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“It’s true,” Dillion went on, playing to her now, “the drinking age in Vegas is twenty-one, the gambling age is twenty-one, but once you turn eighteen, you have three short years to adjust to the spiritual emptiness that defines the adult Las Vegan.”
The second part hadn’t worked as well as the first, which left him feeling a bit deflated. Like this stupid game, he thought. Games weren’t that much fun when you knew you would win.
He stood up abruptly and headed through the vulgar, insistent glitter of slot machines to the Yardbird restaurant, where he strolled through tables of diners until he saw food being delivered. He told the people who had ordered the food to walk away. Only after they had gone did it occur to him that he had placed no limit on how long they should walk. He sincerely hoped they did not end up as piles of bleached bones in the pitiless Nevada desert. He made a mental note to be more specific in the future: no need to create harm unnecessarily. Right?
Unless it’s funny.
He sensed that the unseen audience in his head did not approve of his concern. Nor were those unseen watchers pleased with the way he’d spent hours at the roulette table. By means he could not hope to explain, they conveyed impatience. The audience wanted him to do something. It was insistent, relentless, and found an easy resonance in Dillon’s head.
You want a show, invisible people in my head? Is that it? You want a show?
Dillon ate what he wanted, then ordered a random passerby to bring him a cheesecake from the kitchen. He rolled his eyes as a fight broke out in the kitchen and laughed aloud when the battered, bruised, panting man brought him most of a cheesecake, pursued by knife-wielding chefs.
“Okay,” Dillon said, “I really need to try and . . . on the other hand, screw it.” He looked up at the battered tourist and said, “That cake’s a bit of a mess.”
“I’m calling security,” the nearest of the angry kitchen workers said.
“Oh, that’s not necessary,” Dillon said. “You can deal with this yourself. This man needs to be punished.”
“Punished?” the cake thief said, sounding baffled.
“Sure. Of course. I mean, in the old days the punishment for stealing was having a hand cut off.”
Was it his imagination, or was the unseen audience now leaning forward in anticipation?
“But I am merciful,” Dillon said. To the cheesecake thief he said, “This cook is going to cut off your right index finger, and you’re going to let him.”
Sure enough, the man who had brought the cake sighed and flattened his hand, fingers spread, on the table even as he muttered, “This isn’t fair, this isn’t right.”
The chef grimaced and said, “Lo siento, lo siento!” as he raised his fourteen-inch chef’s knife and brought it down with a sickening sound.
It took three whacks, by which time blood was everywhere, puddling on the table, sprayed on the faces of both the victim and the chef and indeed on Dillon himself. It was all ignored by everyone within the sound of his voice, but more distant tables screamed and pushed over chairs and shielded their children’s eyes.
Dillon lifted the severed finger and gave it to the chef. “You’ll want to cook this. It’s a sausage.”
Come on, audience, laugh!
Had they laughed? Not in any way he could hear, but did they find it funny? Did the dark and invisible audience even have a sense of humor?
Hello, is this microphone on?
He walked back out onto the casino floor as screams of horror and pain rose behind him. He was in a confused and anxious state of mind. On the one hand: power! On the other hand: a very tough audience.
But an audience, just the same.
Dillon was very aware of them and very aware that he had very little of what comics would call “material.” It was as if he’d been suddenly thrust onto the stage at the Comedy Store with a bunch of VIPs in the audience. He felt like he was at some flop-sweat-inducing audition, not sure what to do to keep the audience amused.
He stood between craps tables and blackjack tables and in a loud voice said, “Everyone! Slap yourself in the face! One hard slap!”
He watched the results. Everyone nearby raised a hand and slapped themselves once. But beyond the reach of his voice life went on as normal.
“Yep. Like I thought,” Dillon said. “It’s all about the voice.” He had a vague notion of a joke involving the old TV show The Voice, and Adam Levine, but he couldn’t quite put it all together. He looked around and saw the main cashier’s kiosk. He walked up, told one of the employees there to let him in, which of course they did. He asked where he could find the public address system and was shown a microphone and told how to use it.
“Testing, testing. Dillon Poe radio is on the air, here at the Venetian. How’s everyone doing today? Good? All right, then, everyone who can hear me, raise your hands.”
It was mid-afternoon, not the busiest time in the casino, but still, between gamblers and employees, there were a couple hundred people. And every single one of them raised their hands. Cocktail waitresses with trays of drinks raised their hands, and beer bottles and cocktail glasses fell, bouncing on carpet.
“Okay, very good,” Dillon said. He thought for a moment, then happened to spot a Walking Dead–themed slot machine and grinned with sudden inspiration. “You are all flesh-eating zombies. Eat everyone you see!”
