(Author's note: This is an extremely embellished, fantastical dramatization. I'm not going to inform on what is true or false, because it wouldn't be as fun. I'll simply say real life wasn't as extreme as depicted in this major anecdote.)
My big marijuana haze is now behind me - four years have passed, in fact - and all I do now as I recollect those days of toking on that green herb is laugh, and see it's pointlessness. It was fun anyway, and luckily I didn't go to jail. Now I'm going to rewind 3 years before I lived in Santa Barbara to the Summer of 2008, I had just gotten my first girlfriend, and I felt so lucky and so happy, but most/worst of all had delusions of grandeur with the idea that the book I wrote was a guaranteed sell, and I wouldn't have to worry about financial issues once it was published. See, by that time, the publishing company had already accepted it for publication. So, in my idiocy, I quit the job I had - a good paying one - and my friend and I went on a road trip. Originally just planning to go to San Diego Comic-con, then drive back home, but being in a drug-infused, debauchery fueled mindset, we went to Las Vegas afterwards. I'll save Las Vegas for later. As we saw the sign that proclaimed, "Welcome to San Diego," I lit a joint and passed it to my friend, then I lit a cigarette. I turned up the music, playing a CD I burned(I forgot what song was playing - side effect of drug use, the small details fade away). My friend was driving. I had rented a car for this trip. Don't know it's make and model, but I know it had four doors, and the color of it was gold. "The Gold Lion," I would call it. I slapped the sealing, yelling, "Fuck YEAH! We're here. To the heart of human imagination we go. 'Twas where God was born." My friend said, pointing, "There it is, the arena where the festival happens." I informed, "No, man, it's a convention, in a convention center." He replied, "Sounds conventional." I said, "From the outside. The life is in it's bowels." We drove near the front of the Convention center, and we got stuck in a lane with cars slowly moving. "Fuck this, " my friend said. He switched to an empty lane, and the car continued, hopefully we'd find where the parking entrance was. My friend yelled, "Why are they all in one lane? You hopeless fools." After a few seconds of driving past all the cars, my friend said, frustrated, "It's too easy, dude. What's wrong here?" I said, "They're in line to get into the parking garage." In unison, we uttered, "Whoa." He then said, "Well, that makes sense." Then did a u-turn and made his way to the back of the line. While the line of cars slowly rolled to the parking entrance, my friend said, "Hey, man, look." He held up a zip-lock baggy with something in it I was unfamiliar with. I asked, "What the fuck is that?" He replied, "It's shrooms I dipped in acid." My eyes widened. I said, "You brought that here without telling me?" He said, "Yes, I already ate some when you weren't looking. Here, have a couple of bites." I put my hand up, saying, "No. I've told you before, I don't eat stuff grown in shit." He put in, "They use fertilizer to grow vegetables." I still declined, "No, man, I just want to be stoned during my time here. I got weed cookies, and that's all I want to do." He urged, "Dude, you came here with the desire to experience something more than just sitting on your ass, hearing a rich guy talk, or simply walk around, wandering from booth to booth, simply shaking hands, saying hello. I mean, I'm right, am I?" I replied, "Yeah, I know, do the whole Gonzo thing and all, but to that extreme? How we gonna check into the Hotel later?" My friend looked deep into my eyes, and said, "No matter what happens, I'm here for you. I can handle this. I'll hold your fucking hand if I need to." I relented and took a few small pieces, ate them. I said, "Goddamn, they taste like shit." My friend said, "Hence, grown in shit." We later parked the car, and headed to the long line for registration to obtain our badges. The line was so long that it stretched to an alleyway in between two buildings of the convention center. It was a narrow passage way with white walls on both sides. As the acid-shrooms kicked in, the walls moved in, then back out again. I tapped my friend on the shoulder, he looked at me, grinning. I nodded, affirming my trip commenced. We weren't dressed up in costume(cosplay is the term) like most of the others in line. We just looked like regular dudes with bloodshot eyes, our pupils dilated; one a pale brunette, the other a Mexican. We could tell people that we were a comedy duo from some movie, but I couldn't think of one. Suddenly I noticed one of the people ahead of us was Hunter S. Thompson, my literary idol at the time. I nudged my friend, saying, "It's him." My friend agreed, "Cool, like fate." I mentioned, "Didn't know he was a woman." My friend said plainly, "Just a chick dressed as Thompson. That's cool." I asked, "Can people do that? Be the opposite sex for only three days." My friend said, putting his hands on my shoulders, "Relax, stop thinking so much. Wait until we get inside and walk around. We can talk in there." I uttered, "Talk?" Then whispered, "Thought I was only thinking." I kept as normal appearance as possible when we retrieved our badges to enter the convention. Instructions to self: don't smile; don't look around at all the colorful people; the clerk isn't really looking at you, she's got a job to do, just give her your I.D., take the badge. It was done. We had the badges hanging from around our necks and were in the convention. On the main floor, not only were the people moving, so was everything else. I saw something I didn't like. I put a hand on my friend's chest, and said, "Look, a nurse. I've been ratted out. Manipulated into thinking I was headed to a fun place, but led into a hopeless, solitary hospital, living a listless existence as I slowly die, and experimented on." My friend, nervous, informed me, "That's The Joker in a nurse's uniform. You know, from the movie." I turned my face in a snap close to his, making him jolt. I said, "Gotcha! I just like him in the purple suit better. Man, you were right, this is good shit as Bill Hicks would say. Now, lets enjoy a good two hours, then check into the Hotel."On the showroom floor I couldn't look at something, or someone in cosplay too long with being entrenched in it's hypnotic, magnetic world of their own mind. The creatures, statues, posters, and toys came to life. I said to my friend, "Look, over there, Alien is about to eat that woman. And she's smiling." My friend said, "It's just a statue, man. It's standing still. It's just the LSD and shrooms distorting your view." I asked, "How can you put up with this shit?" He replied, "I know what to expect. Oooh, she's hot. What character is she suppose to be? Look at those tits." I shushed him, then said, "Not too loud, they may not like such compliments. Respect these whores." A twenty something girl squealed, "Excuse me? Who are you calling a whore?" Oh, shit, I thought. "Not you," I said. And as she was about to say something else, my friend and I moved out of that scene. I bumped into The Incredible Hulk - that massive green, mean machine. He said, "Hey, watch it." I apologized. He then stomped along. I turned to see if my friend noticed, but he stood staring at a glass case with small toys of half-naked women at a Manga area. I walked up behind him. I said, "That was close. They almost had us. I thought I was done for when the Hulk stared angrily down at me with those spiteful eyes. How did that kid make himself so tall?" My friend said, "If only real women looked this good." I said, "Those artistic nerds always over-exaggerate what a good-looking woman should look like. They're more like jocks than people like to admit." My friend was transfixed on the toys, studying each detail, every curve of booty and booby. I finally said, "Come on before they think we're creepy pervs." We continued walking throughout the showroom floor. Predator was walking around, and as he passed me, I said to him, "Your target is just a few booths over in that direction. He's eating an innocent woman." Predator said, "Okay." My friend said, "Maybe we shouldn't be talking to random people." I admitted, "I thought it was a statue again. You're right, no talking. Just observe." We came to an area with a lot more outside, light shining from big windows where there were smaller booths. I saw two old ladies, behind them was a poster for the first Evil Dead film, and a sign that said, "The Actress's of The Evil Dead." I said to my friend, "Lets go have a cigarette." Near the entrance to go outside, Erik Estrada was taking pictures with young woman. I said, "Hey, it's Ponch." My friend said under his breath, "Fake Mexican." I asked him, "Why do you say that about every Mexican-American?" My friend said, "Never mind, you don't understand." Smoking a cigarette outside in the hot sun, we noticed, guys dressed as The Fellowship of the Ring smoking from a glass marijuana pipe. My friend asked, "Wanna go smoke with 'em?" I said, "I don't trust the Dwarf. He looks like he want's to punch me in the nuts." My friend giggled. He said, "This place is nice." I said, "Let's check into the Hotel now, I don't like this shit anymore. I want to sober up before tomorrow." My friend said, "You won't for about another six to eight hours." I said, slapping a hand on my forehead, "Fuck, I forgot! Shit." We went back to the parking garage. After about 20 minutes trying to find the car, I said, "Dude, where's my car?" Yes, I actually asked that question. "Where's my black Nissan-" Then, in unison, it occurred to both of us we had the Gold Lion. We laughed for a good few minutes. Then when we realized we were standing right next to it, still laughed as we got in the car. Both of us were exhausted by the time my friend started the car. It was at this time the LSD-shrooms took their total grip on our senses. Checking into the Hotel was no trouble. My instructions: say your name, then give I.D.; when she asks, give credit card for her to swipe in the system; say, 'Thank you.' Fuck I think I smiled too much, because she chuckled. Room 337 was our room. Waiting for the elevator doors to open, I said to my friend, "Soon as we get to the room, I'm writing." My friend patted me on the back, "Good, man, that's good. I can't wait to read it." The elevator doors slid open. We entered. Two other people entered behind us I paid no attention to. I said, "I'm gonna write until my hand hurts. That's what I did when I wrote my novel. No hesitation, no inhibitions, and most of all, no doubts." One of the people in the elevator with us inquired, "You're a writer?" It was the voice of a woman. I looked up at her and simply said, "Yes. Got a book that just got accepted for publication." Then I realized who it was - an angelic celeb to my glazed eyes - she had blond hair and a smile that shined in my dilated pupils. For legal reasons I will call her Bee Bee(B. B.). She was a correspondent for a well known website that covered and reported on such events as Comic-con. And by chance, fate, God's Will, whatever, she was not only looking at ME, but talking to ME! She asked, "What's it called?" I swallowed, then told her, trying my best to seem of sound mind. With her was a slut I didn't like who did the same job as her, but had no wit nor any indication of intelligence. Bee Bee said, "That's cool." I said, "We're here to, you know, celebrate." She said, as the elevator doors opened, "Maybe one day you'll be on a panel in an Exhibit Hall." I said, "In a small one most likely." She and that other chick left. The doors slid closed. My friend began to say, "Wasn't that-" I answered, "Yes." My friend continued, "The one you-" I said, "Yessss." I leaned against the elevator's wall and gave him a gleeful smile. I said, "And she just talked to me." The elevator arrived at the eighth floor, and I tried to open room 887 with the key, it didn't work. "Fuck," I uttered, "the key won't work. They don't want us here." I turned to my friend. He said, "Idiot, the room number is 337, not 887. Dope." His eyes then widened, then dropped his suitcase, grabbed my shirt collar, pulled me close to his face, and said, "Do you know what this means?!" I replied, confused, "No." He said, "Bee Bee and that sexy bitch got off on our floor. They're rooms are on OUR floor." I said, "I need to write. Takes away my shyness." One of Hunter S. Thompson's most famous quotes: "I hate to advocate drugs, alcohol, violence, or insanity to anyone, but they've always worked for me." The man eventually shot a bullet into his brain, but still remains one of my literary idols to this day. The best way to admire artists is loving their work, not what they do in their real world lives. My friend and I got to our room after going down the hallway in the wrong direction, then going the other way, only to pass it, realizing we both weren't reading the fucking numbers on the room doors, but staring down at the carpets as we walked. My friend said, "I can't tell what it looks like. It keeps moving." I said, "Stop looking at the floor, look up. We got to get to the room before it's too late and they take us away." My friend said, "I thought you were looking for the room. I was just following, staring down at the carpet. I always do that on shrooms." I said, "I was doing that too. Where's three-three-seven, goddammit?" My friend stopped, then informed, "Right here, man. I don't got the key." I stopped, turned around, came to the door. It took me three swipes of the room key to open the door. When the door finally opened, I rushed in, my friend leisurely strode in, still staring at the carpet and the difference in pattern from the rooms carpet compared to the hallway's. I grabbed his arm, pulled him clear of the door, saying, "We're safe." Then tried to close the door, but my friend's luggage got in the way. I picked it up and tossed it further into the room. I closed the door as normally as possible. When I locked the door, I exhaled as if being saved from drowning. My friend said, "Damn, dude, we cool. Look at the carpet, it's like the galaxy with a lightbulb shining on it." I said, "Stop talking like that. That's not a lightbulb, it's the sun shining through the window." I got fixated on the view immediately upon noticing it, tossed my suitcase and backpack on the bed, and went up to the window. I put my arms up, my hands in fists, and said, "I feel like I can fly like Superman." My friend said, "Don't be like that one asshole and jump out the window, take off from the ground like all the other flying creatures." I said, "Oh, that makes sense." My friend sat on the bed, turned on the TV. He said, "Lets eat more of the shrooms and watch the news. You won't believe the shit you'll see." I snapped at him, "I didn't come here to watch the fucking news. Soon as this shit wears off as much as it can. I'm going back down to the convention to enjoy it with sound mind." My friend said, "Coke can help mellow you out." I yelped, "You brought cocaine?" My friend admitted, "Yeah, and -" I interrupted, "I thought we were gonna just smoke weed and eat magic cookies on this trip to begin with, then I learn you brought shrooms that were dipped in acid, cocaine, and what else?" My friend smiled, chuckling. He said, "Maybe I won't tell you the rest. More for me." I said, "Yes, more for you. No more for me. I'm going to the bathroom, then I'm going back to the convention, and maybe catch a few panels." My friend said, "I thought you were going to write." I said, "Not right now." After going to the bathroom to piss and shit, then throw up, I left the room, making sure I had the key, and was about to head to the elevators when I looked up to see Bee Bee exiting her room, a gold halo over her head, and white-feathered wings hanging from her shoulder blades. Damn. Or damn lucky. She noticed me, giving me a short wave. I said, "Have a good day at work." We both were headed to the elevators. She said, "Thanks. What are you about to do?" I had to think about it for a bit as we walked, side-by-side. I asked, "There any author's in any of the Exhibit Halls today?" She replied, "Yes. Ray Bradbury is speaking later, but I don't know which room he's going to be in." I said, "I'll find out. What's your schedule like? Who are you going to interview?" She said, "One of them is the comic book writer Mark Miller. You know him?" The elevator doors opened and we entered. I replied, "No. I'm not a big comic book reader." We walked to the convention center, chit-chatting about this and that. I think she could tell I was on drugs, but was polite enough not to give any indication she noticed. We went our separate ways: her going to work; me, well, just tripping balls, observing art, hopefully remembering it later.It is theorized by scientists that gold is naturally made at the center of stars, and when the stars die and explode in a Supernova, all the gold is shot out into the universe in all directions, making its way through space and shooting into whatever planet, or moon it lands on. Alchemy is a single Human's attempt at creating gold in a lab, basically from whatever source there is on Earth: Water, Oxygen, Carbon Dioxide etc. etc. In my own personal opinion, the real Alchemy is not creating wealth from a common element, or from nothing, but in the simple belief something such as gold has any true value in the first place. Think about it for a second: What does gold itself do for our health? The answer is nothing. It is simply a shiny rock, no different from a stone that's stuck at the bottom of the ocean, never to be seen by human eyes. As far as I know, it is human imagination that gives gold value enough that we need it to acquire things from nature that would otherwise be free if it weren't for the powers that be. Hell, because of Nixon the gold standard in the USA was thrown out, and now humans base the value of finance on pieces of paper, by which the value of it can be adjusted by inflation. My friend worked for a bank and told me once only 75 percent of all transactions in the "civilized" world are now computer generated. So we went from value of life based on paper, to numbers on a computer screen that can be changed with few people even knowing about it. Anyways, I'm blathering, let me get to the heart of what I'm trying to convey to you. As I wandered through San Diego Comic-con, I began thinking about human imagination and how it has brought us to a self-awareness that, as far as all of us know, only humans have. The ability to ask the question: Why are we here? Why am I alive? Why am I living? These questions have given purpose to billions, and has gotten them through the stress's of simply existing. It has brought people together, as well as separated(a side-effect most people don't like to admit) but it's only because people - to me anyway - have taken those questions too damn seriously. I've come to the conclusion that it's not the question of "Why?" but "Why have I bothered to ask 'why' in the first place?" I look around the showroom floor at all the booths, the artists(illustrators, writers, actors, etc. etc. Then I see Kim Kardashian? Whatever.) Then I see the fans getting autographs, shaking hands with their favorite artists, taking pictures with them. I see all the cosplay people as characters created by established artists, or characters they created themselves just for events like this. That's the Alchemy. It's not in a lab, mixing chemicals to create a shiny rock, which not even Newton could do, but here where there were thousands of stories from thousands of people based on their imagination. And it was not in a fucking lab; it's based on their personal experience, or something they thought about while bored in a classroom, sitting at home, on a hike, reading a book etc. etc. That, to me, is the heart of Alchemy. I was late to Ray Bradbury's panel, but the door was open and I was able to hear him speak - the last ten minutes anyway. I had read his most infamous novel by that time "Fahrenheit 451." It wasn't hard to find a seat, but the acid-shrooms were still going strong, so I sat near the back. He was talking to a man sitting next to him about his life, his writing process, what inspires him, blah blah. Same old shit I've heard writers say on youtube. The coolest thing he said was when he referred to all his fans as, "My bastard children." Everyone laughed and cheered. The day was done. Entering the Hotel room I was met by the sight of Bee Bee's skank co-worker, putting on her cloths. I got to see her tits for a mere moment. Nice tits, but I cared not. She said, "Hey, you, the writer friend. Sorry, I'm in a rush." She picked up her purse and rushed out the door. My friend was in his bed, under the covers, obviously naked. He said, "Toss me my pants, man." I found his pants in the corner of the room nearest to my bed. With only my index and thumb I picked it up, then tossed it to his reaching hand. I asked, "So you two meet at the convention and you persuaded her up to the room?" He replied, "No. I snorted some lines, then went to the ice machine to get a bucket of ice for some Jack and Cokes I wanted. It so happens she was there too. She noticed the powder still in my nostril and asked for a few pumps. We came back here, and as they say, one thing led to another-" I interrupted, "You are one smooth dog." My friends eyes widened. He yelped, "DUDE! She invited us out to a club all the people that work for website hangout at after the convention is over for the day. And the best news," he slammed a fist on the bed, "Bee Bee is single!" I said, "That's cool, man. But there's no chance I can get lucky with Bee Bee. I got no expectations." With his cocaine induced expressions, my friend said, "She loves writer's, man. What's her name told me. Wait, what's that girl's name?" I told him. After my friend and I were clean-shaven and showered cleaned I still paced the room in anticipation for our night out with Bee Bee and that skank. The acid-shrooms had waned as much as time could subside from my senses. My friend patted me on the back, telling me to calm down, and that a bit of cocaine would help. I drank two little plastic bottles of Jack Daniels from the mini-fridge under the television(at ten bucks a piece, fuck it) and the anxiety of anticipation of partying with Bee Bee subsided not. My friend said that if I took a few bumps that all I would desire was having a good time, and he suggested that maybe Bee Bee did some too. So for the first time I did a bump, then two to three more lines(can't remember), then drank two more little plastic Jack Daniels. Dunk, tripping a bit on the acid-shrooms, and now high on cocaine, there was a knock on the door. I ran to it as my friend was making his way to answer. I threw it open in a flash. I hollered, in a squealing tone, "Hello!" The skank was at the door wearing a black dress, but I paid her no attention; my attention was on Bee Bee behind her. She wore a green t-shirt that stated, "Waiting for delivery boy," and tight blue-jeans with some tears throughout the leggings. My kind of woman. The skank was my friend's type from the body, face, to the useless character. What occurred next was like a vivid dream, and at the same time it all happened in a flash. We left the hotel, took a cab to a club we didn't have to wait in line for, sat in a VIP booth to my friends excitement. A bottle of Grey Goose Vodka was brought in a bucket of ice to our table. My friend, I, and the Skank drank immediately and heavily. Bee Bee being the calm, un-submissive type that I loved, drank lightly. Her and I talked. I don't remember what we talked about but she grinned, smiled, laughed, occasionally touching my shoulder. I took no notice of my friend and the skank until I turned to him to ask a question, I think, and saw they were gone. Bee Bee said they went to the dance floor. I said, "Come, take my hand, my lady." I remember that at least, and made our way to the dance floor. It was a typical techno-hip hop-industrial club with a DJ at a big-ass podium, strobe lights, disco balls, the likes of which if you've read my previous posts I only liked to be in if I was wasted. Bee Bee and I danced for ten minutes until my friend tapped me on the shoulder, indicated to me that he wanted to do more cocaine. We left the Skank and Bee Bee to dance with each other. In the bathroom stall I told him how gay it was that two men did coke together in a bathroom stall. Then from the next stall over I heard a dude say, "Just a couple more then we can leave. I need this shit." My friend gestured to the next stall over, indicating a "Duh." Then we snorted two bumps each. As we were washing our hands, the stall where I heard the voice come from was opened and out came two big tough bouncers wiping their noses and sniffing. My friend and I were laughing as we made our way back to the VIP booth. The girls were there. We all did a few shots. In the booth next to ours I saw a Stormtrooper without his helmet on doing a shot with a Rebel star fighter. I don't know if they were actually there or just a figment of my diluted, fucked-up, brain. Sometime later we took a cab to a beach, found a surfer bar, did more shots of Vodka. Then went to layout in the sand under the somewhat shining stars. I told Bee Bee I liked her a lot because she reminded me of my new girlfriend back home - blond hair, blue eyes, smooth, pale skin, and a nice butt. She told me my girlfriend was a lucky woman, and said quietly to me so the other two wouldn't hear, "Just lay off the cocaine and LSD." I informed her, whispering close to her ear, "It was shrooms dipped in LSD." Her and I left the beach alone and took a cab back to the Hotel. My friend and the Skank didn't want to leave. The night was too young for them. Bee Bee had work to do in the morning. I, even being completely wasted out of my mind, knew I had reached my limits. With an arm around her shoulders, Bee Bee led me to my room. I think I told her, as I opened the door, "You know, you can take advantage of me, if you want. Just know I love my girlfriend, and will pretend you are her." She giggled as she walked to her room. She said, "Goodnight." That night I dreamt I did not who I was or what I looked like. In the dream I looked in the mirror and only saw a blur. There's nothing better for the soul than memory; no matter if it be positive or negative, it can give you a better perspective and may aid your well being. It has for me. Comic-con was over and my friend and I departed without saying goodbye to either Bee Bee or that Skank. We packed our things and checked out of the Hotel. On our way out of San Diego we lit a joint and made a beeline for the great, shining, spectacular party city of Las Vegas where dreams can come true - if you got the money, that is. Let me just get to the point: the trip resulted in the draining of my finances, my dignity, my self-respect, and most of all my self-awareness of the consequences of my actions. Even after coming home from the trip I cared not for spending so much money and then continuing to spend more of it until it was gone. Anyways, we made our way to Las Vegas late in the afternoon, a few hours before the sunset. My friend did some bumps of cocaine at a few stop lights. Then, for no good fucking reason, the gonzo hit me, and I ate some more of the acid laced shrooms. I don't know what came over me. An impulse of the moment in which it felt like I was in a void filled with bright spiraling light, and the only way to remain sane in this upright maelstrom was to get into a prolonged derangement of the senses. I think unconsciously I hated Las Vegas. Guess it was a clairvoyant thing that made me know what that fucking city was going to do to me. My friend saw me reach in the open zip-lock bag for a second serving of the acid-shrooms. He said, "Puto, I thought you wouldn't do that shit again." I said, "Oh, I thought they were Beef-jerky." Then I burst out laughing maniacally. "Fuck it. Fuck inhibitions, I'm in fucking Las Vegas." My friend said, "Save me some. Don't eat them all." I said, munching on my second serving of the acid-shrooms, "Whatever, coke-head. Lets find a cheap-ass Hotel closest to the strip." My friend informed, "There are not cheap-ass Hotels nearest to the strip. Just look at all these extravagant mother-fuckers." I said, "Cheap, fucker. CHEAP! CHEAP! We're not on unlimited credit." My friend asked, "What's got into you?" I replied, "You know, I could never have fucked Bee Bee, though I got to be in her presence." My friend said, "I tell you, man. You could've had her. She liked you." I asked, "How could you tell? You were busy with the skank." My friend said, giggling, "Yeah, she was an easy insert. Put some magic powder in her, and the legs open." I said, revolted, "Disgusting." We found a cheap-ass Hotel nearest to the strip. Well, the cheapest we could get. I had my friend check us in while I sat in the car, looking straight ahead, making sure I wasn't staring at anyone walking by, leaving or entering their rooms. I thought about Bee Bee as an Angel that day we walked to the Convention. If only I wasn't on this shit I'm on right now. But then again, I had my new girlfriend back at home. She told me before I left that I could do as I pleased, but not to tell her until she asked. "I don't think I'll lie to her," I thought. She was my real Angel. My friend opened the door. He parked the car nearest to our room, which was on the top third floor, we then got our luggage and walked up the stairs to our room. My friend asked, "Why you keep giggling?" I said, "I didn't know I was." My friend said, "We'll unpack our shit, get into new cloths, smoke some weed, do some blow, then walk the strip." I said, "No more coke for me." My friend said, "But acid-shrooms is okay." I countered, "Just this last time." In the room we took our showers and shaved, making our bodies look and smell nice. We got dressed in our best attire. My friend had to pick out what I had to be sure I looked the coolest I could be: a Misfits t-shirt, black jean shorts. He said, "Be sure the chain from your wallet hangs out. It's a good look." I said, "Chicks are gonna think I'm a goth." My friend countered, "No, they're gonna be impressed you don't give a fuck about other people's perception of you." We left the Hotel and got in a cab. The driver, from my perception at that point, was a cheetah with pink hair. My friend asked the pink cheetah, "Where's the best club at, the most happening." The pink cheetah looked in the rearview mirror at us with his green eyes. He said, "I got just the place for you two." I said, "Cool, take us there, and we thank you." The driver said, "My pleazzzzuurrrrre." That, for some reason, got my heart beating fast. The cab pulled up to the Hard Rock Hotel. The pink cheetah told us there was a nightclub called "Vanity" that, from what he could tell by the look of us, was fit perfectly for us. We paid him and made our way to Vanity's entrance where there stood a security guard. He asked us, "You gentleman staying in the Hotel." My friend replied, "Unfortunately not. Couldn't get a room." My friends lie was effective, I think. The big, bald security guard, who wore an all black suit and a pair of sunglasses, said "That sucks." He looked me up and down. "I like your shirt. I'm a big fan of them too." I said, "Thanks." The guard said, "Go on in you two. Have a good time." We entered. I think in Las Vegas, just like drunks, they love people on hallucinogens and coke. Of course it was the kind of club that I hated: fucking strobe lights, fucking big-ass disco ball, fucking techno-industrial-hip-hop. But there were two exceptions: Hot chicks, and I heard some rock and roll in the music, and some metal at times. We sat at the bar and my friend ordered us sweet-tasting mixed drinks and two shots of rum. He said, both of us holding up our shots, "Here's to Las Vegas." I said, "Hopefully we remember it." My friend retorted, "Who fucking cares we don't remember? I won't." We tapped our shots to one another and downed them. I chased it down with the cocktail my friend ordered me. I didn't know what it was called, but I do know it was green. My friend ordered two more shots. I looked at the bartender and saw she was a TSA officer in her blue uniform and wearing latex gloves. After she went to another patron, I asked my friend, "You think she'll grope us for weapons?" My friend looked at her ass, then replied, "I'll grope her ass with my dick." Three young ladies came up to the bar nearest to my friend. He began talking to one of them. I could hardly hear the conversation. Two came up to me asking if I really wrote a novel. I affirmed what my friend told them, and they seemed overly amazed and impressed as if I was already made of money. My friend and I danced with them. After we went to the casino floor, the ladies in tow. We played craps, lost money; played Black Jack, lost money; played slots, lost money; there was a show at The Joint - a famous rockstar was playing, don't remember who - there were still seats available, near the front actually. I bought us all tickets - fucking expensive. I can't remember the fucking rockstar because all I saw on stage singing was a big fucking bear roaring into a mic, and the band members were orangoutangs. They really knew how to play for low-to-no-IQ animals. The show was over, it was just passed midnight, I guess, we went to another bar with the ladies. My friend gave them some coke to snort in the bathroom. The bar was full of what I could tell were Aliens from different cultures throughout the entire universe. I asked my friend, "Are we on Coruscent?" My friend asked, "Where?" I said, "Never mind." We took the ladies to our Hotel room and it turned out they were fucking prostitutes. GODDAMNIT! But I kept my cool. I gave my friend some of the biggest bills I had left on me, then headed downstairs and walked along the strip. I found it fucking hilarious that amongst all the spectacular, colorful, flashing, shining lights of Las Vegas that on the sidewalk were short men passing out prostitute cards, or Jesus Freaks yelling about Vegas being the work of Satan and shit. I yelled, "God's Mercy on all you swine!" Then I lit a cigarette and found a good spot to sit and watch the Sun's light fill the sky.
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