THE PHANTOM OF VEGAS
PART THREE
death in the morning
The glitz and glamour of television Vegas fades like a cheap mirage when you live here, giving way to homeless veterans and broken down old casinos left to rot in the oppressive heat. None of it's real, except the constant hustle of sharks fleecing and robbing and raping brain numb tourists of money and flesh. Bring your dreams of cheap thrills and leave with empty wallet and soul.
This is America at the core. A rotting husk of empty waste lacking meaning. Pitiful propagandized slaves argue about concepts that do not exist. Money...does not exist. It's a game. A riddle with no answer. When the bearers lower you into the ground, the truth will be clear - you were fooled into a lie.
This is America at the core. A rotting husk of empty waste lacking meaning. Pitiful propagandized slaves argue about concepts that do not exist. Money...does not exist. It's a game. A riddle with no answer. When the bearers lower you into the ground, the truth will be clear - you were fooled into a lie.
"What filth are you spewing? It hurts my ears. I'd rather you kill me now so I don't have to listen to this shit any longer."
I light a cigarette and rise from my writing desk to approach the bed. The man with the impressive bits strains at the rope binding him, but the effort will yield no results. Saul laughs from a corner seat, watching the effective handiwork I put him to in the early morning hours after I separated this man from the others. I take a seat next to the bed and cross my legs, tapping ash on the man's naked chest.
"All in good time, I assure you. Men always want to rush. But I won't. Not today. I have something special planned for you."
A deep laugh escapes his mouth, filling the room. He attempts to spit at me, but it proves futile for I am out of reach. A chair creaks and I know Saul wants to discipline this man, but I wave my hand for him to stop.
"You think anything you'll do will be a surprise or a secret? The news talk all about your sick routine. I know about the special plan you have for me."
"Oh, tell me what you know."
"You're going to pleasure yourself on me like a sicko then cut my throat. You'll tell yourself it's justice. Well, get the fuck on with it."
"You don't know how wrong you are, rapist." I clap my hands and a secret door slides open along the far wall. "I am going to continue reading to you from my newest story. I am not going to touch a hair on your rapist head or alter those lovely bits and pieces between your legs."
A girl walks into the room, wearing a hood and cape obscuring her identity, looking like a ghoulish apparition sent into our realm from a certain famous Broadway play. She approaches the bed, a long, thin sword in one hand and a small black book in the other.
"And who the fuck are you?" The man spits again.
Placing the black book on my writing desk, the girl pulls the hood from her face and twirls the sword.
"Mary Holden. I can't tell you how excited I am to meet you."
I light a cigarette and rise from my writing desk to approach the bed. The man with the impressive bits strains at the rope binding him, but the effort will yield no results. Saul laughs from a corner seat, watching the effective handiwork I put him to in the early morning hours after I separated this man from the others. I take a seat next to the bed and cross my legs, tapping ash on the man's naked chest.
"All in good time, I assure you. Men always want to rush. But I won't. Not today. I have something special planned for you."
A deep laugh escapes his mouth, filling the room. He attempts to spit at me, but it proves futile for I am out of reach. A chair creaks and I know Saul wants to discipline this man, but I wave my hand for him to stop.
"You think anything you'll do will be a surprise or a secret? The news talk all about your sick routine. I know about the special plan you have for me."
"Oh, tell me what you know."
"You're going to pleasure yourself on me like a sicko then cut my throat. You'll tell yourself it's justice. Well, get the fuck on with it."
"You don't know how wrong you are, rapist." I clap my hands and a secret door slides open along the far wall. "I am going to continue reading to you from my newest story. I am not going to touch a hair on your rapist head or alter those lovely bits and pieces between your legs."
A girl walks into the room, wearing a hood and cape obscuring her identity, looking like a ghoulish apparition sent into our realm from a certain famous Broadway play. She approaches the bed, a long, thin sword in one hand and a small black book in the other.
"And who the fuck are you?" The man spits again.
Placing the black book on my writing desk, the girl pulls the hood from her face and twirls the sword.
"Mary Holden. I can't tell you how excited I am to meet you."