Stranded at a Slot Machine

The woman was hysterically crying about the fact how she could not get herself home, whether it was due to excessive alcohol consumption, a spontaneous fit of amnesia, or a desperate plea toward a significant other who had been long overdue in a traditional old west coming to the rescue of her as a symbol of his total unconditional love to this woman. Well, by the amount of crying she is doing at the moment, appears the ship to salvaging her current relationship has sailed, leaving her in a enormous pool of tears, more than enough to fill the olympic size pool on the third floor of the Hilton hotel where I happen to be passing through after a zestful filled day and evening at work. As usual in Las Vegas, no one really paid any attention to the mini drama going on over in the slot section known as Penny Alley, not exactly where all the high rollers hang out looking to increase their already well endowed bank roll. Just another familiar story of wailers, screamers, and sobbers who have long since cease to be useful to their loved ones, the public, and most of all themselves, so they let it all go, emptying the bank account, the credit cards, and whatever forms of pawnable materials to sit in front of a slot machine with straight burbon, hoping a mild 300 hundred dollar victory or even the infamous pipe dream of Megabucks shall come along in the form of Prince Charming to save the day, to right the wrongs, and a lay large wraths of hate on everyone since grade school who ever vexed them with actions, words, and judgements of malice.

The woman continued to ball her eyes out while I took a lay of the land at this late hour to see what the local crop of prostitues looked like. Seems all the hot ones have long since packed it in, not that the Hilton is known for a high level of talent in the escort department, plenty of retirees who have seen finer days patrol these bars for the conventioneer or some bombed out drunk needing a bit more than a On Demand porno. An older woman is holding down a corner of the bar attempting to blend in with the scenery, nondescript, sort of just put the bait out like a spider and see if anyone tugs on the line and in Vegas they invariably do, without question, the later the hour, the more desperate as well as manical the male figure evolves. Within another minute, the woman has a fresh catch in the boat unveiling her well rehearsed script that will ultimately lead to retiring upstairs for a bit of matress mashing, whatever it takes. Ms. Stranded remains so with no help in sight and if she was a bit more attractive there would be a hundred guys at her beck and call resorting to fist fights for the priviledge ot drive her where ever in town she needed to go, but not for this one, any complementary lift in the automobile would contain a prelude of first stopping to some outskirt cul da sac where the driver could get a rapid fire poke in before she completely passed out, unable to communicate her address, leaving the guy with dead weight, what is left to do? Dump her out onto the sidewalk of some local casino, let her try her luck there, I have seen it in action, firecrackers, too hot for some guys to handle, a woman who is a fighter, a drinker, and shit starter can get a person killed, so here you go honey, here is a drink, I am going to the bathroom, be right back, but the guy does not return, fleeing, retreating like dog in mortal fear of a deadly opaque form, giving off heat, pain, and fury, something not to be toyed with, better off allowing a wide berth, chalk it up to cautiousness saving the day, as another would be victim saddles up beside this wildfire at the bar unaware of the dangerous line he is about to cross, the Vegas night moves on.