[S]omebody help me! Do I have to suffer like this, just to buy a pound of hamburger, and a loaf of rye bread?
- Charles Bukowski
"El Loco roller coaster; Adventuredome; the stroke of midnight!"
A phonograph perpetually skipping, his mind played the cryptic communication without end. It was imperative he escape this one room cell, and arrive at the rendezvous.
Moments later, he was on the casino floor - frightened like Mike Pence in a paradigm where immorality is punishable by death.
The suit hidin' in the shadows was definitely DEA. The tourist in the "Say No to Drugs" shirt was a fuckin' ringer. Bitches had access to unlimited cash. Couldn't they afford decent camouflage?!
Cedric was itchin' like a hound trapped in a flea nest. The entire casino could've been Drug Enforcement, for all he knew! He'd been hidin' in a room for five days, and had one shot at escaping this Charles Bronson Death Wish.
Fuckers wanted him more than Oprah wants endless stacks of pancakes - drainin' butter from every pore, and piled to heaven.
Trouble was, he didn't plan on evacuatin' this globe without bloodshed. His life was worth more than a dribble a' chaw in the spittoon of it all. He'd take as many of these cunts with him as he could; meet 'em in Hell; buy 'em drinks.
"Scotch and Clamato," Cedric called his anathema, nearing the neon-illuminated bar.
"Well?" the plump tender - with breasts the size of paint cans - inquired.
"That'll do," responded Big C.
One eye on the beverage, and one on the room - since he'd been born with the odd ability to move left and right independently - he noted the weak pour. But all pours were weak in this city. Even in the high limit rooms.
Locks on everything in Tenderloin Town. Everybody was so goddamned afraid of everybody else. It was the sign of a sick society, when an intoxicologist with 20 years experience wasn't allowed to free pour.
Fuckin' three ball bullshit! Bartending was an art, and these Vegas Van Goghs were provided melted crayons and moldy wax paper with which to create-!
That's when he noticed the buxom barmaid give a quick nod to the double-breasted DEA in the shadows.
"Shit! Bitch was one, too?! Keep it together, Ced'. Keep it fuckin' together!"
Maladroitly as a first time stick driver traversing Filbert Street in San Francisco, he tripped over a centenarian in a walker. The hoary bastard's oxygen tube detached, as Cedric tossed 53￠ on the bar, spilling his drink on a fat guy playing video poker.
"Motherfucker-!" the corpulent clown blurted, unsuccessfully attempting to rise from his Hoveround, and deliver a haymaker.
Behind our hero, the antediluvian asshole struggled to breathe, flailing futilely for his O2 umbilical cord.
Smooth as a train filled with nitroglycerin, jumping the tracks, and catapulting down the face of K2, Cedric stumbled into the sea of slots.
Holed up in Hooters was no way for a man who'd developed a working Dyson Sphere to die!
The men in the campfire stiffened.
A slight wind blew from the west, smellin' of horse shit.
The women crouched in the wagons, drinkin' gin, prayin' and masturbating.
- South of No North: Stories of the Buried Life
He saw the suit move, and realized his suspicions had been accurate. The Brooks Brothers bitch cut a path directly for him, as Cedric turned toward the elevators.
Still he was dryer than Ellen's cunt, at the thought of society devoid of money. Jesus fuck, he needed a drink! How could he be expected to operate unless properly lubed?!
Snatching a Long Beach Iced Tea and a triple blue curaçao off a waitresses' tray, he quaffed the first beverage.
"Hey, those aren't yours-!" The tiny-fitted tart yowled.
Cedric hurled the second cocktail at the approaching suit. Lighting a blue-tip, he tossed the match on the spook - who went up like a helium balloon on a windy night. Engulfed in fire, the heavyweight spiraled into the lobby, which burst into flames.
Gamblers flailed for their lives, as the entire scene became Operation Crossroads 2.
Following a supernova, the Sun swallowed the Earth, as Hiroshima Black Rain deluged the casino.
It was enough petrol to propel Cedric across the goal line, and into the closing elevator. Our protagonist shot to the 10th floor.
There, he'd seek refuge in his room, and do his damnedest to escape the Sin City hotel once again, tomorrow. Fuckers wanted the perpetual motion machine he'd invented, and wanted it bad! But they'd have to kill him before he lead 'em to the cemetery plot in the desert where he'd buried it!
It had been the defining event causing Cedric to stop doing meth. As with many users, he'd enter a program that helped him do so.
Said course fed a bunch of money addicts - obsessed with the accumulation of cash - who wouldn't have assisted Big C, if he hadn't paid 'em. But we'll just overlook that astronomically more pernicious addiction, since acquiring currency - even if it's harmful to us all - is really smart!
Shortly thereafter, the fuck junky came knockin' on Cedric's door, distributing copies of The Gangbang Watchtower, and Big C traded in one vice for another. To cite Lysander Spooner: Vices Are Not Crimes.
Making tfj's acquaintance at a local swing shed, Cedric began his journey into the domain of group sex, leaving the expansive pitch of casual drug enthusiasm behind. Gone were his days of starvation, and synthetic ecstasy. Ahead, awaited a treasure trove of natural endorphins, endless serotonin waterfalls, and dopamine gone wild!
Big C had entered the wondrous world of wife swappin', and began beatin' away on proud pussies up and down the Strip! It was a joyous day, indeed!