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Peter Magliocco |
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The Double rumor had it that fanged Roy of Siegfried & Roy illusion fame was trying to make a comeback at our highrise's Lucky Lounge but I doubted he'd get by the first declawed toothless tiger left over from the vandalized zoo, since this "Roy" had to be phony as any other Vegas impersonator trying to hustle a living in hell (a.k.a., the Las Vegas Strip shows) & anyway he looked about 80+ sporting a silver cane/knife & cape -- his bouffant-mane an obvious wig along with a costume borrowed from old Elvis-at-the-Hilton gigs, now looking more sadly overweight as the King before dying on the crap- throne, Bible nearby, like all who must cash in their holy chips before the terrorists finally hit the biggest mega-jackpot of all drive-thru fuck in the fast lane is what the Mexican-looking owner of the Tower Barbelles called it, that rear part of his property the Strip hotel whores had sex with endlessly in their clients' cars on any given hot weekend night Tex-Mex was sure to take his cut from their lucrative joint venture adding some bucks to gross margins (business being as bad as it was, what else could a Vegas mogul do but illegally profit discreetly from all the fine young cannibal animals?) still it really blew my mind seeing Juanita the ex-Magician herself, once a Strip headliner starring in her own show at the Aladdin -- now giving cheap hair-do-bobbing blow jobs for whatever was left in some smarmy jack-off's wallet besides a gilded biz card saying, "You Always Win at the Barbelles ..." The Tower Barbelles at 3 a.m. Around the highrise tower rap voices cling to windows indentured residents rarely peer from, fake French cornices stained from bottles & beer cans thrown out, either as protest or in drunken euphoria To what unsightly end? The Las Vegas Strip tower still stood, despite power outages & the terror warfare George W. prophesied from Texas: despite the loss of gaming revenue or the fall of the almighty silver Dollars into ravaged streets below. "Take me to the real man's coffers," a distraught tourist collared me, huffing out imprecations because I was the only security gofer around: "I need to believe I'm gambling on more than my life insurance," He bitched, spilling vintage beer from a cracked-brown Barbelles mug. I told him I was lost like everyone, role-playing made no difference here in the terminally last living lounge show called Life we losers all had to play -- but he ran, leaving a counterfeit tip. |