The hookers fluttered through Sin City like a crop of fallen angels. Their innocence had been long lost and most of them were numb to the pain. Numb to themselves. Numb to life. Prostitution was an integral part of the Las Vegas economy and a byproduct of the business of Las Vegas itself. Working girls were the saddest of the sad. Not in a pathetic way, but in a remorseful way. I mean, we the tourists were the pathetic ones and gluttonous fools of capitalism. The suits who owned the casinos were the true evil doers. And the pimps were galactic cowboys... thuggy funk brothers from a different solar system who herded sex slaves and other beleaguered runaways towards the nonstop orgiastic cosmos of Sin City.
I walked the Strip and passed hordes of snail-paced tourists and sneered at the illegal immigrant porn slappers who offered me glossy-covered business cards with a photo of a petite Asian harlots and various numbers of escort agencies that will send rent-a-hoochies who show up at your hotel room and lick your asshole clean for a few hundred dollars.
Of course, those exact services were not listed on the back of those fliers from the porn slappers, but you have to let your imagination run wild in Las Vegas and never be afraid to ask for what you really want. As twisted and demented as your wildest sexual fantasies might be, there was at least one working girl who will abscond to your wishes, provided you compensate her dearly and promise not to post the video to You Porn.
As the saying goes, "What happens in Las Vegas, stays in Las Vegas." And that includes the types of things that you wouldn't even dream about mentioning on "25 Things You Don't Know About Me." Like the night you paid a Bellagio Hooker $500 to shove a golf ball up your ass while she dressed up like a Catholic school girl. Of course, those were pre-depression prices. These days, you can find out-of-work real estate brokers who will do that to each other for $20 and a free Excalibur buffet coupon.
Goosebumps rippled up and down my arms the first time that I ever stepped onto a casino floor in Las Vegas. It was the Mirage which used to be the center of the universe at one time before it collapsed into a black hole.
I missed the hum of non-stop gambling action and the intoxicating aroma of pure oxygen mixed with cheap perfume and stale cigarette smoke. There had been an urban legend that has never been proven, but supposedly the casinos pumped in pure oxygen which gave the customers an elated sate of well being. A true gamblers high.
The frenetic pace of Las Vegas seriously hindered your decision making abilities. The desert climate played tricks on your brain. Add pure oxygen, plenty of alcohol, scantily clad cocktail waitresses, and the thrill of winning a massive jackpot... then you got yourself a perfect situation where fairly intelligent people will piss away their money and dignity on almost anything.
I used to think that I was being tortured and haunted by the ghosts who infested the Las Vegas Valley. Initially, I thought that they were the source of the voices inside my head encouraging me to gamble and spend every single dollar in my pocket. I later discovered that the faint whispers were low frequency subliminal messages that the casino released through their PA system. Millions of tourists flew into Las Vegas every year and willingly participated in the largest brain-washing experiment on the planet. Did you really sit down at the blackjack table because you wanted to? Or because you were ordered to by Big Brother?
I'm not one to wear tin foil hats. I usually jeer at those pathetic souls who cite global conspiracies from secret Satan-worshiping organizations for the reason why they have been oppressed and held back by The Man. But sometimes, I gotta wonder, where do they dispose the bodies of all the dead hookers?
A small body was found shoved upside down in a trash can in downtown Las Vegas. Don't believe me? Go look it up. Another casualty of the illegal sex trade. Prostitution was legal outside the city limits and Mayor Oscar Goodman had been lobbying to change that status. He felt that legalized prostitution in Las Vegas would boost tourism numbers and generate millions of dollars per year in revenue. He didn't care about cleaning up the filth, he just wanted to profit off of it. In the end, who really cared about a dead hooker anyway? Their entire value became nothing more than a cheap punchline on a half-baked poker blog.
But that begs the question, what ever happened to all those dead working girls that mysteriously appeared around town; in an abandoned car outside of Terribles, behind a dumpster at Denny's, and in the bathtub of one of the high roller suites at the Hard Rock?
Where did they go when the lights went out?
Working girls are crawling all over Las Vegas right now. Check the various Hooker Bars at 4am. It's a buyers market too. Read through the hundreds and hundreds of in-call ads on Craigs List. Pick up a pamphlet from one of the porn slappers. The ladies of the night are everywhere.
So why not just make turning a trick legal in only a few designated areas?
Why doesn't Oscar Goodman designate Downtown Las Vegas as the official red light district of Sin City? Keep all the families and clean cut tourists on the Strip and let all the deviants run rampant downtown, where they can get a shrimp cocktail and a handjob for $20. Visitor numbers would surge. Hookers would be swarming all over the Fremont Light Show. They'd turn the El Cortez into a futuristic bio-tech-maquiladoras, where they churned out inexpensive clones of working girls.
Well, shit, they should just turn Las Vegas into America's version of Amsterdam. Welcome to AmsterVegas. Decriminalize marijuana and open up a slew of hash bars on the Strip. Las Vegas already caters to stoners. Have you seen all the pretty blinking lights? Some of that Cirque de Soleil stuff is pretty trippy. And who actually stands in line for 'all you can eat' buffets anyway? Potheads and fat people.
And speaking of AmsterVegas, maybe they should set up whorehouses on the Strip? And let window girls operate in the Forum Shops. How cool would that be? You can eat at Spago and then walk ten feet and find a Romanian hooker hawking her snatch by a near by windows.
And how about all those times you take a bad beat at the Bellagio? You can walk across the street and hate fuck a hooker, smoke a spliff, get off tilt, and rebuy back into your cash game.
Heck, if you can't attract people to Las Vegas with gambling and Bette Midler, then you have to make some serious changes in the game plan. And if hookers and weed cannot boost tourism numbers, then you're going to have drop betting minimums to $1 on the Strip and make all buffets $5.
Buffets bring out the worst in America. Take the Excalibur breakfast buffet for example. I went once. That was the first and last time. Never again. Hundreds of overweight tourists stuffed their chubby faces with an assortment of greasy breakfast dishes. Apparently, one of the octogenarians held up the line as she carefully dug all the crispy pieces out of a clump of intertwined bacon. Two old ladies nearly came to blows in front of the bacon station.
Desperate times mean people will do anything for money, like the Tweakers Fighting Championship or TFC at Circus Circus. The economy has gotten so bad in Las Vegas that promoters have been roaming trailer parks all over America in search of tweakers to fight each other to the death for a fresh cooked batch of crystal meth. The heavyweight division title fight featured two 107 pound tweakers. They kept them awake and sober for twelve straight days before they got a small taste and thrown into the cage. The two bashed each others' genitals until one tweaker passed out and died of internal bleeding. The victorious tweaker emerged as the new champion and given all-you-can-snort meth for a week before he was thrown back into the sober tank and prepped for his next fight.
I'm awaiting the day when man versus bear fighting becomes a mainstream sport. UBFC. Ultimate Bear Fighting Championship. I'm craving action on a sport where I'm confident that I have an edge.
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