I entered the glitzy foyer, the night heat of Nevada dripping down my back. This was my second visit to the city of Las Vegas and believing my luck was still held up at immigration, possibly my last. Like most hotels on the strip, the MGM although a visual treat, a stubborn nail would reveal a rather weaker interior. The scratch exposing a falsity that seemed celebrated here on the West coast of America. I signed the necessary forms, flashed my passport and credit card, then made my way to the elaborate bronze plated lift. Although on the 16th floor I am soon struggling to place the plastic key into the door, orange lights flash but the colour of entry green refuses to show. A gush of air conditioning seems to usher my entrance, as I finally solve the doorway riddle. The room looks spacious and the view from the window, worth far more than the two hundred dollars charged rate. I change my shirt, locate the last tracings of cocaine from a bag purchased in San Diego and make my way to the tile heavy bathroom.
When the devil invites you to a heads up game of poker, you are challenged on many insecure levels. At first, I presumed the folded gold piece of paper was a practical joke, revenge from friends who have endured my cruel games for many a year. The invite was validated genuine via a transmission from hell, this over rode my usual Friday night programming. I then began to fear the fast approaching date, my behaviour under constant restriction. There was no chance of decline, the fine print was brutally clear, my required signature a mere formality. The instructions detailed everything from flight times to exactly what was at stake. My soul would be dependant on the luck of the cards, an arena of chance I wished to retreat from. Since knowing I would be returning to Vegas I had reviewed my life, revisited my sins, were they so great, as to stir interest from Satan himself?
The cocaine was stronger than the European brand I was used to, I paced the nervous room. Thoughts, like derailed trains were frantic, too fast then still and damaged. My twitching hands soon stumbled upon a local directory, the adverts of suggestive local women pricked my interest. A cheaper option would be to access the twenty four hour porn, served via the thirty six inch plasma, framed on the wall. I must get my mind back on the game, after all the gamble involved was the surrender of my soul. My ability to even play Poker was limited and after googling the Devils game history, I knew I needed to be at my most strategically alert. My sweaty hands popped open the small clear bag, I knew it was empty but a line would ease my agitated stride.I folded the plastic bag inside out, a weak sting of numbness pleasing my wet probing tongue. Now read Part 2
© Copyright 2016 Philip H20s. All rights reserved.
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