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🌧✨ Reddit Dragula - S3 Meet The Monsters | Part One ✨🌧

As a pre-conceived warning, this MTM will not be as good as last seasons. Due to my own mistake, I should’ve been more specific on it being more of a look description so I could have free range on the episode writing, however these girls and the other ones coming in the next part SLAYED for their first times, and honestly they’ll make this part good themselves. I apologise.
“What did you see?”
The sudden opening of the first scene occurs, appearing with a booming lightning strike sound, the constant loud splatter of rain drops pouring from the pewter clouds above can also be heard within the storm. The camera panned from the near trees, outwards into the clearing, where a drenched woman small of stature huddles within a blanket next to a police officer, residing next to the camp fire which had clearly extinguished due to the weather; the relentless amount of opaque, thick smog rising and intoxicating the air. She trembles and shakes in the cold night, shook up from something she had seen. The police officer near her leans further in, patting her back, the tense music continuing to crescendo.
“I saw Ev-evi-evita.”
A close up of a mixture of rain and tears rolling off her jawline happens, then the camera suddenly switching to the policeman's frowning face.
“Ok, this girls clearly done drugs. Just take her somewhere, to her home, whatever.”
The man scratches the rubble upon his jaw, and then stares into the distance of the forest, thinking that he saw a dark silhouette moving around, shaking his head and getting into his car, slamming the door in disappointment. One more lightning strike occurs, the intense, blindening blue blast of lightning covering the screen, transitioning into the new scene.
Las Vegas
11:00 PM
“Back, back, back here again. Spinning the wheel one more time.”
The camera pans through the streams of posh, upper class people in formal attire, treading over the crimson velvet floors and leaving behind their footprints. Fantasia can be seen, back in the same spot of last season, before a casino table in which rests the same wheel used from last season, each quarter reading the name of a final four queen. She also wore the same dress from the last time she stood in the spot. Her large, talon-like, royal blue fake nails come into view as she grabs onto the spin wheel, spinning it and watching it slow down. Vibrations emit from her phone, Fantasia looking down as she sighs and reluctantly answering the call, disrupting her attention to the spinning wheel. Whatever it landed on was blurred out as she turned, and awaits to hear the unknown voice on the call.
“Who died? Have I been sent home yet? Oh no what’s the twist? Wait, I don’t want to know, what is it?” She practically yells down the phone, eyeing up those who walked past her and gave her the evils.
The scene cuts to Fantasia rushing to her car, stumbling in her heels, gripping onto the cold handle and swinging the door open, throwing herself in. She ends the phone call, sighing, and then drives down the strip and out into the dessert. The roaring exhaust on the vintage car emitted vast sounds waves and smoke, whipping up the sand into whirlwinds and suffocating the air that lacked any moisture. The night sky was dawned upon her, with a slight red cast as the sun went down, continuing to drive faster as she looked at the time within her car. She eventually leaves the dessert scene, and finds herself pulling out of a police station, rushing into the doors whilst pushing past people and peering around for the sheriff's office.
“What did you see?”
She drops heavily onto the chair next to the woman who was found earlier, rushing her on for an answer.
“No, I don’t care about the cross dressing pedo, and yes you’re scarred by my stunning face, but a faster answer please. I don’t have all day, not all of us work on the same brain speed of… myself.”
“I saw a dark area, I’m not sure where it was. Almost like an empty room. And there were these monsters…”
The scene fades out, transitioning to another one which shows what she saw. A dark empty area, from what we can presume a room, was shown, only lit by a far flickering bulb in the distance, the only sound is of the faulty electrics and loose wires about the room, occasionally emitting sparks. Faint footsteps echoed off the wall, but coming from no sure direction, the camera spinning slowly until it focuses on a series of unknown figures.
The room was, well, as bright as you could expect an abandoned warehouse-y place to be, with walls as dark as the minds of those that entered it, and a thin veil of dust and mist that intermingled as it fell from the damp, mold-encrusted ceiling. Ava Adore slowly stepped into the light, her platforms scraping against the cold concrete floor. Her outfit was fairly simple-she wore a short, neatly-cut bob wig that just scraped her chin, green face paint dripping down her mouth in some semblance of vomit. Her eyeshadow was an acid-bright yellow and her lips a shade of pink in a similar brightness. Her t-shirt was black with neon pink writing declaring the words "Vomit gore", and her skirt was a similar shade of yellow to her eyes, a skintight PVC material. Her leg attire was quite similar in its simplicity, black fishnets with fake blood dripping down from her thighs in a crude simulation of menstruation. She gave the camera a disinterested stare with her white contacts, as if she felt almost a disdain for her situation. The dark scene fades into a confessional.
[AVA | archdukelidl]: Ugh, I'm Ava Adore, I'm, like, 22? and I'm from the west midlands. Or whichever trash bag you pull me out of after a night of partying. Seriously, I've ended up in some wild places. My drag style is best described in two words: Party filth. Like, acid neon, puke and death. As you can probably tell from my outfit. I don't think it fits into the typical conventions of filth drag but I'll go with it. I like to experiment with horror stuff occasionally too. I would say my drag is out-of-the-box but that just sounds cocky, right? Oh, wait, who gives a fuck? Yeah, it's out of the box. If you can even find a box big enough to fit my fat ass. I have high hopes for myself, like, I don't expect to win, but I expect to put up a damn fight and I will cut a bitch with my fake nails if I have to. But winning would be cool so I'm not gonna do that, because that's like a disqualifiable offence, yeah? I got my drag name from a song by the Smashing Pumpkins, even though their music isn't really what filth is about. I just thought it sounded like a classy name. And I am the absolute opposite of that shit! Anyway, laters! I gotta go find some shit to drink.
“How many others did you see?”
The scene of her vision continues, Fantasias voice heard in the background as she continues to question the girl for answers.
The room was dark, thick smoke covers the room as a dark shadow appears through the smog. Anita walks in, one hand on her mask, the other stretched out in a claw-like fashion. She appears in a beaked mask, akin to those worn by the plague doctors during the black plague. The base of the full black mask is made of metal and the beak is made of hard leather, with clear glass on the eyeholes. She is wearing a red leather sex harness as a top with bare chest. The straps of the harness form a crisscross across her chest and the “straps” are thick enough to cover her nipples. She is wearing a pair of flare pants with feather ruffles on the sides that move beautifully with every step she takes. A rope belt with skulls is wrapped around her waist, with the excess dangling on her left side. She is also wearing an 8-inch black stiletto heel with a chunky front portion. Anita has on black leg warmers made of feathers on her forearms over a black latex wrist-length glove underneath. She accessorizes the look with a necklace with 5 skulls spaced out around it and dangling skull earrings. She is wearing a grey thick dread wig with smaller skulls in it. As Anita walks through the smoke, she takes off the mask, revealing red tribal markings on her forehead, with 2 pointed stripes painted downwards underneath her eyes, perpendicular to her lips. She has on a strong dark smokey eye and no brows, with a strong black lip. Her body and right arm also has matching red tribal markings. To complete the look, she is wearing blackout lenses to add intensity. On her back, she is wearing a rusty copper-colored cage, held by chains like a drawstring bag, with a mystery item in it. As she walks to the center, she twists and squirms as if being possessed by a demon. Once she hits the marking, she stands straight and silent, before turning around to release the black crow in her cage. She laughs maniacally as she watches her crow fly around the room, a symbol of her releasing her evil into the atmosphere.
After the camera focuses on the individual, it slowly fades back into the confessional scene.
[ANITA | passingpeaches ]: Sup whores. My name’s Anita Dragname and I am 25 years old from sunny Singapore. My drag is polished, wicked and gagworthy. I signed up to Reddit Dragula 3 cause I’ve had a taste of competing in RDR1 Remastered and thought I could give this a shot too. Some of my looks on that season have been said to be “very Dragula” by the other girls, so why not? I think out of the 3 elements of Dragula, I resemble Horror the most as I’m always turning spooks, stunting creepy.
The questioning continues to be heard, as another figure can be saw in the distance, beside Anita who had just appeared in the light.
“The werent only two, there were lots. Have you ever just saw something and it’s scarred you?”
“Yeah, I saw RDR2.”
“They kept appearing, it was so odd.”
The dark figure moves closer and closer.
Catheterina steps out covered in dirt, head to toe. She begins by standing with her feet far apart and her arms straight out by her sides so you can take in all of her filthy glory. Her dark auburn hair is large and in charge, extremely unkempt and poofy. The hair is waist length, with the top of the wig beginning six inches above her head. Upon closer inspection, you can see that there are dead roaches all throughout her hair. Her lipstick is chocolate brown, with a smudge on her upper lip to the left to give the impression that she’s been eating dirty ass. Her eye-shadow is bright green and each in the shape of a leaf, with a line coming out of each of her eye-lines to appear as a stem. To top it off, she has a roach pasted on her forehead with two worms coming out of each side to appear as a headband. On her extended arms is a brown garter snake, wrapped around her neck and both of her arms. On her left hand it’s rearing its’ ugly head, fully alive and well, with the snake’s body ending on Catheterina’s right hand. Her chest is covered with a tassel of leaves formed in the shape of a butterfly, with two brown leaves arranged vertically across the sternum, and crumpled up orange leaves to form the breasts. She has a belt that is also made of green leaves with two twigs sticking out at each side, holding up her knee-length, upside-down-cone-shaped skirt that is made of tiny twigs and sticks and slants downwards to the point that it sticks out five inches from her knees, still leaving see through areas. She steps forward with her arms still spread out, but then raises her right hand and begins pulling the dead roaches out of her hair, until she sticks out her right hand to show the handful of six roaches, and then eats them one by one like a bunch of M&M’s. The next handful she grabs, she smushes them on her right cheek, wiping the trails of their bodies across her face and then licking up the remnants. She pulls a worm off her forehead and it begins to swirl around. She lets it through one of the holes in her skirt to crawl up her urethra, with her mouth wide open in shock and pleasure at what she’d just done. For her finale, she unwraps the snake from her arms and allows it to hang around her neck for a bit, before bringing it up to her face and allowing it to lick her. She returns the favor by deep-throating its’ head before pulling it back out, still bobbing its’ head.
[CATHETERINA | asiaoharasdragrace]: I’m Catheterina Dick, named after the hopes that my outfits will make you cringe harder than my drag name and like I tell all my male suitors, I’m 18. I’m from Louisiana. Considering no one would recognize the name of my actual town, I’ll just go with New Orleans. It’s like my home away from home because there’s smelly homeless people everywhere so I fit right in. If I had to describe my drag in 3 words, mental illness manifestation. Kidding, sort of, but really I’d say campy, grungy, and trashy. I signed up for this because I need the online validation I don’t get in real life. Jk, but in all honesty I’ve been following these interactive seasons for a while, and Dragula allows you more freedom to be crazy and nasty and shocking, so I figured this was my opportunity to take the nightmares I’ve been having as long as I can remember and bring them to life- on Reddit. I easily resemble filth the most. I’m literally down for anything. This look only scratched the surface of how gross I am. I will drink piss and swallow whole live frogs and chop off toes if that gets me the Reddit Dragula crown. Hell, I’ll still do it anyways.
“Ew, that one sounded gross. Let me guess, there was another one?”
As the exposed queens disappear, the continuation of the sound of footsteps occurs, getting closer and closer, the camera occasionally flickering off and on.
Sue stepped out into the light with a pure air of elegance, embodying the jazz singers of days gone. When she looked in the lense you felt the whiff of whisky and regret hit you. When she twirled and the slit came up on that velvet gown it was as if she was sex herself. Candid, yet with ulterior motives behind it. She pulled a stiff cigar from her bodice, but rather than putting it to her mouth she put it to her neck, seemingly inhaled and then released the fumes through her mouth. The years of sin in the city and vice had made physical differences to her body. Rather than letting it be a catalyst for improvement she simply used it to show how little she cared. Her arm began to jitter, and she ripped off her glove revealing an IV bag of yellow liquid attached to her arm. Her hand began to contort into an assortment of glamorous poses, showing it to be in her nature to keep it beautiful. She pulled out a bottle of red wine from under her dress titled “Jesus juice, tastes like the end of the road”. She yanked out the cork and began drowning her arm in the juice, attempting to get it into where the IV had rested. She needed into her bloodstream, and the way she shook the bottle to get the liquid in was near visceral. Exhausted from the ordeal she fell to the ground, pulling her glove back up above her elbow in an attempt to be seductive, before giving up on this wish (as she likely did with many others in her life), and dragged her makeup while grabbing the cross laden below the throat cavity and saying some short prayers
[SUE PERB | HashtagDeathSplat]: I am Sue Perb, short for Susan Perb and longer for Susanne Perb, I am from The United Kingdom and I’m whatever age you want me to be. Sue is unexpected, polished and pristine. She serves you glamour with a twist. She’ll give you always a simple silhouette but always with a trick up her sleeve. It’s always polished and neat before it all inevitably goes to shit when she destroys the floor. I always try to embody a glamour and a beauty in what I do, and I use that as my way to present the other aspects. I signed up to Dragula to win a motherfucking crown and do something creative with my vacation.
“I mean, they weren’t all females. There was one that appeared quite masculine too.”
“Not a straight right?”
“I don’t know.”
Another daunting silhouette can be seen, as the light flickers Sue disappears from view, whilst the unknown person walks towards the lens.
The king emerged from the darkness of the room, a flash of light coming from the miners helmet he is wearing. Cobwebs cling to the yellow helmet as the dim headlamp flickers. His face is sunken in, the makeup creating deep dark circles under his eyes and sharp, jutting edges of his face. His chin has a smattering amount of dark brown stubble, which is contrasted by his intensely thick brown eyebrows. His face is an ashen gray color with short dirty blonde hair sweeping down to partially shade his eyes, which are blue. His overalls are a dark faded green color, they cling to his body, revealing a thin, wiry frame, and they are covered in dust and cobwebs. He is bare chested underneath the overalls, with the rest of his body painted similar to his face: gray and skeletal. There is a huge tear in the side of his overalls, caused by a large chunk of rock embedded into his side, with blood seeping through at a slow rate. His heavy, black combat boots drag and kick up dust as he shuffles forward deliberately, clutching a spray-painted gray sunflower close to his chest.
[INDIGO CHILD | cloudess15]: Hey, I’m Indigo Child, also known as cloudess15, and I’m 26, which means I’m past my biological prime and my cells are slowly dying. I’m a punk ghoul from the Twin Cities and my drag can best be described as undead, cynical, and comical. I definitely represent horror the best because there is nothing more terrifying than a butch who knows how to do makeup. I decided to do this competition to further develop my drag aesthetic. Let the Purple Reign begin!
The office scene returns, where Fantasia can be seen frowning at the girl whilst she describes what she saw.
“Portia, girl, come on. Please don’t tell me you’re having a relapse from your drug look on the Coachella challenge.”
Suddenly the woman, now known as Portia, snaps out of her depressing mood, turning red as she watches Fantasia rub her head in disappointment.
“It’s not my fault. It got me the win, so why wouldn’t I try again for the finale?”
“Just continue, tell me the others.”
It snaps back to the dark room.
A very tall and very pale figure steps into the doorway. In the half light, all that is visible is the soaring swoop of a skyscraper pompadour, and the glowing ash of a lit cigarette. She exhales the smoke in a perfect circle and steps forward. Razor sharp cheekbones adorned with metallic silver contour draw your attention up to golden brown eyes framed with lengthy spiked lashes. There is a sparkling viscous substance smudged around the eye and delicately spilling down her cheeks. How much of it is silicone glitter versus actual blood is anybody's guess. Her nails are certainly long enough to have scratched somebody's eyes out. Her fur bomber coat is as blood red as her hair, but the artfully slashed sequined chiffon strands underneath it could only be called a shirt by the blind or the generous. The only thing keeping the top half of the outfit from disintegrating is an elaborately woven double wide obi style belt made from sex shop cock rings and bits of old denim. Silver latex high waisted leggings hug a booty that tests the limits of the concept of 4 way stretch, and the surprisingly long and slender legs that carry it are encased in a red latex thigh high boot that matches the hair and the coat. She takes the last drag of her cigarette (stained with remnants of lacquered red lipstick), and crushes it under her stiletto heel in a manner that borders on niche pornography.
[ANGIE APATHY | msmonochrome]: Hello uglies! I'm Angie Apathy, old enough to know better, but young enough to still do it anyway. I'm born and bred in New York City, a place so dirty that my last subway ride was probably filthier that all of last season's runways put together. If I had to describe my drag in 3 words, they would be grungy grindhouse sexbot. I can switch from Fellini to Fulci at the drop of a hat, and bring a Dragula style celluloid cocktail of glamour and horror to the competition, with a dash of kink fueled filth thrown in. As a new face, these other girls might not give me much credit. That's fine, as I prefer to get the cash up front. Why Dragula Season 3? Apathy is nothing more than a fancy word for having not a single fuck left to give, and I am here to snatch the crown away from the tired masses of H.P Lovecraft fanfic and queens who still think blood capsule residue dribbling down their chin with some butcher shop entrails is super spooky.
The faulty light bulb flickers once again, Angie fading from view, replaced by one more dark silhouette that falters in the distance, stumbling towards the ambience of light.
A diadem of black tendrils sat proudly upon her grey skin. The cords intertwined themselves in a complicated manner, tying into thick webs that formed a netting. Only two of the crown's cords were not fitting in this order, instead, hanging loosely upon each side of her face. Her skin was grey, the shadows battling each other upon her visage. Her lips were basked in a deep plum color, with a single drop of blood staining them. Her cheekbones were high, strangely and disgustingly high. Erathelle stares down with her white contact lenses. There was only white in her pupils, the tones of violet and grey that danced around her eyelids being the only drop of color present. Where her eyebrows should have been, another pair of eyes were drawn. They were angular, thin, sharp, staring directly at the camera. Her gown went up to her neck. The lace of it was black, delicate, and torn into several spots, leaving her skin exposed around the shoulders and collarbones. Her abdomen resembled an insectoid carapace, having a series of blunt spine-like structures erupting around her stomach and down to her hips, where the dress falls down into a mermaid cut that hugged her legs tightly, spinning about as she walked. There were long threads of linen that hanged from her hands and diadem, swathing in the wind as she walked. Erathelle brought up a single finger to her lips. Pressing hardly upon her skin with her dark, fake nail, she would cut down in a single swipe as a thin droplet of blood crashed down upon her chin. The goddess Arachne had been dormant for too long - and now, she grows hungry.
[ERATHELLE | cuntaliefondant]: My drag name is Erathelle, but you can call me Era for short. It comes from my religious name. I am a Wiccan priest, and I go by "Erastis". So I took "Era", and added "thelle", because I love French sounding shit and there you have it. I am eighteen years of age. Fresh out the womb, right? I’m from Romania, where all the vampires and gypsies come from. Hide your drag from me, I'm gonna steal it. My drag in three words would be blasphemous, obscene, foul. A girl after your own heart. I think I embody horror the most. I think my purpose as a monster is to defile, and I really can't put it in better words. Everything I touch turns into a horrifying, ugly, repulsive mess.
Fading back to the scene in which Portia and Fantasia sat opposing one another, they both pause for a second and think.
“So, you’ve basically cast S3 for me through a drug trip?” Fantasia quieries her, confused but also thankful at the same time.
“Well, if you want them monsters on the cast then yeah, I guess so. What about the other 6?”
“I’ll go to wherever you imagined, you must’ve been there in the past anyway and find the others. Thanks, you’ve finally been useful for once.” She pats Portia on the back as she rises, heading to the door. “Write that damn finale submission already too, whore.”
She hurries out of the police station, in disgust with the toxic fumes that arose from the severe amounts of men smoking cigarettes, coughing as she regains balance on the slippery steps and gets back into her car. Pulling out a raggedy map from the cabinet, she opens it up and looks down at where she’s meant to be driving.
“I don’t even know how to work maps.”
She scans her finger over certain circled locations, such as one labelled ‘ancient chapel’, even one in Mexico, sighing.
“I’ll just go north.”
Fantasia presses down onto the acceleration pedal, switching on the radio and Euthanasias rap begins to play as the car storms off into the distance, disappearing from view.
Yet again, I apologise for the quality of the episode. Episode one will make up for it, and just a thank you to each queen in this part and the upcoming one for doing so well and actually making this worth reading.
submitted by bbukrpdr to RDRInteractiveSeason [link] [comments]

Adams "Bucket List" List

(Original post by kprml):
• Have my hands registered as weapons.
• Get kicked out of a casino for winning.
• Jump into a body of water with a knife between my teeth.
• Have a cape removed onstage.
• Have a sports jersey pulled over a nice suit.
• Be killed by the person I told to kill me if I started to become a zombie.
• Wipe down a gun.
• Silently communicate/point to my watch underwater.
• Punch out my undercover partner who is about to say something he shouldn't and blow our cover.
• Play bass in an all-black band, be the only white guy. and whisper something onstage to the conga player and then laugh.
• Put my hand over the mouth of a beautiful woman to stop her from screaming and alerting the bad guys.
• Get shot at and brush it off, saying, “I ain't got time to bleed.”
• Be able to say someone attempted suicide over me: She threw herself on the train tracks.”
• Catch a punch and twist the guy’s hand until he goes down to his knees.
• Have a celebrity shorten my name in an interview. “Bobby De Niro says working with Ace was great.
• Be embroiled in a lawsuit that leads to a heroic story: "I broke the leg of a gangbanger robbing a liquor store, and now he’s suing me.”
• Stop a crime by throwing something. A guy steals a purse and starts running. I throw a can of corn football-style and knock him out.
• Track someone. I dismount my horse, then do that low squat where I pick up a clump of dirt and let it sift through my fingers.
• Hawk a championship belt or Super Bowl ring at a pawn shop when I hit rock bottom.
• Shout, ‘Release the hounds!”
• Be lost in the Utah desert with a hot chick, then come across an old Indian guy and speak his language.
• Pull a fake mustache off someone and shout, “A-ha!”.
• Have a hot towel on my face at a barbershop with a cigar sticking out.
• Dislocate my shoulder to get out of a straitjacket.
• Snap Larry King’s suspenders and turn him into a pile of ashes.
• Shout “Not on my watch....”
• Direct a movie called Awesome so that entertainment shows will have to refer to me as “Awesome director Adam Carolla.” Then follow it up with the sequel Hung Like a Rhino.
• Drive a car off a pier onto a garbage barge.
• Be stripped of a crown.
• Tell my team to “synchronize watches.”
• Dry-shave with a machete.
• Pull down a surgical mask and say, “There’s nothing I could do” or beat someone on the chest and shout, “Live, damn you!”
• Box a kangaroo.
• Demand unmarked bills.
• Drape a suit jacket over handcuffs in the front like John Gotti.
• Fend off a Kodiak bear with a torch.
• Pop the locks on an attaché case full of money and slide it across a table.
• Be tied to a chair with a hot chick.
• Have to choose between cutting a red wire and a blue wire.
• Fight someone on top of a moving train.
• UPDATE: Whisper into fellow guitar player's ear, and him walking away shaking his head no.
submitted by Texas1971 to AdamCarolla [link] [comments]

Adam's (Ongoing) "Bucket List" List

Adam Carolla's Bucket List:
If you know of any others, please post.
• Have my hands registered as weapons.
• Get kicked out of a casino for winning.
• Jump into a body of water with a knife between my teeth.
• Have a cape removed onstage.
• Have a sports jersey pulled over a nice suit.
• Be killed by the person I told to kill me if I started to become a zombie.
• Wipe down a gun.
• Silently communicate/point to my watch underwater.
• Punch out my undercover partner who is about to say something he shouldn't and blow our cover.
• Play bass in an all-black band, be the only white guy. and whisper something onstage to the conga player and then laugh.
• Put my hand over the mouth of a beautiful woman to stop her from screaming and alerting the bad guys.
• Get shot at and brush it off, saying, “I ain't got time to bleed.”
• Be able to say someone attempted suicide over me: She threw herself on the train tracks.”
• Catch a punch and twist the guy’s hand until he goes down to his knees.
• Have a celebrity shorten my name in an interview. “Bobby De Niro says working with Ace was great.
• Be embroiled in a lawsuit that leads to a heroic story: "I broke the leg of a gangbanger robbing a liquor store, and now he’s suing me.”
• Stop a crime by throwing something. A guy steals a purse and starts running. I throw a can of corn football-style and knock him out.
• Track someone. I dismount my horse, then do that low squat where I pick up a clump of dirt and let it sift through my fingers.
• Hawk a championship belt or Super Bowl ring at a pawn shop when I hit rock bottom.
• Shout, ‘Release the hounds!”
• Be lost in the Utah desert with a hot chick, then come across an old Indian guy and speak his language.
• Pull a fake mustache off someone and shout, “A-ha!”.
• Have a hot towel on my face at a barbershop with a cigar sticking out.
• Dislocate my shoulder to get out of a straitjacket.
• Snap Larry King’s suspenders and turn him into a pile of ashes.
• Shout “Not on my watch....”
• Direct a movie called Awesome so that entertainment shows will have to refer to me as “Awesome director Adam Carolla.” Then follow it up with the sequel Hung Like a Rhino.
• Drive a car off a pier onto a garbage barge.
• Be stripped of a crown.
• Tell my team to “synchronize watches.”
• Dry-shave with a machete.
• Pull down a surgical mask and say, “There’s nothing I could do” or beat someone on the chest and shout, “Live, damn you!”
• Box a kangaroo.
• Demand unmarked bills.
• Drape a suit jacket over handcuffs in the front like John Gotti.
• Fend off a Kodiak bear with a torch.
• Pop the locks on an attaché case full of money and slide it across a table.
• Be tied to a chair with a hot chick.
• Have to choose between cutting a red wire and a blue wire.
• Fight someone on top of a moving train.
• Whisper into fellow guitar player's ear, and him walking away shaking his head no.
submitted by Texas1971 to AdamCarolla [link] [comments]

SHOT 2017/My tales of adventure in Las Vegas

So, you wanna go to SHOT show? You think it's all fun and games? Get to play with guns? See Jesse James and R. Lee Ermey? SHOT show is the annual pilgrimage of the unwashed masses to Las Vegas to rub elbows with youtube celebrities, bloggers and overseas businessmen copying US made equipment and share infectious disease.
If you love guns, gambling and gonorrhea - SHOT show is for you! It is not my typical idea of a good time. I am not a big fan of Las Vegas.
However: I do attend for a few reasons. First, I do enjoy travel and I'm platinum on AA so I can usually score an upgrade. Second, industry people are in there that I do hundreds of thousands if not millions of dollars with business with so it's nice to put a face with the name and see what deals are out there. SHOT for me has been a bust for the past few years. Being a value guy, I want to buy at $1000 and sell at $3000 and as of recently the gun business is more like buy for $1 and sell for $1.10 if you get what I mean.
We used to do business at SHOT and now it's just checking in on foursquare, instagram and rubbing elbows with bloggers and the like. I want to make money, not spend money so this is very annoying to me.
Anyways, onto the play by play.
Monday, January 16th. One day before SHOT show.
Every time I've been rejected by a woman, I move $1 from checking into savings and I take the bankroll down to the Wynn for some play. Lets do this.
The TSA line is a shitshow thanks to, well TSA.
I slog my way to the lounge, as shitty as it is to wait for my winged chariot to DFW. I have gone from being in an abusive relationship with Delta to being in an abusive relationship with AA. Although if you really want to experience the battered spouse feeling, UA is a few gates over. This trip's light reading is trying to finish "The Tipping Point" by Malcolm Gladwell. Such a good book as well as "Outliers" if you want a good read.
I walk up to the podium to find out that my upgrades do not clear, even as an AA Plat thanks to the addition of a FOURTH elite tier. Goddamn fucking W. Doug Parker. Asshole. I gate check my bags to make life easier for me and the rest of the folks. The gate agent calls concierge key and executive platinum passengers. I look down and realize I'm wearing a suit and board with the executive platinum folks because I do not care and I look the part. If you walk with a purpose and are dressed reasonably well, you fit the profile. I settle into my window seat and try to finish outliers. I pass out before takeoff and I'm awoken by the dulcet tones of the flight attendants preparing for landing. We land at Dallas a few minutes early and I hightail it to the Centurion for a quick bite to eat. I grab a plate and help myself to some of the excellent brisket, pecan encrusted chicken and some roasted jumbo asparagus. Yes, my pee is going to smell funny. No, I do not care. The lounge is packed. The bar is full and I grab a quick single malt as I have my meal since American's not going to feed me. They begin boarding to Mccarran as I walk out of the lounge. No time for a stop in the spa on this trip. I make it to the gate just as the call group 2 boarding.
I bypass the main line and walk up through the priority line giving no heed to the people that have been waiting there before me as I hold up my paper boarding pass with PLATINUM to the gate agent. I board and take my usual seat - the exit row without the seat in front of it. I'm aghast to see this sight.
The savages. Literally. The savages.
I put my loathing away for a moment and look down at the exit row. I have the window. The aisle is a large middle aged man and in the middle is what I believe to be a formecurrent linebacker for the Dallas Cowboys wearing a 52 regular sports jacket. He's not a fat guy in a little coat, he's a big fucking hulk of a man stuffed in an exit row seat that is already an inch narrower due to the tray table. I grimace as I take my seat and give him the manly nod. He does not look happy about the fact that his knees are in the seat in front and I'm stretched out like a Cheshire cat in front of a fireplace on a cold January afternoon.
The boarding door closes for an on time departure and Stephanie the FA takes her seat. He leans over and asks if he can take the empty row across the aisle and she takes one look at the three of us and gives him the nod. I bail out to give him a path of egress and suddenly the trip to Las Vegas has just become way more comfortable. I finish The Tipping Point somewhere over west texas, so I pop a xanax and dr pepper and zone out for the rest of the ride. I awake to feel one of the FA's jostling me awake telling me to put my seat up. I do so and we have a ride so smooth that not even the Delta guy behind me can complain about light chop. We catch the TYSSN4 arrival and the next thing I know it the Messier Dowty landing gear of the A321 touch the paint at Mccarran for a smooth rollout down 25L.
My phone battery is approaching grim death since this seat has no power plugs and I find bartman383 has sent me a message. He has been enjoying LV with his wife and their due to bad weather they are in the city of sin for a few extra nights. He invites me to dinner. I'm still pretty full from DFW and I tell him I'll be over there once I get my bags and the car and I'll see him when I see him. He gives me the info for the hotel as we pull up to the gate.
First stop: Centurion lounge. AA's app tells me bags being unloaded. I grab a quick bite of fried chicken and brussels sprouts since they are good for you and a chocolate pudding. The brisket and pecan encrusted chicken from DFW still has me full but I'm well aware of the speed of a union baggage handlers nowadays and who doesn't like chocolate pudding? Terrorists. That's who. Want to know how to screen for terrorists TSA? Set up a table of free chocolate pudding at the airport. The people who don't take any are members of ISIS. It's just that simple.
I grab my bag and hoof it to Hertz. I'm an idiot and I am an hour late for my pickup. Oops. Will an Audi A3 suffice? I sigh and I accept my Teutonic quattro chariot. I do a burnout in the parking garage and hightail it to the exit. I flash my #1 card and my ID and the gatekeeper gives me the go ahead. I get onto the the strip and traffic is awful. I'm going to be late for dinner. I make a left onto Russell Road and hightail it up the 15. I manage to get the car up to 100 as I pass the Luxor. My phone is dead so I can't message Bart about being late. Fuck. The exit approaches quickly as I put the 4 wheel disk brakes to work and sling the car around and head south on Las Vegas Bl. I accidentally turn into the Bellagio and I'm now running even more late. Fuck. Eventually, I get the car into the garage at the Cosmopolitan and head upstairs. I cannot remember the name of the restaurant but I head up to the third floor where all the restaurants are and I see this sign that's reminiscent of my days in retail.
I laugh. I walk in. It's literally a pawnshop. I look around puzzled.
FC: Is this a restaurant?
Bald Headed Guy: Yes, through that door.
He points towards a door. I walk in to find a bustling restaurant, lounge via the entrance of pawnshop. This is insane. I pass a mirror and check myself out. I adjust my tie, after all it is YSL and the ladies LOVE YSL. Remember that. I find the hostess and inform her I will be joining some friends for dinner. They probably do not have me on the reservation though but I turn on the charm and she smiles and says no problem at all. She asks if my tie is from Hermes. I say no, I'm a YSL guy. She looks impressed as I tell her I'll make a quick lap of the room to see if they're there and surprise them. She gives me a nod and tells me to go right ahead. Still got it.
I spot bart and his wife who I can only remember vaguely from gunnitlive after party video and I pull up a chair. Bart is surprised to see I made it and they are in the middle of dinner. They offer to ply me with food and beverage but I decline as I'm driving so no booze for me and no food since I am stuffed from Dallas. We chat about life and liberty over libations. Bart's wife thinks I am hysterical. She's had a few drinks and they are already into their main courses. The brussels sprouts are way too salty and we have to send it back. No bueno.
Bart invites me up to his suite on the top floor of the hotel where we are to meet Brogelicious later in the evening. I say, when in rome......we head to the top floor of the hotel tower where Bart shows me his view from the balcony and cracks open the mini bar for some more libations. He asks if I want a drink and I say I better not. I'm driving.
Not 30 seconds after arriving, brogel shows up. Bart's wife hugs brogel. She's infatuated with him. We start shooting the shit and bart opens up the minibar and tells us to take anything we want, it's on the hotel. I laugh and I look outside as bart opens his yeti 110 for some silver bullets. Apparently he is so baller the hotel will send up a yeti 110 filled with beer to make him happy. His wife is apparently such a baller. I ball on a budget. They just ball. Hahaha.
We shoot the shit some more about guns, gun stuff and people on the reddit for a while. I get a little thirsty and I crack open bart's cooler. I ask him how long the stuff in the cooler is supposed to last and he says until Wednesday.
I look down and I am agape at what I see.
We had two bags of grass, seventy-five pellets of mescaline, five sheets of high-powered blotter acid, a saltshaker half-full of cocaine, and a whole galaxy of multi-colored uppers, downers, screamers, laughers... Also, a quart of tequila, a quart of rum, a case of beer, a pint of raw ether, and two dozen amyls. Not that we needed all that for the trip, but once you get locked into a serious drug collection, the tendency is to push it as far as you can. The only thing that really worried me was the ether. There is nothing in the world more helpless and irresponsible and depraved than a man in the depths of an ether binge, and I knew we'd get into that rotten stuff pretty soon.
I mentally prepared my butthole and I decided to help myself to a coors light against my wishes but Bart, Bart's wife and Brogel are all drinking so I let peer pressure take hold as I cracked open a beer with them. We head out to the balcony to smoke some cuban cigars together as bart's wife takes a photo of all of us. We all look like hell. Haha.
As bart downs his second beer, he asks me a question.
Bart: ever go hunting?
Me: Ducks a little bit but not much
Bart: ever want to hunt some deadly game?
Me: Like on african safari?
Bart: No, I mean
Me: Hahahahhahaaha you're just fucking with me. Hahahahahhaa. That's really funny.
Bart: No really, the concierge here at this hotel will set it up for us. It's amazing. I remember my first hunt......
Brogel starts laughing and I realize they've been doing a bit. I've been had.
We bullshit about SHOT and Barrett's shotguns and other things and next thing I know, it's late but bart hands me a mixed drink. I sip it a bit and I was in the middle of a tirade complaining about my customers. Suddenly, there was a terrible roar all around us, and the sky was full of what looked like huge bats, all swooping and screeching and diving around the city, and a voice was screaming: Holy Jesus. What are these goddamn animals? Nobody seems to understand what I'm talking about. It's cold on the balcony. Our cigars are done. We head indoors. No point in mentioning these bats, I thought. Poor bastards will see them soon enough.
Back indoors I realize Brussels sprouts and coors light is a bad choice. Seriously no bueno. I excuse myself to the bathroom and drain the vein. The asparagus funny smelling pee and the side effects of beer and brussels sprouts is a noxious combination that a defense contractor should weaponize it. It's pretty bad and not even cuban tobbaco can mask the smell.
I sit back down and continue to talk about guns and stuff with bart and the gang and bart asks who ruined the bathroom. I apologize as he sprays a bunch of febreze around and opens the balcony. I apolgize to brogel. He is not accepting my apology. (sorry :( )
Nearly 11, it's about time to pull chocks and mosey on down the dusty trail. I don't want to prompt an evacuation of the hotel due to noxious odors so I decide to leave and bart seems to be kinda mad that I've ripped ass and polluted the sanctuary of his hotel. Half a coors light and brussels sprouts are no bueno in my book now. Bart decides to party hard with his wife and I offer brogel a ride home. He seems skeptical to share a confined space with me after I have just destroyed bart's hotel room. The car has 4 windows and the Uber will cost him a few bucks he can put towards ammo. He relents as we head down to the garage to find my car. Thankfully we find it quickly and I manage to contain the weapons of ass destruction for the 16 minute ride off strip to casa de brogel.
He says I'm not that bad a dude and I agree as I hightail it to my hotel. I cannot find my hotel reservations so I call my travel agent to see.
Apparently the Wynn was not in my travel budget this year. I have come to find out I have been booked at Circus Circus, much to my chagrin. How bad could it be? I've stayed at the Wynn. I've stayed at Encore. I've stayed at the hotel that Elisabeth Shue's character got raped in in Leaving Las Vegas - but Circus Circus? Did I mention that I HATE CLOWNS? I HATE CLOWNS. Fuck.
I pull into the parking garage and the check in line resembles something straight out of the TSA line at Mccarran. 45 minutes to check in. The clerk is friendly and says he's also from Louisiana which is neat. He asks if I've stayed there before and I, being a connoisseur of old vegas history I decide to make a joke and I tell him the last time I was there, Jay Sarno owned the place. He got a laugh. I head up to my room and unpack. The lobby is clean as an old vegas casino can be, the room is clean and there's no way to plug anything in since the hotel predates personal electronic devices. I plug my phone into my external battery and collapse on the bed. I message Bart and chugbleach instead of falling asleep about show tomorrow and I offer to pick bart up early since there is no shuttle from the cosmo.
Tuesday, November 16th SHOT Show Day One
I awoke several hours later in a daze......the clock said 10AM. The show opened at 8:30. Fuck me to tears. I hurry up and get dressed and down to the sands convention center. The parking lot is FULL. The entire complex is a mess. When my man Steve Wynn built his joint he didn't build enough parking. So people would park at the Venetian and now FUCKING NOBODY CAN GET A PARKING SPACE. Holy shit. I eventually say fuck it and park over at the Wynn and walk over to the Sands. I meet up with a few of my regular suppliers and I see nothing interesting at all. Bart went to bed at 6AM after spending all night partying with his wife over at the palazzo. I joke and say that he just should have stayed there. Bart is amazed at the size of the show and we have lunch at the most disgusting place in las vegas - the convention center bistro snack bar. Bart is a wise man as he grabs a powerade and a fruit cup. I decide to try an "italian beef" and a fruit cup instead of fries to stay semi health conscious. The "italian beef" is the most disgusting thing I have ever eaten. It is flat out depressing. They give me fries with it and I demand a fruit cup. The sassy black woman working the stand asks me "DID YOU ASK FOR FRUIT? CAUSE RIGHT HERE SAYS FRIES" and I channel my inner Louis CK from the "this is how I talk" bit from SNL as I shoot back "WHY YOU FRONTIN ON ME I ASKED FOR FRUIT AND YOUR ASS BETTER BACK UP AND GET ME SOME FRUIT" so she goes back and gets me some fruit.
The "italian beef", my fruit cup, bart's fruit cup and powerade comes to $81. My platinum amex comes out and I treat bart to "lunch". We bullshit about guns and stuff in the Springfield booth as we wait at the world's worst concession stand. We eat and Bart is so hungover that he thinks he is in need of physical therapy and a wheelchair. There is no way he is going to party tonight before his trip home. Or so I think. Haha.
I meander around the show a bit more and I find this, the most USELESS PRODUCT OF 2017. It's made by a company called radetec.
It's a shot counter. For your gun.
A digital odometer, for your gun.
The only person that would buy this is the guy like my dad that kept a spiral bound notebook in his car where he documented how many miles he traveled per tank, gallons dispensed, PRICE, service station and whether they had a different price for cash/charge, oil consumption, tire rotations, alignments, all services - scheduled or otherwise, and a running odometer. Does anyone know the gun owner who asks for a round count when they are looking at a used gun? The question I always shoot back is "do you want to be lied at a little or do you want to be lied at a lot?" because that's what you're asking for when you ask for round count.
I roll my eyes so far back into my head that I nearly lose my balance. This is idiotic. I cannot fathom anyone willing to buy this. What a waste of perfectly good exhibition space.
Bart heads back to his hotel after visiting SHOT show for a few hours, not getting any swag and to get an IV of fluids since he looked like he was rapidly approaching grim death.
I wrap up visiting prime vendors and checking out the new products, or lack thereof because I have something on the schedule. At 4:30 there's a suicide prevention for retailers seminar hosted by the American Foundation for Suicide Prevention. As many of you know this is an issue that is important to me and perhaps we as retailers should be doing more. The keynote was from their chief medical director talking about the accessibility of firearms and the mindset of the "typical" suicide. Mostly men. If you are a veteran you are at a significantly larger risk. The information was presented very not surprisingly and one of the things discussed was that we only spend around 21M a year on suicide prevention.
A few take away facts from the keynote:
When suicide barriers are put up on a bridge, suicide rates for the entire area drop. The key to preventing suicide is getting people to talk about their problems. Once you can get someone out of that mindset, they are statistically less likely to do it and live productive lives afterwards. There are certain terms that they are trying to get away from - for instance, they are not saying "committed suicide" they are now saying "died by suicide" in order to bring awareness and tell it like it is.
One thing that really was interesting to me was my reading on the flight in from Dallas. In The Tipping Point, Gladwell discusses how things stay the same and suddenly they all change. One of the things that he discusses is in micronesia - where teen suicide was practically unheard of became an outright epidemic. One teenager did it, for reasons passing understanding to me as an outsider and then all the other kids realized that they too could escape their pain by hanging themselves as well and suddenly the suicide rates in micronesia became so high to where it became a public health issue. I wish I could show you all the article I wrote on TTAG about my friend's death but it has been lost in the cloud and I am unable to find the last draft I sent to print, but it echoes some of the problems we have with suicide and mental health in the firearm industry.
After the keynote, the good doctor opened the floor up for questions. Her keynote posed a lot of statistics but not a lot of answers. I am a detail oriented granular data guy and I did not get a solid grasp of the AFSP solutions posed, if any.
Several firearm dealers discussed the lack of a cohesive solution and the takeaway was they're trying to develop awareness for the suicide problem. Their goal is to lower suicide rates but how they get there is yet to be determined. I didn't like hearing that and the comments from the crowd reflected the lack of a "here's what you can do TODAY to help this problem" part of the initiative.
Going around the room, one dealer who used NICS said that if a customer was just flat out acting funny - he'd lie to the customer and say there was a delay with NICS even though there was an approval just to get them to not be able to have a gun for a few days. The crowd applauded this initiative, however I'm not sure lying to customers is the best way to run a business and treat them with respect. Another dealer brought up an interesting point. When someone comes in looking to buy a gun and they don't know what kind of gun they want, what caliber, and are generally clueless - they're either buying a gun to kill themselves with, OR perhaps they are a very uneducated prospective customer - and there is no clear way of finding out which is which.
The problems presented by the AFSP are real. The solutions aren't there though. Yet. Ideally I'd like to see some change to that. However, there's some problems.
I hung around and asked the good doctor and her staff some questions and I am in no way denigrating her life's work and her dedication to preventing suicide since she has dedicated her life's work to the issue, but the conversation went something like this.
Did you do any research on the accessibility of firearms from a retailer from the legal standpoint?
"No, we haven't"
Do you know how the NICS or state POC background systems work in regard to mental health holds, etc?
One of the problems that I foresee right off the bat is that you talked about how you are fighting time, and if you can get someone out of that suicide mindset - even for a few hours, you can get them into that higher survival bracket. If we apply a one size fits all solution to it like California and put a 10 day wait on everything with the goal of protecting someone from their own life, how do we balance that with the needs of the woman who has been hiding from her abusive spouse and needs a gun right away?
"That's a good question that I don't have an answer for."
Their initiative, I admire - the lack of solutions is a little off putting however. I tell the doc about how my friend's suicide has impacted me and she seems to be sympathetic to the situation as does her colleagues. I am given her cards and told to call the next time I'm in New York so we can get together and discuss things within the industry. I'll give them a buzz in a few weeks when I'm up there on business. On my way out of the hall, I run into Massad Ayoob. Nice guy. I've admired his work over the years. Bart invites myself and chugbleach to dinner, I can't reach Chug and even though I am beat I decide to hang out with Bart and Mrs Bart
Bart: What do you want to eat?
FC: Let's find a nice seafood restaurant and eat some red salmon, I feel a powerful lust for red salmon.
I begin vomiting.
God damn mescaline. Why the fuck can't they make it a little less pure?
We eventually head downstairs and order too much food. We are tired and not very hungry. Bart is still hungover and barely able to process food. His wife is grazing on all sorts of meat products. I am in awe of how they are both still upright after six nonstop nights of partying. I've only been here one day and I feel like I am about to die.
Dinner concludes with an awkward hug with bart's wife - I don't know how other men feel about wife hugs so I have just avoided the prospect entirely. Like flying through Denver on Frontier. Or flying on Frontier. Ever.
I drive over to the Wynn to set up my markers and the poker room is full. I draw a $2500 marker at the craps table and watch the game a bit. I have never played craps before in my life but the three people there seem to be having fun.
I look down at my phone and I realize a plane has landed. fluffy_butternut has landed in Las Vegas on business. I had lost a bet and offered to pick him up from the airport. I cash back in my chips against my casino credit and head back to my car. I cannot find my car. Fuck. I wander the wynn garage which is covered in construction debris. I eventually find it and haul ass to the airport. Now, I didn't know this but fluffy has the WORST SENSE OF DIRECTION AT ALL. Seriously. I have no idea how he even made it to the correct city. He lands and has to get his bag and stuff and I circle the airport. He lets me know he's at door 77 wherever the fuck that was. I drive into the pickup portion and I see no sign. He then says he's coming up a level, and I tell him that I'll be there shortly. I park the car and Metro PD starts yelling.
Metro: You can't park your car here.
FC: Why not? Is this not a reasonable place to park?
Metro: Reasonable? You're on a sidewalk! This is the sidewalk!
I give the man a $20 and tell him to keep it running as I wander Mccarran screaming FLUFFY! HERE FLUFFY! I message fluffy to let him know I am the car parked on the sidewalk. I instantly figure out who he is having never seen a photo of him and I throw his bags into the car as we head for his hotel. I haul ass out of the airport and get the A3 on the highway.
Now this was a superior machine. Thirty nine grand worth of gimmicks and high-priced special effects. The rear windows lit up with a touch like frogs in a dynamite pond. The dashboard was full of esoteric lights and dials and meters that I would never understand.
We check in at the Rio where the desk clerk is friendly and flirty. I express amazement there is no line. Fluffy checks in and we take his bags upstairs and he offers to buy me food for driving him to the airport. I decline. We head to the bar anyways. He orders two beers and we decide to call chug. He's staying out in Summerlin or something because his company is apparently run by cheapskates. He asks if we want to hang out and shoot the shit. I say sure and ask if he wants us to pick up food or anything from CVS or something since I have the car and I'm able to do anything I want. He asks for some toothpaste. No problem. I may be an asshole on the internet but I have a heart of gold. We get some toothpaste get to the hotel.
Arriving at the lobby, we have no idea where he is. It turns out he gave us the address for the hotel across the street. We laugh and go to that lobby and shoot the shit till 3AM much to the chagrin of the hotel clerk. Fluffy has some beers and we plan on dinner the next day. I drive fluffy back and arrive at the hotel at 4. Fuck me to tears.
Wednesday, January 18th. Day 2 of SHOT show.
Alarm goes off at 7:30 AM. I wash up, eat and get breakfast. In the garage by 8:15. Nice. I get some dillo dust and check out the new Sig 220 DA/SA and SAO legions. Daddy likey. I go to a competing firm and I piss of my state sales manager by telling him his newer designed triggers suck ass. He says the company tested them and they're the same in every way. I ask him why the triggers have two different part numbers in the catalog and how come they're not interchangeable and if that's really the case, how come there's X changes in the supposedly identical pistol parts that he's holding side by side. He gets mad at me and says I'm not an expert on their product and perhaps I should take his job since I'm so smart. I agree that I'm smart and I hold firm that if he didn't want me to complain about the shitty trigger, they should stop selling guns with shitty triggers. I am nearly kicked out of the booth.
I meet up with some of my wholesale reps and I'm mid convo when I see Itsgoodsoup and his friend walking around the show. I yell SOUP but he does not hear me. So I grab his friend and find him and I tell him we should get together at dinner with fluffy and chug. He agrees.
The show winds down, I get some business done and nothing much else. We break for a shitty gunnit live lite and I take a few questions from the crowd in fluffy's suite at the Rio. Dinner is at 8 and we arrive at the restaurant late to find soup and his friend sitting at one table and chug and his girlfriend sitting at another. Perhaps we should have gotten here a little earlier. Hahaha. So, fluffy said the place is really good and I order a few of the specialties of the house. Apparently according to yelp they do a kickass peking duck. Soon to be mrs chug is a vegan. But we can eat meat in front of her. I wonder how it's served and Soup's vancouver raised asian friend tells me that they normally carve it tableside. Our vegan says as long as there's no head she's cool. We're not sure if they can fulfill that request. So we order and food starts coming out and we tell tall tales of shot show BS and other stuff. Sure enough, the duck comes out with the head. No bueno. Haha. But I decide to treat us to vegan donuts at the vegan bakery across the street later. Seven courses later we are full. Vegan bakery closed. I am committed to getting her some vegan donuts though. We head to Fremont street to gamble. Fluffy wanders about and we try craps and we're not impressed. We hit some slots and eventually I hit the craps table where chug explains the game to me. We start betting on dice. And somehow we start winning. I find that the house allows you to take 10X behind the line. No idea what this means so I plop $5 on the pass line and the point hits 6. I drop $50 behind it and it hits. We go a few rounds and leave ahead. It's 2:30 AM. Fuck. I drive everyone back to their hotel. I get to sleep around 4.
Thursday, January 19th. Day 3 of SHOT show.
Wake up at 10AM feeling like crap. Debate whether to head straight to show and wander about. Fuck it. Went to halal guys for some halal. Delicious. Got vegan donuts. Dead drop them at the Palazzo lobby for chug and his girl. Show is a bust. Literally nothing exciting. Fluffy offers to buy me dinner. One of my customers who lives in Summerlin offers to take me to dinner. I pass on fluffy and he destroys the seafood buffet at the rio. I head to Sinatra at the Wynn for dinner with my customer. All good in the hood. Chug has been invited to the Glock dinneafter party and I'm not so we all go our separate ways. I call foghorn5950 and due to some weather, he's flying home early and our plans to hangout are fucked up unless I go tonight. I grab fluffy and we head to Whiskey Down. He orders a makers and I give him a funny look. I tell the waitress make it a bulleit. Everyone laughs. I talk shop with Jeremy also from TTAG and we shoot the shit over cigars and talk about useless products. Next thing we know, chug is out of the dinner and wandering the strip. We decide to meet up at the Linq. It takes us nearly 30 minutes to get out of Whiskey Down at MGM because the waitress was awful and messed up everyone's tab. It was a fucking disaster. To boot, MGM is now charging for parking.
FC: What a bunch of fucking jews
Fluff: You should just tailgate that lady in front of you out and screw them out of the $7
FC: I should
We pull behind her and watch as she gets flustered at the awful parking machine. Her nevada license plate says VETERAN. As the gate goes up we haul ass and screw MGM out of $7. I shout "THANK YOU FOR YOUR SERVICE" out the window as we blow right by her up to the Linq. Through fluffy's awful navigation, we wind up at the loading dock for the Linq. Eventually we find chug and gf hanging at the penny slots. They are holding vegan donuts, which she is very appreciative of. Least I could do after showing her the head. Fluffy plays the House of Cards slot machine.
He stuck $100 in, played for 6 minutes and then got really mad and hit the cash out button and $80 was left after 5 minutes.
Chug's gf asks to play a special slot machine called kitty glitter. We ask and the linq does not offer it but Harrahs next door does. So we head over there and the slot tech finds the kitty glitter machine. Fluffy sticks a C note in there and tells her to play and have a blast. So she's banging away at the one armed bandit WHEN SUDDENLY I HEAR THE SOUND.
It's PUTTIN ON THE RITZ in shitty .wav file internal speaker format. Hahah. She's just hit the progressive jackpot on the penny KITTY GLITTER machine. THIS PLACE IS AWESOME! We cash out after some play and a good time was had by all. I dump off fluffy at the rio since it was very close and drive everyone else back. It's late, I'm tired and the Palace Station oyster bar is open 24 hours......I head over there and there's a 45 minute wait.
So, I pull out my backup bankroll and using everything chug and fluffy have taught me about craps I belly up to the $3 min table where they let you take 10x behind the line. I'm still learning and the table is slow so one of the boxmen start explaining the game to me.
Box: So if you place the 6 or the 9 or individual numbers you can bet those but you gotta pay a little juice on it like a commission
Me: Like when you buy the hook?
short pause
Box: Yeah! Exactly like that! You got this!
So I played a little and went up a bit and down a bit. As you do. Plunked $5 down on the pass line and took full odds and the point hit. This game is pretty cool! So I hung around and watched for about an hour and finally decided to eat my winnings. I take $5 off my stack and, drop it on the pass line and announce dealer bet - $5 to pass. It hits. The dealers love me.
Maybe Vegas isn't so bad after all.
I have the pan roast at the oyster bar. No line. It is DELICIOUS. I get back to the hotel at 5AM. I don't care when I wake up.
Friday, January 20th. Day 4 of SHOT show.
Wake up around noon feeling like crap. Go to show. Debate destroying milk cart with wheels with an ax borrowed from fire station. Decide against it. Gas up car and find myself out by palace station again. Played some craps, hit the buffet and went for an early sleep.
It's midnight. The neighbors in my the hotel are having sex. A LOT OF SEX. I can hear everything. I gently knock on the door. No answer. I knock slightly harder. No answer. I head back to my room and close the door just as I hear their door open. I zoom back out to find a puzzled middle aged stocky and perhaps sticky Latino man looking both ways.
I get in his line of sight.
Me: Hey. I'm next door. It sounds like you're having a lot of fun. I get it. I really do. In fact I haven't had sex since the bush administration so I'm gunning for you man I really am. But it's midnight and I have a 6am flight and a rental car to return. So trust me when I say I'm really happy for you but if you don't mind I really need to get some sleep tonight okay?
The awkward silence is deafening. He nods without saying a word and mouths okay. I give him a manly nod and thumbs up.
Me: thanks. I'd shake your hand or fist bump but well you know.....
I give him a peace sign as he goes back into his little pleasure palace and I turn to realize that I have just locked myself out of my room. I am wearing boxers, a tshirt and barefoot. I head downstairs to the lobby. The check in at the front desk resembles the TSA line at Mccarran. Normally I would not be this rude but desperate times call for desperate measures.
The line is 50 people deep. I walk past every person. Fuck your queue. I approach the desk where someone is helping a guest and I raise my right hand as if I were in a deposition to get them to stop. The staff and guest looks puzzled as the angry barefoot man clad in nothing but boxers and a "uzi does it" tshirt approaches the desk.
Me: excuse me. I don't mean to interrupt. I have an emergency. I'm up on 8 and my neighbors are having a lot of sex. I mean a LOT of sex.
(This is the same front desk clerk who actually checked me in Monday night by coincidence looks back at me very awkwardly and puzzled.)
Me: this isn't your regular sex. I'm talking this is your (I begin air humping the front desk and slapping the granite counter with my palm and grunting loudly) sex. You could hear the plan B packaging open.
At this point - the ENTIRE FRONT DESK STAFF HAS STOPPED CHECKING IN GUESTS. The people in line and are watching the show. The clerk is stunned. Speechless. Shock and awed. Crapped out and busted. The women are covering their children's eyes and ears. The men are wondering if this show requires a 2 drink minimum.
Me: now I get this is Vegas. Everyone wants a good time. It's midnight. My flight leaves at 6 which means I have to be up by 4. And this just isn't working. So I asked them to keep it down and I locked myself out of my room. So if you can make me another key or move me I'd appreciate it.
The clerk nods.
Clerk: of course. may I see your ID?
Years of ballet have prepared me for this day. I step back to make sure my genitals are still ensconced in my boxers as I pirouette and gesticulate wildly.
The floor manager steps over and asks me to head down to the end of the desk where she will make me a key. I give her the room number and thank her after she offers to have security sent up to shutdown the best little whorehouse in Vegas. I tell her it may not be necessary. As I take my keys and walk away the people in line break out in raucous applause.
I take a bow and miraculously my boxer shorts don't rip. These people are my subjects and I have been crowned the the king of the three ring circus that is the circus circus lobby. Im offered a $1 tip from a kind soul but I decline.
My walk back to the hotel elevator bank is uneventful. So much so that I realize it is going too well. The other shoe, if I were wearing one felt as if it was about to drop. Suddenly a dumbass in a rascal scooter is heading toward me at flank speed as his head is turned to look at everyone BEHIND HIM. There's no way this will end well.
For you gentle readers joining us mid conversation - it's midnight and I need to be at the airport in 4.5 hours. I can just see it now. (Cue the harp noises)
Scene: Emergency room
Nurse: Allergic to anything? Me: NKDA Nurse: cause of injury? Me: what's the IC10 code for "run down by drunken buffoon on motorized wheelchair?"
I saw my life and confirmed upgraded first class seats home being given away by the Mccarran gate agent flash before my eyes and my catlike reflexes kicked in and I jumped to my left into the wall, mid 1960's Las Vegas union construction being the path of least resistance. Think "The Bodyguard" with Kevin Costner.
The buffoon barely realizes what happens. Children are amazed. "HEY MOM! Look! That guy just ran into a wall!"
I look down and a midwestern nuclear family with two children of formative age are waiting for the elevator. I change my last word.
I look over to the parents.
Me: I'm really sorry. This is a family joint and I shouldn't have cursed the drunken scooter driver like that. Sorry kids.
Parent: no big deal. They've heard fucking worse.
I crack a smile at her word choice. Fucking worse. Yeah. That sounds like my evening.
After jumping into a wall, I'm now wide awake and unable to go back to sleep. I make the plane and push on time. The 737 comes to a stop short of the runway and holds. Something is wrong. The pilots come on and say that they loaded more cargo and passengers than planned so they have to redo their numbers. We're waiting on the taxiway with both engines running as they do this and the waiting music comes on. What's the first song?
Whitney Houston - "I Will Always Love You"
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