the snot out of the chump he originally floored.

It was around that time that I noticed that the severed female arm that the Wolfman was using like a mace was still clutching a bouquet of flowers. Then something unprecedented happened, I put two and 2 together and got a specific number... the Wolfman just killed a bride and groom who were about to elope at the Sammy Davis Jr. Chapel of Lust in the lobby!!

I got us out of trouble though by grabbing the Wolfman's collar and yelling "VIVA LA FRANCE!!" as I dragged him out the front door while doing the Nazi "seige heil!" salute. They must've thought that we were mentally unbalanced resistance fighters or fruity Nazis. Either way the remaining wedding party let us escape with no further police action brought up against us.

The lesson of that story is to never piss off the Wolfman... Especially with pride.

The sinfest continues... Final SIN >>