Here and Foaming in Las Vegas
We were halfway between our hotel and the convention, when the sugar began to take hold. I felt the spike of sweetness send my heart into the bossa nova beat from “Break On Through” by the Doors. I looked across the taxi at Vector, and watched a film of sweat pop out of his forehead. Every drop of perspiration was vibrating at an insanely high frequency, like some sort of deranged glitter oil.
“One Coke over the line!” Vector sang in a lunatic voice. The taxi driver gave us a sour look in the mirror.
“That’s enough of that, you swine,” I snapped at Vector. “They’ll box you up and put you away if you keep that up. They’re recording you, even now.” I gave the driver a friendly wink and a nod.
“They’ll put you in the hyperglycemic wing at Gitmo,” I whispered. At least, I think I was whispering. There was a lot of noise in that taxi. Was I creating some of it? It was difficult to be certain.
“Open the case,” Vector demanded. “We’re almost there. I need another bump before we get there.”
“You’re crazy. You’re going to burst a ventricle.” But I lifted the aluminum briefcase from the floor of the cab and rested it on my knees so I could pop the lid.
We were well prepared. In the aluminum case, we had three dozen Pixie sticks, six packages of bottle caps, a baggie of wine gums, six rolls of assorted Life Savers, an old 35mm film canister filled with Tang powder, a hopeless tangle of candy necklaces, two dozen suspect looking chocolate santas we’d found in some discount bin somewhere, a half-kilo of strawberry Twizzlers, a baggie of malt balls, a half-melted ball of gummie worms, and a chrome flask of pure high-fructose corn syrup with some huff hankies. Vector and I eyed the stash with unconcealed greed.
He took a handful of Pixie sticks and wrapped a couple of candy necklaces around his neck. I took two of the chocolate santas, skinned off the wrappers, and crammed them into my mouth. They slowly melted into a thick paste that I swished around my mouth before swallowing the entire mess.
Vector finished slamming back one of the Pixie sticks, and stuck his tongue out. It was the color of a plague victim’s armpit.
“Good to go,” he said. His pupils had contracted into pinpricks, and I told him to put on his sunglasses.
* * *
Twenty-four hours ago, we had been sitting on a patio at a resort in Arizona, eating shrimp cocktails and trying to figure out how we had got there. We don’t live in Arizona, although I had once been laid off by a company that occasionally had its management conference in Arizona. Had we moved forward in time to reach this point, or was this some random destination? While we tried to puzzle out what we were doing at this resort, an overdressed hostess brought us a phone.
“Hello? Yes. I’m not sure. Yes, he’s here too. No, I suppose that isn’t surprising.” I made a gesture towards Vector, trying to signal that he should be prepared to run for his life at a moment’s notice.
“Uh huh. CES? Never heard of it. No wait, it’s that big show in Vegas, the one without Celine Dion. Uh huh. Understood. It will happen exactly as you’ve detailed it. Fight the power.” I handed the phone back to the hostess, and ordered two more shrimp cocktails and some cheese toast.
“That was Brother Ice,” I told Vector. “He wants us to go to Las Vegas to cover the Consumer Electronics Show. We have flight plans, reservations, press passes, the whole enchilada.”
“I thought they turfed that show,” Vector said.
“You’re thinking of COMDEX,” I said. “CES is still an annual festival of gadgetry and dollars. All the major players will be there.”
“Well, as your attorney, I would advise you to purchase a top of the line audiovisual wireless broadcast recording rig to capture our experiences there,” Vector said.
“I’m pretty certain that you aren’t an attorney,” I replied. “And even if you were, I’m pretty certain that you would never be MY attorney. But, there is merit to your suggestion.”
I stood up, and tossed down my napkin. “We’d better get out of here before somebody asks us to pay for something.”
* * *
The Las Vegas Convention Center is located just off of Paradise Road, and is big enough to really mess with your head when you first see it. The LVCC is over three million square feet, thirty hectares, over two-thirds the size of Vatican City. The operator’s latest expansion plan, the fourteenth such plan in the facility’s history, is supposed to add another 500,000 square feet to its already sprawling dimensions.
“It’s going to eat us,” Vector rasped.
“Get a hold of yourself. You shouldn’t have done that last Pixie stick. You’re a pig for the stuff,” I told him as I screwed a candy cigarette into a tortoise shell holder.
Vector was backing away from the walkway leading to the entrance. “It’ll eat us! All of us! Look at these people forming up and walking into its gaping maw!”
I nodded at one nervous, heavyset man who was giving us the stink eye. “Heatstroke,” I said. “He’ll be fine once he gets inside.”
But Vector continued his retreat, backing through a line of honking hotel limos until he hit a bench with the backs of his knees and promptly sat down. The sweat pouring down his face smelled like pancake syrup.
“All right you filthy swiller!” I barked at him. “Are you in or out?”
“Gaaaaahhhhhhh,” Vector replied.
“Fine. In spite of the fact that leaving the briefcase with you is like asking that Lohan broad to hold my drink for a second, after your little display, the convention pigs will be searching and confiscating anything I bring in. So, go sit over there in the shade, get a bottle of water from someone, and stay put. Comprende?“
Vector nodded, and gingerly made his way over to a shade tree where he sat on the ground and held the briefcase like a flotation device.
(To Be Continued…)
A.J. Axline
www.ajaxline.ca
“One Coke over the line!” Vector sang in a lunatic voice. The taxi driver gave us a sour look in the mirror.
“That’s enough of that, you swine,” I snapped at Vector. “They’ll box you up and put you away if you keep that up. They’re recording you, even now.” I gave the driver a friendly wink and a nod.
“They’ll put you in the hyperglycemic wing at Gitmo,” I whispered. At least, I think I was whispering. There was a lot of noise in that taxi. Was I creating some of it? It was difficult to be certain.
“Open the case,” Vector demanded. “We’re almost there. I need another bump before we get there.”
“You’re crazy. You’re going to burst a ventricle.” But I lifted the aluminum briefcase from the floor of the cab and rested it on my knees so I could pop the lid.
We were well prepared. In the aluminum case, we had three dozen Pixie sticks, six packages of bottle caps, a baggie of wine gums, six rolls of assorted Life Savers, an old 35mm film canister filled with Tang powder, a hopeless tangle of candy necklaces, two dozen suspect looking chocolate santas we’d found in some discount bin somewhere, a half-kilo of strawberry Twizzlers, a baggie of malt balls, a half-melted ball of gummie worms, and a chrome flask of pure high-fructose corn syrup with some huff hankies. Vector and I eyed the stash with unconcealed greed.
He took a handful of Pixie sticks and wrapped a couple of candy necklaces around his neck. I took two of the chocolate santas, skinned off the wrappers, and crammed them into my mouth. They slowly melted into a thick paste that I swished around my mouth before swallowing the entire mess.
Vector finished slamming back one of the Pixie sticks, and stuck his tongue out. It was the color of a plague victim’s armpit.
“Good to go,” he said. His pupils had contracted into pinpricks, and I told him to put on his sunglasses.
* * *
Twenty-four hours ago, we had been sitting on a patio at a resort in Arizona, eating shrimp cocktails and trying to figure out how we had got there. We don’t live in Arizona, although I had once been laid off by a company that occasionally had its management conference in Arizona. Had we moved forward in time to reach this point, or was this some random destination? While we tried to puzzle out what we were doing at this resort, an overdressed hostess brought us a phone.
“Hello? Yes. I’m not sure. Yes, he’s here too. No, I suppose that isn’t surprising.” I made a gesture towards Vector, trying to signal that he should be prepared to run for his life at a moment’s notice.
“Uh huh. CES? Never heard of it. No wait, it’s that big show in Vegas, the one without Celine Dion. Uh huh. Understood. It will happen exactly as you’ve detailed it. Fight the power.” I handed the phone back to the hostess, and ordered two more shrimp cocktails and some cheese toast.
“That was Brother Ice,” I told Vector. “He wants us to go to Las Vegas to cover the Consumer Electronics Show. We have flight plans, reservations, press passes, the whole enchilada.”
“I thought they turfed that show,” Vector said.
“You’re thinking of COMDEX,” I said. “CES is still an annual festival of gadgetry and dollars. All the major players will be there.”
“Well, as your attorney, I would advise you to purchase a top of the line audiovisual wireless broadcast recording rig to capture our experiences there,” Vector said.
“I’m pretty certain that you aren’t an attorney,” I replied. “And even if you were, I’m pretty certain that you would never be MY attorney. But, there is merit to your suggestion.”
I stood up, and tossed down my napkin. “We’d better get out of here before somebody asks us to pay for something.”
* * *
The Las Vegas Convention Center is located just off of Paradise Road, and is big enough to really mess with your head when you first see it. The LVCC is over three million square feet, thirty hectares, over two-thirds the size of Vatican City. The operator’s latest expansion plan, the fourteenth such plan in the facility’s history, is supposed to add another 500,000 square feet to its already sprawling dimensions.
“It’s going to eat us,” Vector rasped.
“Get a hold of yourself. You shouldn’t have done that last Pixie stick. You’re a pig for the stuff,” I told him as I screwed a candy cigarette into a tortoise shell holder.
Vector was backing away from the walkway leading to the entrance. “It’ll eat us! All of us! Look at these people forming up and walking into its gaping maw!”
I nodded at one nervous, heavyset man who was giving us the stink eye. “Heatstroke,” I said. “He’ll be fine once he gets inside.”
But Vector continued his retreat, backing through a line of honking hotel limos until he hit a bench with the backs of his knees and promptly sat down. The sweat pouring down his face smelled like pancake syrup.
“All right you filthy swiller!” I barked at him. “Are you in or out?”
“Gaaaaahhhhhhh,” Vector replied.
“Fine. In spite of the fact that leaving the briefcase with you is like asking that Lohan broad to hold my drink for a second, after your little display, the convention pigs will be searching and confiscating anything I bring in. So, go sit over there in the shade, get a bottle of water from someone, and stay put. Comprende?“
Vector nodded, and gingerly made his way over to a shade tree where he sat on the ground and held the briefcase like a flotation device.
(To Be Continued…)
A.J. Axline
www.ajaxline.ca
