day seven.
The limousine is a converted bus. Tinted windows. Sticky seats. A stripper pole.
A regular run-of-the-mill Las Vegas limousine.
You press back into the leather cushions and stretch out your legs, as a miniature Eiffel Tower flashes past the car’s window.
Vegas is a head trip.
The road into the city slopes up for hours before finally flattening. For hours, there’s nothing ahead but black.
And then the road begins to glow.
Way off in the distance, a glaring light atop a skyscraper peeks from out of the ground.
And then the skyscraper, and then the city, rising like a thousand bubbles.
A Ferris wheel flashes past the window.
Tim had arranged the limousine. Just hours earlier, he'd jetted in from New Zealand, to Los Angeles, to Las Vegas, eleven days late to join the crew.
He'd been waiting in the hotel lobby. “I’ve sorted us a ride to town, guys. A free limo ride. I got us a free ride to town in a limo.”
Or a converted bus.
A giant pyramid flashes by, and then a castle, and then a fountain.
“This will take us to a strip club just off the Strip,” Tim says. “We don’t have to go to the strip club. It’s a free ride.”
The limousine-cum-bus rounds a corner and pulls down a side street, lined with darkened shop fronts and empty car lots.
Pete raises an eyebrow. “Exactly how far away is this strip club, Tim?”
“It’s just off the Strip," he says. "It’s a free ride.”
More shop fronts.
The driver eases up to a massive industrial building, blue light colouring the grey walls.
You push up and out the door, past the driver hovering on the footpath, pause, turn back, and shove a couple crumpled notes into his hand.
A pillar shoots up beside you, balancing a neon-blue sign. Sapphire Gentlemen’s Club.
The letter “H” flickers.
“How long to walk to the Strip?” you ask.
The driver chuckles. “About an hour or so.”
You turn and face Tim.
“What?” he says. “It was a free ride.”
Jako takes a step forward.
“What? It was free. Guys.”
Derek glances across at Herman and nods.
“Guys. It was a fr… ” Tim swivels and sprints.
“...eeeeeeee riiiiiiiiide.”
You laugh, shout, and tear after him, back down the road, back toward the Strip.
Back past the shop fronts.
Past a takeaway shop. A petrol station. A liquor store.
You don’t notice the bars on their windows. You don’t notice the padlocks on either side of their doors.
A liquor store.
“Hey!” you yell out. “Let’s grab something to drink.”
You loop back to the store’s entrance. Two men sit slumped outside, smoking.
One nods at you and pulls up his hood. He scratches at his patchy beard.
You smile and nod back.
You don’t notice the dark brown leather pouch on his left hip. You don’t notice the top of a knife handle peeking from its opening.
You don’t notice him follow you into the store.
Tim, Pete and Herman join you. The others wait outside.
You grab a small bottle of Jagermeister and put it down on the counter, hand a hundred dollar note to the cashier, take the change, and leave.
“Hey, you.”
You turn. The bearded man is standing by the store’s front door.
He jerks his head your way. “Come over here.”
You smile and step toward him. Jako hisses something under his breath.
You don’t hear it.
“What’s up?” you say.
The man grimaces and scratches at his beard. He looks you up and down.
“I don’t know where you’re from,” he says.
He takes a long drag on his cigarette.
“But round here," he says, "you can’t wear pants like that.”
You look down.
You look at your skinny jeans.
You look up.
He exhales. “Not round here, kid.”
You blink and glance back at the others. Jako is bent over, coughing to cover his laughter.
You look back. "How much further to the Strip?"
"Not far," he says. "You can probably hitch a ride in a limo."
A regular run-of-the-mill Las Vegas limousine.
You press back into the leather cushions and stretch out your legs, as a miniature Eiffel Tower flashes past the car’s window.
Vegas is a head trip.
The road into the city slopes up for hours before finally flattening. For hours, there’s nothing ahead but black.
And then the road begins to glow.
Way off in the distance, a glaring light atop a skyscraper peeks from out of the ground.
And then the skyscraper, and then the city, rising like a thousand bubbles.
A Ferris wheel flashes past the window.
Tim had arranged the limousine. Just hours earlier, he'd jetted in from New Zealand, to Los Angeles, to Las Vegas, eleven days late to join the crew.
He'd been waiting in the hotel lobby. “I’ve sorted us a ride to town, guys. A free limo ride. I got us a free ride to town in a limo.”
Or a converted bus.
A giant pyramid flashes by, and then a castle, and then a fountain.
“This will take us to a strip club just off the Strip,” Tim says. “We don’t have to go to the strip club. It’s a free ride.”
The limousine-cum-bus rounds a corner and pulls down a side street, lined with darkened shop fronts and empty car lots.
Pete raises an eyebrow. “Exactly how far away is this strip club, Tim?”
“It’s just off the Strip," he says. "It’s a free ride.”
More shop fronts.
The driver eases up to a massive industrial building, blue light colouring the grey walls.
You push up and out the door, past the driver hovering on the footpath, pause, turn back, and shove a couple crumpled notes into his hand.
A pillar shoots up beside you, balancing a neon-blue sign. Sapphire Gentlemen’s Club.
The letter “H” flickers.
“How long to walk to the Strip?” you ask.
The driver chuckles. “About an hour or so.”
You turn and face Tim.
“What?” he says. “It was a free ride.”
Jako takes a step forward.
“What? It was free. Guys.”
Derek glances across at Herman and nods.
“Guys. It was a fr… ” Tim swivels and sprints.
“...eeeeeeee riiiiiiiiide.”
You laugh, shout, and tear after him, back down the road, back toward the Strip.
Back past the shop fronts.
Past a takeaway shop. A petrol station. A liquor store.
You don’t notice the bars on their windows. You don’t notice the padlocks on either side of their doors.
A liquor store.
“Hey!” you yell out. “Let’s grab something to drink.”
You loop back to the store’s entrance. Two men sit slumped outside, smoking.
One nods at you and pulls up his hood. He scratches at his patchy beard.
You smile and nod back.
You don’t notice the dark brown leather pouch on his left hip. You don’t notice the top of a knife handle peeking from its opening.
You don’t notice him follow you into the store.
Tim, Pete and Herman join you. The others wait outside.
You grab a small bottle of Jagermeister and put it down on the counter, hand a hundred dollar note to the cashier, take the change, and leave.
“Hey, you.”
You turn. The bearded man is standing by the store’s front door.
He jerks his head your way. “Come over here.”
You smile and step toward him. Jako hisses something under his breath.
You don’t hear it.
“What’s up?” you say.
The man grimaces and scratches at his beard. He looks you up and down.
“I don’t know where you’re from,” he says.
He takes a long drag on his cigarette.
“But round here," he says, "you can’t wear pants like that.”
You look down.
You look at your skinny jeans.
You look up.
He exhales. “Not round here, kid.”
You blink and glance back at the others. Jako is bent over, coughing to cover his laughter.
You look back. "How much further to the Strip?"
"Not far," he says. "You can probably hitch a ride in a limo."