It takes all kinds.
I haven’t been very chatty. Just hidden under a Baum Squad baseball cap, nursing Miller Lites.
Usually, I like to shoot the shit and rile up as many players as I can. I love it when they get pissed off or verbally vomit their whole life story. But I’m not in a riling mood, nor do I want to hear anyone’s life story. Or talk about my own. I just want to win.
The dealer flips the turn, and it’s a three of clubs.
More shit.
I raise anyway with the hope of chasing away another player. Doesn’t happen. Both those motherfuckers call.
Here we go. My palms are freakin’ sweaty from anticipation.
The dealer flips the river card, and it’s a two of clubs. Three pair.
I raise again. Let’s hit the gas and see what happens.
They both fucking call.Shit.
We all turn over our cards, and I curse out loud.
The Texan has three of a kind, but the New Yorker beats us both with a goddamn fucking straight.
The dealer collects my chips, and I've had enough for tonight. I’m exhausted, fed up, and just need to get shitfaced so I can do it all again tomorrow night.
I leave the casino with the same amount of cash I walked in with. It’s a wash.
I head off the Strip toward the roach motel I checked into earlier. The lights on the street are still as bright and alive as they were when I got here. You’d never know it’s the middle of the night.
But that’s Vegas, right? What happens here, stays here, no matter the time.
I pop into a corner store with a neon-pink sign that says twenty-four hours.
I grab a bottle of Captain Morgan, a two liter of Coke, and a bag of sweet-and-spicy Doritos. Dinner of champions.
The farther I get from the Strip, the darker and shadier it gets.
I needed someplace in walking distance to the casinos, and I also needed it to be dirt cheap. I’m definitely getting what I paid for at the Paradise Motel.
A couple of hookers catcall from across the street, but I ignore them.
“Hey, baby, you lonely tonight? Want some company?”
Not in the least,I hiss under my breath as I continue to walk. Strippers are more my scene. Or hot bartenders at the Den. Better yet, a bookie’s daughter whom I’m madly in love with is completely my scene.
Trashy females with ripped fishnets I could do without.
I drag myself up the stairs to the second floor of the motel. I’m bone-fucking tired, and the stress is beating the shit out of me. The putrid smell of the dumpster on the side of the building isn’t helping anything either. I try not to throw up in my mouth as I unlock the worn and weathered front door.
Just as the lock clicks and the door creaks open, I’m shoved from behind. I fly into the room and hit the wall. My nose explodes with blood, and I see stars from the shock of pain.
“Motherfucker.” I try to turn, but I’m slammed into the wall again, and then once more. My brain rattling like a pocket full of change.
“Easy, there. We don’t want to put him in the hospital,” I hear a soft voice say.
Whoever is treating me like their personal punching bag tosses me to the floor. I land on my back with a thump. Fuck, if I actually survive this, I’m going to need one long-ass vacation with an open bar.
I crack open my eyes when I feel a foot press into my chest. It’s dark in the room, so I can’t really make out who’s using me as a doormat.
