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Viva Las Vegas

 

By Elvis the Pelvis

 

 

 

Jeff secreted the 200 or so green tablets up his rectum and then emerged from the toilet cubicle and walked slowly to the door akin to John Wayne walking out of a saloon bar. With bandy legs and at a rather gingerly pace he walked over to the rest of us, who were stood off with our luggage. One of the gang appeared through the crowd with a ham & cheese croissant stuck in his gob and informed us that the check in desk was now open. We were catching a flight to Chicago then hopping on another flight to Vegas. The reason for our jolly boy outing was for Steve's stag do. Now this wasn't your normal stag do, we'd already spent a weekend in Amsterdam and done what every tourist does when visiting such a city of sin. Bored of the Dam we were now in Schipol on our way to Vegas for a spot of gambling and then it was on to Cancun in Mexico for a bit of rest and relaxation (yeah right!) before returning home for Steve's wedding. 

 

The gang marched off towards the check-in desk in a uniform of shades,shorts and sandals. It was seven in the morning so we were relatively sober but we were sure to stumble upon a bar in the not to distant future but first we had to check in. The American Airlines girl dealt with us brilliantly as she rebounded our feeble attempts at a bit of flirting. With boarding passes in hand we turned on our heel's and began to make our way to passport control, when out of nowhere we were stopped by three men in suits who spoke with American accents. The questions started....."where are you flying to?"......."when did you purchase your ticket?"......"what is the purpose of your trip?"......you know, all the usual shite. One or two of the lads got agitated and started raising there voices at these American security types and anyway what were these Yanks doing over in Holland? Shouldn't they be the other end when we get off asking questions? (the time of our 'holiday' was one month before 9/11). After getting frog marched to an office, we answered their questions and then we were free to go. We played it nice and 'Nelson' because of Jeff's 'butt plug' and we were soon on our way. 

 

Most of us slept on the flight and the ones who didn't got drunk. I was first off the plane and  already in one of the very long queues at Immigration when I heard the screeching and laughing of the lads behind. The chortles ceased quickly when I gave the eye's to one of them, then pointed out to him with the use of head nod, a man in uniform with a spaniel on a lead, who was making his way up and down the massive queues. He told the rest of the clan and now they were silent and subdued. I quickly pass through and was waiting at the carousel, while the marauding mob behind caught up, which they did without a hitch. Waiting for our luggage to appear on the carousel one of the lads organised a sweep to see who's lucky bag come out first - 50 Dollars a man winner takes all. Get in there you beauty. I grab my Mulberry Clipper and fuck off towards the nothing to declare lane with 500 bucks in my pocket before this herd of wildebeest bulldoze there way through.

 

With the time difference and that, we land about the same time as we took off in Amsterdam, giving the journey a some what kind of 'Back to the Future' feel. Whoever booked the flights didn't realise this and made the fatal error of not booking our flights to Vegas for another 12 hours, thinking that we could see a few of the Windy Cities sights before departing. In reality we'd just left Amsterdam at seven in the morning, taken a seven hour drinking session in the sky and landed at Chicago at eight in the morning, with a full days drinking ahead before Viva Las Vegas. Things were about to get very weird.

 

We rendezvoused in taxi's in down town Chicago somewhere (I'm not even sure it was down town), it was near the theatre district and we were supping in a typical American bar on Wacker Street. The Coors got quaffed, the butt plug made a brief appearance and the lads went mental.  The 'Cheers' like dinner time crowd didn't quite get our limey mickey taking skulduggery, so we quickly supped up and fucked off before things got out of hand. The gang of ten dwindled as we hopped from one bar to the next and when we finally returned to the airport to catch our connector, the gang was down to two people, me & Jeff. One by one the troops turned up for the flight as me and Jeff watched from afar in a Starbucks , as we guzzling down coffee inbetween taking nips of brandy from a hip flask.

 

I'd stayed off the tablets and by the look on all the lads faces, I think I'd made the right decision. Since they'd appeared from Jeffs bum, all I got all day was arms around my shoulders as dribbling, gurning idiots telling me 'them Gary's are belters mate'. They were green in colour and had a BT trumpeter stamped on them (that logo that conspiracy theorist think his arm and leg is in the shape of a serpent). With only one body missing (fuck him - he had the name of the hotel in Vegas, so we were bound to bump into him in a day or two), we managed to get on the connecting flight.

 

With the time difference, we took off from O'Hare airport at around 8ish and land at Vegas at around 10ish after a nearly 4 hour flight. We arrived just in time to enjoy the City of Lights nightlife. A quick freshen up in our plush studio suites in the Venetian and the gang all meet around the Black Jack tables down stairs in the casino. In a uniform of Boss shirts, Armani jeans and Gucci shoes (except for me - I had a rather fetching pair of tailored Ralph shorts to accompany my bare foot and boat shoe), we summoned the doorman and ordered a stretch limo to the Luxor Hotel. While the others were busy fixing their wigs out in the mirror and applying their slap I was down at the Concierge desk getting info about the place. I got told that the only place to be tonight was the RA night club in the Luxor. Some fancy Dan American Deejay was pulling in the crowds apparently. 

 

The massive queue was out the door and we moodied about looking for inmans. Vetting the punters at the front of the line was a couple of WWF-a-likes with Billy Ray Cyrus barnets that had been squeezed into a couple of dinner suits. I walked up to one of them with 20 bucks in my palm and shook his hand. I enquired if it was possible to let me and my friends do a bit of queue jumping. He then looked me up and down and stared over to the rest of the gang and informed me that my friends could go in but I couldn't. When I asked why he told me they have a strict dress code and shorts we not permitted. Bastard! So the lads waltzed in the club as I fucked off back to our hotel to change into a pair of long strides.

 

I must've been about half an hour and when I returned the friendly bouncer gave me an nod and a wink, then patted me on the head with his lump of a fist and told me to behave myself. There was no chance of that, I was going to get off my tits. I'd been pacing myself all day and kept relatively sober, I like to keep my wits about me while I'm travelling but now I had reached my destination I was ready to let go. I bounced through the crowded dance floor as I nodded along to the rhythmic techno music, looking out for the lads. With no sign of them on the dance floor I hit the bar and ordered a drink. The vodka & coke didn't even touch the sides, so I ordered another one. I then turned around and had a proper gander at the gaff. It then hit me! I was in the middle of a Mad Max movie - leather clad angels danced in cages hanging from the ceiling, as fire eaters spat flames out as they hung upside down on scaffold poles and some arc angel Gabriel flapped her massive white material wings while being strapped to a wooden cross on the wall. I looked up and noticed a raised platform to the left of the dance floor, it was almost empty compared to the rest of the banging club. The only people fenced off in this kind of VIP area was the lads, who were stood on the tables 'hands in the air' proper going for it. I went over to them and after explaining to the man guarding the VIP area, I was with the mutants over there, I was free to join the lads and got stuck in to the bottles of spirits that littered their table. 

 

Two tablets later I'm hanging over a rail giving it 'big fish little fish' to the crowd below and it wasn't long before we got attention of the female variety. The fenced off area began to fill up with stunners with bright white teeth and daddy's credit card.The green trumpeters god passed around and our own private balcony began to bounce.When the club finished the party moved to one of the suites back at the Venetian and then the party turned into an orgy when the call girls were literally knocking the door down to get in (we'd given a few of the working girls some of the deadly green demons and word had spread like wild fire with random brass turning up asking for      a tab). In the morning the party finished and some chill time was had in our own private gazebo by the pool, swigging margaritas and getting gay Clive - the camp pool-side attendant - to come and spray Evian spritzers onto our frying fods. We got our vitamins by munching on fresh fruit salads and drinking bloody Mary's, then by early afternoon, re-charged and ready,  we hit the casino.

 

With a few mad hours of gambling under our belt's and minus a few dollars from our pockets we decided to get ready to hit the streets again. The vain womanisers showered then kissed the mirror, the pot heads rolled up and listened to some sounds, the beek heads were busy ordering beek on the blower ( some contact a brass had put them on to ) and the loons were still consuming tablets and talking shite, while I was down at the concierge desk again sorting out the evenings entertainment. While I was there I also got the porter to book us on a quad bike adventure in the desert for the morning, followed by a helicopter ride into the Grand Canyon in the afternoon. For tonight I'd arranged a limo ride out to the legal brothel that was the Chicken Shack - why we'd bother to drive for an hour to a legal whore house when we had whores a plenty on our illegal doorstep in Vegas was anyones guess, it seemed like a good idea at the time. The limo driver was a grouch and frowned upon our smoking, snorting, spewing and insisting on piss-stops every ten minutes. Upon arrival we sat down in reception on couches with plastic covers on, while the girls were paraded in front of us. Now I've been in similar situations with the lads when we've been in a brothel environment and believe me it's every man for himself,  as the fittest girls are grabbed quickly in a caveman style and carried off to a room and if you're not fast enough you get left with the BO stinking sweaty Nigerian in the corner. So I was out the blocks straight away and pulled the arm of the prettiest and stomped off to the Jacuzzi room with in seconds. About ten minutes in and I can hear banging on my door and shouts off the lads. I ignored them, thinking they wanted a piece of my sweet american ass, which was gyrating in front of me. I'd paid 500 bucks for an hours bunk up, but what the heck, it was worth it. After I was spent I waited for the rest of them in the bar but I was informed by the barman/security/local sheriff that they'd all left ages ages. Apparently when the lads found out about the extortionate prices they rounded up and fucked off back in the limo, leaving me here with Sheriff Rosco P. Coltrane. One hour it took for a cab to arrive and a one hour drive back. I bumped into a couple of grinning apes who were on a fruit machine freak out back at the hotel casino and the rest of them were split between the roulette and black jack tables. Later that night it was Caligula scenes back in one of the rooms until the early hours.

 

Tune in next month for paranoid chopper terror, strange medicine in the desert and  drug frenzy in the Circus Circus..............If I can be arsed like.

 

 

 

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