This Is DEFCON Part The Fourth and Final

Written by  //  October 31, 2012  //  Donnybrook Fiction, The Library  //  No comments

[the last of a Thousand Dangers]

By this point – officially past the 90-day statute – we are legally obligated to pre-apologize for the epic scope AND protracted release schedule of this perhaps-mildly-interesting-for-a-minute-or-so-seventy-five-days-ago tale.  However, if you are just tuning in, or have somehow forgotten every detail, it is advised that you soldier through “This Is DEFCON” Parts the First, Second, and Third prior to attempting to ingest this capper.

I wanted to laugh more than I allowed myself; which was unfair to both of us, in that moment.  But moments like that tend to pile up with women of this Archetype; and even a 223-year-old Master Class Player such as myself runs the risk of becoming ensnared; losing inappropriate amounts of mindshare; impure thoughts; idiocy, lunacy, terrible decisions; ending up [shudder] enchanted by the Broken Girl.  So it is with this wisdom I operate; pre-emptive blocking against any Amorous Encounter ever, in Life.

On go things and lip-flap and I’m a bit bored after awhile; there’s a quasi-heated discussion about where to do the shitty booger-sugar.  Highlights:

“We gotta go back to my room at Ceasar’s” [Baxter].
“Trust me; I’m a stripper – I know how to do this” [Demon-Pixie].
“They’re not gonna have cameras in the bathrooms” [Some Chick].
“We gotta find somebody with a room here” [Baxter].
“We just need a car – sit in the parking lot. Do it there” [Demon-Pixie].
“Just do it here.  Right here,” I say evenly.  An aghast silence for a moment; followed by raspberries, giggling, major blowback.

 

“He’s right,” offers Bitfiend, because he knows what I know:  Las Vegas is one of the stupidest places to do drugs [quasi-publicly] on Earth.  Even shithoused Baxter had the best – although radically impractical – gut reaction: go to a private room.  But since that wasn’t happening, the options of bathrooms, parking lots, corridors by elevators, etc – were all horrendously bad ideas.  Casinos are surveillance-overkill palaces.  Cameras and audio recorders everywhere – and yes, although it is technically illegal to put a camera in a public restroom, have no illusions.  Parking lots have infrared cams.  My solution was actually, ironically, a sound proposition.

Casino floors, bars, corridors and parking lots have a whole bunch of cameras.  Bathrooms probably only one, but you’re in a powerfully-lit area.  But these partitioned convention-hall ‘rooms’ with 20’ ceilings, where there is no gaming at all, that are rented by private industry?  Just one, maybe two.  And this room was slathered in deep-blue darkness; the house lights were essentially off – only the party lights and dancing disco glimmer from the stage provided any real illumination.  But more importantly is the concept [and I am slightly misusing the most-technical definition, here] of ‘Dazzle Camouflage’: wherein one does something so unthinkable, so unlikely, SO outrageous – that the minds of people in the general public do not compute it as being Real.  It’s assumed to be Something Else; re-filed under a more probable folder in the brain.  In this case: taking cocaine at a table in the middle of a party in a public room inside of a Casino inside of Las Vegas.  No one who glances at you will believe anyone to be so bold, never.  So their gaze floats on.

But it only works – I repeat: IT ONLY WORKS – if one is bold, natural, fluid.  It must be an action just like any other.  Any hesitation, a cross-check over one’s shoulder, an unnatural hunch, a guilty expression…yeah, people notice then.  They get it.  Because you’re not using Dazzle Camouflage; you look like you’re trying to hide something.  I explain this in short order; some Doubters walk away – but out comes the shitty dope in the shitty folded-paper housing and at once my buddy creases it out fully in the dim and throbbing light, gets an annoyed look:

“Does anybody have a pen?” He cranes around, loudly, to anyone – even beyond our table.  A few weak hearts get sweaty, but my own heart soars.  This man is a goddamn Professional.

Some passerby hands him a pen without a flinch, even stands next to him and bullshits with us for a second; proving my theory 100%.

Cue a now-officially zombified Baxter; walking up and throwing his arms akimbo: “OH! DUDE!”

The WeakHearts almost blow it by their squirming – but the rest of us ignore him; just as the rest of humanity has been doing for the last two hours.  Only he knows what he’s cawing about; and everyone here knows better than to engage him.  In a brilliant passive stroke, my friend uses the pen to scrawl at the top of the paper (which, remember, has an enormous pile of powder on it): ‘Keep Your Shit Together.’

Cut To:  The Wee Small Hours of the Morning; Sunday.  I’m kakked out on the living-room Murphy Bed; having opted out of more than a pinch of Scary Dust and downing just a couple more cocktails in the end– my organs had a Class-Action Suit pending against me as it was – when I am half-awakened by a jumble of voices scuttling through the portico and off toward the quarters of The Albatr055.  My assumption is that it’s Some Chick from our table that ‘Trossy had been cozying up with all night; an amiable JAP who’d told me I was reminiscent of Harold Stark [father of Iron Man] – “handsome, charming, but not as much of an asshole as his son” – (arguably one of the Top Three Compliments I have ever received) – and…

I awaken for real to the terrifying BLEE-LEE-LEE-LEE-LEE-LEEEP of the apartment’s house phone, which the jittery Gomez answers; calmly contests whoever is on the other line, then acquiesces.  He replaces the receiver with a hang-dog look.

“Um,” he announces, boring a hole in the straw-colored condo carpet, “we have to go.”

After a quick cross-ex, it comes to light that this room has been booked only through Saturday night.  Our flights are all set for Monday morning.  Classic.

Because I love you all so very much, my Donnybrookites – I shall spare you the drudgery of the right dressing-down I unloaded unto Uncle Mammy for this oversight; my Thousand Dangers trying to find a crash-pad; the number of cocktails required for The Pink One to shrug it off.

Instead, I shall let you envision this: Uncle Sid, bedecked in standard long-sleeved button-down and full box-cut suitcoat, black slacks, and no sunscreen – traversing the blinding-concrete and punishing-heatbounceback-asphalt of the admittedly amazing deco-era engineering feat known as The Hoover Dam.  Did the 116ºF temperature make me appreciate the brasswork lettering more, in my instant-dehydration dreamstate? Or less, in my quite-literally-burning desire to find shade, shelter, and Freon?  Either way, I looked a hot mess beside my dear friend The Commander, aka Bitfiend; whose envy-slash-hatred-inspiring skinny ass was clad in a fully-bad ass vintage Italian motorcycle jacket, black t-shirt and black denim jeans and longboots.  Only Liddy was sensibly dressed for the terrain; but no matter – each of us were hot as Hell.

After such quasi-natural wonder courtesy of the Army Corps of Engineers, the only thing to be done was to head to Frank’s Tiki Room.  Thoroughly delightful and completely authentic, being there with The Commander only double-underlined the longing of those “Lost Perfect Times” at Tiki Boyd’s.

But we did our worst to do our best to make New Myths – which I made pancreas-punishing work of; as I was still so very chewed-up from Friday and then not taking Saturday ‘off’, exactly – that I at first – hold onto your socks, kids – refused a cocktail at all.  But the nuances of obnoxious fruity drinks and an endless loop of 60s Japanese Surf and Mod Rocker videos amidst the harkening darkwood soon proved irresistible; and within the hour I was full-sail on The Rum Ship; making new friends with people who probably just wanted to be left alone.

Liddy arrived, then Mar and a few others.  Drunkphilanthropy set in, and I was on the phone with a nearby delivery joint; wildly overestimating how much food our small group might put down.  When it landed, I realized that two large pizzas, two pasta dishes, two loaves of garlic bread, fried ravioli, and three salads were not only more than our group of six could eat – the lot was more than the entire all twelve people in the Tiki Room were up for.

Life gives us these signs, you know – about all manners and modes of things.  This one was specialized: “You Have Completed Las Vegas…Alive.  Get Your Ass to Sleep; and Then Home. Don’t Push It.”

So I did.

EPILOGUE

LVNV terminal

Sitting in a sweatpile at McCarran, shame-spiraling in my recount of the past 81 hours.  At the very first call; ‘pre-boarding’; for “families traveling with small children, and those needing extra time getting down the jetway”, I move toward the door, leaning in some sick, exaggerating way on my cane; sunglassed and slung-down; Unavailable for Discussion.

But.

I peep the goof-ass grin that has pleasantly haunted me for this epic weekend; right below the mightiest Kim-Jong-IL goggle-shades I’ve ever seen.

Mine.

The Albatr055 nods and I choose to forego early pre-pre-boarding to have a proper sign-off.  We trade tales about where we each found sanctuary for Sunday night, where he managed to unload the remainder of his COSTCO-sized opium stash, who we met or re-met, what we planned to do next.  But the best was the tale that drew all the decadence and pathos of the DEFCON weekend into a laser-point – What Exactly Happened After I Went Home Saturday Night:

“Man,” he shook his head disappointedly – yet his stoner smile remained, “I was hanging out with [Some Chick] all night; making good time, y’know,” I raise my brows in accord; I’d borne witness to saidsame. “…and as it got later, I was vibing heavy with [Demon-Pixie], too.  We really hit it off.”

This poor sumbitch, I thought. Twentynuthin Broken Girl Cokehead Stripper.  Guess who doesn’t think they feel some immediate, inexplicable ‘connection’ with that?

“So,” he continues, still grinning, “I have her, and [Her Fiancé], and [Some Chick] all set to come back to our place {his use of the third-person plural, and its implied inclusiveness, made my sphincter clench} for a foursome.  We’re coked, opiumed, stoned, a little drunk.  It’s perfect.”

It doesn’t sound anything like my definition of “perfect”; but Variance keeps the World interesting, non?

“Anyway,” sighing; perma-grin fading for the first time in days, “we’re all set to jump in a cab when [Some Chick] starts this bullshit noise about needing to ‘get up and exercise early’ and totally bails.  So now it’s just me and [Demon-Chick, Her Fiancé] – but I’m still like – ‘okay, cool’.”

But I can tell it ended up not ‘okay, cool’ by the long pause.

“We get to our place {yeeeeech} and then [Her Fiancé] starts to act weird; like – really weird.  I guess he’d never done any ‘open-relationship’ type stuff before…?”

He seems legitimately mystified, which is cute, but also depressing.  I hold my editorial.

“In retrospect,” pensively, now; “it probably didn’t help at all that Bitfiend was there.”

It’s just too much now; and I erupt into incredulous snorts of laughter. “Really?” I manage, somehow, “you think that added some…layer?”  And I’m off again into cackling; picturing my dear friend, hip-deep into his cups; well-past Blackout Junction; and positively clueless as to the ménage that’s being engineered under his nose.  He just invites himself along on the cab-ride, drunkenly imagining the journey is to another party somewhere; and dear Trossy is too cool [and too baked] to nudge him out and off.

“Yeah,” nodding, reddening. “That couldn’t have helped.”  I think for a second, then: “But he wasn’t there in the morning..?”

“Nah.  He blazed out pretty quick once he got wise to what we were trying to do,” the gentle giant chuckled. He shrugged. “Maybe it freaked him out…?”

I set my eyes [through my shades] on his eyes [through another pair of my shades – how did he keep ending up with my awesome Chinese Glammo shades?!?]:

“It freaked him out,” I assured him; without having to confirm my assessment first. “I assure you.”

(the goddamnable finish, finally)

Initial editing by @akaJulene

About the Author

Sid Pink

Sid Pink is Donnybrook's Lifestyle and Booze columnist and knocked up a Vegas showgirl.

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