You Like Whiskey?

Tuesday - Day 4 - continued

I seek out The Flintstones slot immediately, and I have a blast playing it. I love everything about this slot from the background music to the bonus rounds.

The View From Bedrock

I decide I better schlepp over to Excalibur to execute my drinking-in-the-room plan. It's up the escalators, along the walkway, dodging the photo takers, and the installations of "Rubby With Dog #92" that the Las Vegas Art Gallery has loaned out.

It's nice of them to share these 'happenings' with the savvy, artistic tourists.

I take the slideway into the castle, looking lovingly across the moat and wondering if the Wizard still lives in the little boarded up hut there.

Secret shortcut number Excalibur works like a charm - instead of going through the casino, and backtracking up to the mezzanine, I make a hard right and take the elevator instead. It's a much more relaxing experience.

It was always nice that the store on the mezzanine had decent prices on rocket fuel drinkin' stuff. However - the fact that none of the bottles have prices on them is a huge red hammered flag. I ask about the price of a half bottle of Absolut and the answer comes back.

"Forty one dollars."

Let me just stop there for a moment while the color comes back to my face.

I find the alternate stuff made from distilled wheat bin scrapings and yes it's cheaper. $23 or something. Time for Plan B. And Plan B is the Arco station on the corner, and the little convenience store that comes with it - Twinky Ho Ho Headquarters, AM PM.

There are lots of choices in cases of beer, and oversized cans of beer. I fully expect them to come out with a can of beer that is 16" tall and contains six or eight beers.

I was pretty sure they didn't sell liquor, and decided to ask at the counter, which was staffed by Pudgy Latina, who is swathed in stretchy material with various pink highlights and bits of flair, and Skinny Latino, who wears an AM PM shirt. It is he who comes forth to talk wild turkey when I ask for hard liquor.

"No we don't stock liquor. What are you looking for?" he asks.

"Some vodka. But it's okay, I'll just get some beer."

"You like whiskey?"

"Yeah, I like whiskey."

"I have some back here I can sell you."

Oh great. Skinny Latino is about to sell me some bootleg illegal personal whiskey. This is a big red flag and I nip it in the bud.

"It's so hot... you know, I think beer would be better. I'll go get some."

The last thing my bloated Goodyear inner tube wants is fluffy, bubbly, airy, gassy, farty, sparkling, fizzy fucking beer.

I grab some Dos Equuses the size of kegs, pay, and get out of there. My entertainment for the walk back to Tropicana is watching a guy carrying two pizzas questionably balanced on the same hand that is holding 35 pounds of giant beers.

He makes it to the Tropicana, and so do I, and I retire back to the Old Simmons Room to drink some beer and unwind.

This works fine and at some point, I become hungry, and wish I could have something simple like some freshly made incredibly delicious fried rice, full of prizes like bits of chicken, and egg, and green onions.

The Asian place that opened up recently, Red Lotus - maybe they have something like that. Holy shit, do they ever, and the price perfectly matches the $15 of food comps I have left for the day. I order and I'm rewarded with some freshly made incredibly delicious fried rice, full of prizes, etc. etc. etc. It's exactly what I envisioned.

It's a huge portion too, enough for four people if it were split as part of a meal with some other entrees. I wolf down about two thirds of it.

Not only do I get the perfect meal, I get the perfect fortune in my fortune cookie too.

I never love a horse to excess.

After rice dinner, I head back to my multiplay video poker machine, but some mook is on it who thinks he knows what he's doing, but he doesn't.

I know what's just around the corner, and I've been avoiding it, but this is as good a time as any - and since my machine is taken, it must be a sign. I loosen my belt a notch, and sit down at nickel Ultimate X, as infuriating a game as has ever been devised - and yet... when you win...!!!

It's a battle, up and down, getting sweet multipliers that end in sweet nothing (FUCK YOU MACHINE), getting quads that keep you alive, but never with a multiplier (FUCK YOU, GIVE ME SOMETHING).

It doesn't take long before I've dumped all of my remaining day's stake into the stupid machine - but then - but then! It gives me something. Something really nice.

Three thousand two hundred nickels, to be precise. I've got a nice stake in the machine, and I play it to a good level to cash out at. And it's the same old thing. I can't do it!

And I drop down and down and I'm hating myself even as I wonder why I haven't cashed out NOW!

I work my way back up and finally it all just gets to me and I bail.

It's absolutely exhilarating to play this horrible, horrible game. I'll never play it again, and will be at it as soon as I can tomorrow.

The point is as moot as Rick Springfield.

I call the day a success, cash the ticket, and with a belly full of comped rice and prizes, head up to the Old Simmons Room to turn in and hopefully not be murdered in my sleep by Maid Clorox.

I've lost but $14 on the day, and am down $266 on the trip. So far... successful, in the sense that I'm not broke and sleeping in the vacant lot of a torn down 1950s motel with COLOR TV.