My nephew Stanley had spent some time in Emergency in considerable dick-pain, but ultimately was released to home with an empty 2 gallon jug and some explicit instructions. They wanted him to drink like Flipper and hopefully piss out the kidney stone. For some reason, this entailed him keeping all his pee. Sometimes I think doctors tell us to do shit like that just to see if they can get us to do it.
I took heart that St. Flusherina’s sincere grovelling prayer (“Aloha!”) had at least moved dear Stan out of danger.
The news from the size 7 grommet line back at North American Veeblefetzer was the same as it had been all along. There was no real reason for me to check in. Never mind that my brain was already back on the line even though my bod’ was in Vegas. What does a guy have to do to get a vacation?
I checked at the front desk and the Colombian minions at Net10 had finally come through… with something. These guys have a tendency to overdo things (see No Bills, No Contracts, No Evil ) and this was no exception. I carried two 11x14 Fedex envelopes back up to the room along with the Video Poker WinSimulator 3000 featuring WinPoker. Dramatically I fought the plastic envelopes to try to get them open. I pulled, I stretched, I strained, I spotted.
Finally some of the adhesive gave and I found myself staring at a single piece of paper, and a credit card sized piece of plastic with a teeny tiny SIM card entombed in it.
The actual bit of business that I needed to get my phone working was all of half an inch square. Good thing it was luxuriating on its trip from Net10 SuperGenius HQ in the 11x14 padded vault Fedex envelope!
The idea of spending any more time on the Net10 hotline to Bogata to get these phones working rankled. I should be gambling and drinking. It was at that moment that I had a brainstorm.
“Fuck it.”
I went to the bar.
Sometimes it's fun to see how far you can get with a minimal buy-in. In this case, a single five-dollar bill. First of all, it got me some sample tumblers of various bourbons I’d been meaning to try (all cheaper than the Wal-Fuck-You-Liquor-Prison-You-Can’t-Come-In-Here-Mart booze I’d bought for home.)
I started with Gentleman Jack and moved on to Maker’s Mark. I found the Jack a tad smoother but the Mark to have more flavor.
Meanwhile, doggone it if my $5 buy-in didn’t net me Bonus Poker Aces for $100. A few more drinks, and ultimately, a losing session, and it was time for din-din.
Specifically, free meat at the Fitz. More specifically, the Fuck You Colonel Fried Chicken, which is ‘to die’ for.
Perhaps that is a bit too strong. I wouldn’t actually die for this chicken (although the chicken did). I would take a ‘serious wounding’ for it though, something along the lines of ‘a nasty hangnail’ or ‘an ingrown hair’. Yes, this fried chicken is to ‘take a glancing blow from a claw hammer on your thumb’ for.
We marched up to the podium and ordered the chicken. By now, the hostess knew the drill, and knew we’d be back. We mean chicken business!
We spent 20 minutes having a quick gamble upstairs and then zipped over to the Keno area to pick up a joint ticket as is our wont. Why eat without gambling, when you can eat and also gamble????
I filled out a ticket with some lucky numbers and handed it in to the cashier.
“There are a lot of numbers to choose from aren’t there?!” I said.
“Yes, there are,” said the Keno cashier, her boss looking over her shoulder. New?
“And they're all chosen live, back there?”
“Yes,” she said, “with those balls.”
“Balls? You have balls?”
“Yes. Back there in the cage. They pick the balls.”
“Wow… It sure takes a lot of balls to play Keno.”
By this time the poor woman’s boss could barely contain her laughter. I winked at the boss and smiled at the cashier.
And, by making the Keno cashier the butt of my ball jokes, I had virtually ensured that we would win dick all. Making fun at people’s expense is not good karma, and is not the Royal Flusher Way.
The chicken was as amazing as always, and of course, we won pretty much S.F.A. I took the ticket back to the poor cashier and had her check it.
“Two dollars. Play again?”
“Keep it.”
Karma restored for the low, low price of two dollars, I retired to my after dinner stomping grounds – the $3 craps tables at the Fremont. Mrs. Flusher had a bash at the Treasure Chest machines. I’m not sure why we play these when we can’t ascertain the house edge on them. Maybe because they are fun and we are stupid!
My buy-in lasted a while but eventually disappeared. And poor Quad Queenie couldn’t manage a treasure chest quad in her session.
RF: Day: $-90 (only -90!!) Trip: $-530
QQ: Day: $-200 Trip: $-470
We were down exactly one royal. $1000.
And, we’d overpaid for liquor. But tomorrow was another day in Glitter Gulch. Maybe we’d make it to the strip and change our luck a bit. I had to wonder – other than my royal – where were the big wins that make or break the trip???
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