.
Damn it all! The poor man cursed to himself.
A wannabe millionaire is stuck at midnight on the Strip trying to get home with a broken down luxury car and barely enough cash to get a bus.... With a negative bank balance thanks to the professionals at Enterprise Rentacar. And he's in debt to the love of his life and his mother and his best friend and still hasn't enough to cover his bills.
And the car- good gawd- the $5500 in-debted broken down curse on 4 wheels. Which is costing him over $700/mo. Which means he has to find some way to get rid of it and its debt and live behind his casino in the dumpy ass apartments which prolly has got hot air-conditioning and live there consigned to his online life IF Linden Labs has fixed his gorram acct!
This fucking sucks.
He can't get on Second Life nor will those sods email him so he can find out wtf is going on with the scammers who hijacked his account.
So goes the plight of Vegas Baby...
The Strip bus, the million dollar double decker behemoth, dubbed The Deuce, by the city pols, dropped him off at the Downtown Transportation Center, and he decided to just hoof it the last 3/4s mile to home. Vegas Baby lives in the dark streets of the other Las Vegas. Which is inhabited by a seamy lot yet with gems of people sprinkled throughout.
A fat, black girl saw him coming down the street and walked over to his side and when he passed said, “Take me home witchu.”
He smiled at her, kept on walking and said, “Sorry, honey. Not tonight.”
A few minutes later a tall, lanky black man came ambling up to him.
“You need a lock? I got a lock for sale.” He said.
Vegas baby wondered if the man could read his mind. He had just been assigned a locker at his new job. “Well, yeah, I do need a lock... how much?”
“Only four bucks....”
“Here...” he dug into his wallet and then stopped, “Oh, I only got a ten.” He said.
“You can get change in there,” the street locksmith said, pointing at a hollowed out casino/bar inhabited by a strange looking crowd.
Beads of sweat formed on Vegas Baby's forehead. He had driven by that joint everyday for months. Without fail, there were hungry-eyed folk staring at him every time he drove by. It's as if every single one of them were wanting something from me, he thought to himself, as their eyes bore into him. Like I got cash for a hooker or for some drugs.... “I'm not going in there....” He mumbled and then walked off.
The impoverished wannabe millionaire shrugged off all of the other man's cries to just enter that dark, foreboding hovel and get change for his sale and walked the last two blocks to his home while chatting up a friendly homeless white guy who matched his pace from across the bar but proved to be genuinely harmless.
The Compound, he often thought of it, with it's locked gates and steel fences, though the house he stayed in only had a fence four feet high. THEY had broken into the Compound three times in one week a couple months ago. Some unknown and decidedly clumsy burglars.
In his previous job as a pit clerk in a swank and huge casino, Vegas Baby didn't get home until 230 am on a good night. One dark, hot summer night, he found the weakly locked gate forced open and the front door ajar.
He paused and collected himself. Pulled out his cell phone and entered 911 and put his finger on the Send button, wishing he had a gun, a big, black, fully loaded semi-automatic piece. He slowly pushed the door open and entered his house, ears straining to hear evidence of the presence of dangerous intruders.
TO BE CONTINUED...
2 comments:
CONTINUED? GODDAMMIT!!! I HOPE YOU GOT MURDERED!
I was...
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