Vegas demands deposits. It’s not necessary to wrestle cowgirls or sip electric drinks. We don’t have to empty our pockets. Just join the stream of people. Drift through the streets and amusements: from fifty bucks a night to here’s a suite for free.
Watch sneakers change to pumps change to heels. Cigarettes give way to cigars. Cigars give way to orange blossoms.
The clang clang clang of slot machines is gone, but noise rattles on like a river.
Vegas is what a comic book sounds like. At breakfast, streets are empty, but the city pumps music into the air. Same as dinner. Same as supper.
This pile of want and dreams and shit? Not enough. She wants more. If not our money, our movement. If not our love, our loss. She takes. Everyone pays.
This is why Vegas stays in Vegas. This is why we call it the strip.