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Sunday, September 9, 2018

The Ghost and Mr. Flusher

Tuesday - Day 4 - continued

Check in at the Tropicana takes a while, but I have a lovely check-in Sheila and she gives me two cookies instead of the usual one cookie. My room isn't ready, but she says it will be soon, and she will text me when it's available.

"And... when are you available?" I say in my head in a deep, smoky voice.

"Oh Mr. F!" she says in my head, "Just make an appointment and find out..."

"Your keys - " she says as I come to, and hands over the little cardboard folder with my keys and my room number on it. I look carefully but there is no little heart or anything drawn on it... was the extra cookie just a ruse?

These cardboard key holders have a lifespan of two minutes, generally speaking. Mine will live a little longer, as I have to wait to get access to my digs. I drag my gear over to 50 play nickel video poker heaven, order an Ultra, and get cooking.




Quads are popping up and it isn't even an hour before I get the automated text that my room is ready.

It's one of those sessions that you really enjoy, and one of those sessions you wish you could have when your luck runs bad and the money is flying out of your pockets. I play a solid hour on my meagre free play plus $20 of my own cash. No complaints there.

I head up to the room, and instead of being greeted with the sultry fragrance of incense and a naked check-in Sheila purring in my bed wearing nothing but an updo, I'm bowled over by a different scent.

The room is spotless. I mean marine barracks scoured and squared away. The bathroom looks like it's never been christened. Everything is just so.

What is that smell though? It reminds me of the old Simmons place once they got through with it.

The overpowering scent isn't patchouli and this isn't the room of the cat - the odor is bleach, and then I realize the truth. The last person that stayed in this room probably died in it. And they've scoured away every last bit of criminal evidence. It smells hospital clean.

I toss my suitcase onto the rack in the closet  and mutter to myself "Oh well, at least they used Bon Ami. Well... I'm not askeered. Bleach or no bleach, I intend to spend the night in the Old Simmons Room!"

From somewhere not too distant, I hear, "Atta boy, Flusher!"

The Old Simmons Room - spotless!

View from the Old Simmons Room.
The Old Simmons Room has a king bed and I have to say, the most useless piece of furniture I've ever encountered. It's not a bed. It's not sofa. You can't sit back in it. It's in the way between the bed and the windows. About all you can do with it is trip on it, and maybe sit on it like, perched on the edge all night long, like that Sling Blade guy.

If I ever run into that guy, I'm going to call him that - Hey, Sling Blade, what are you doing here?! Like that.

Ever notice how sometimes actors get called names that aren't the names of characters or their real names, but names from a movie they were in?

"Terminator! What are you doing here??!!!"

"Hey look - it's Blind Fury!" - the venerable Rutger Hauer.

My favorite, as uttered by Homer Simpson, "Jump Free Willy, jump!!!"

I take some downtime and grab a slice for lunch from the food court. It's actually really good. Not a simulation of really good, actually really good.


 After consuming the slice, I hang out in the room for an hour, just like my Mom taught me. I don't want to get 'cramps' in the pool.

I take a quick shower, put on my Snap-Tite swimmers, and head outside to take in a few rays and have a dip in the Tropicana pool.

Yes, I actually do go in. Naturally, I have seen, just this morning, a news story in which a woman contracted wild flesh-eating norovirus parsnip disease in a hot tub. Why do things have to be so complicated?


After pool time, which is very relaxing - in an aquatic sort of way - I head back in, go up and get changed (noticing the room smells somewhat less like the Old Simmons Room, thank goodness) and take on the casino again. The low-rolling nickel quads flow like old Mr. Simmons blood.









It's a fun run on the nickles but when the dust settles, I've invested $110. And when I say invested, I mean lost.

I take a look at the blackjack tables but the minimums are too high for 3:2, and I'm not feeling like dice. What I really want to do is play some Beeefffallloooo!!!, get some cheap hooch from the store at Excalibur, and have some drinks in the room. And then maybe some dinner if I feel like the hay baler just north of my ass has stopped re-arranging and pounding straw. Cuz that's what it feels like up in there.

It's awfully hard to leave Beeeffallloooo!!!! without hitting a bonus round. And it's awfully hard to leave Beeeffallloooo!!!! without hitting a decent bonus round. Fortunately I get an 'okay' one, and a smaller one after that, and ring that sucker up a bit.





Then, I hear a little voice in my head going, "Eh-heh-heh-heh. Eh-heh-heh-heh."

I hear this when the siren song of Bedrock is floating in the smoky casino air. Yes, it's the disembodied voice of Barney Rubble.

Not the beady eyed high pitched voice Barney, the round eyed normal voiced Barney.



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