The Vegas Files (Entry Four)

IT'S 8 A.M. and you're hankering for some grease cakes (aka- McDonald's breakfast). Jetting down to the lobby, passing by all the night-owls that are still playing the tables, there is a continual spring in your step. That jovial feeling and that shit-eating grin you have on are there because you're in Vegas; away from the suck. Every day is a new adventure, every moment; an escape toward pleasure.

One of the busiest McDonald's on the planet is located on the strip across from the Mirage. This isn't your first rodeo, your Vegas V-card has already been swiped; so you know to get there before the 9 a.m rush. Anywhere between 8:45 a.m and 9 a.m is the G-spot for this particular establishment; get in too late, you're fucked. Breakfast in Vegas is an afterthought, it's just something you have to do quickly so that you can get as much gambling and drinking into a day as humanly possible. You aren't wining and dining here; this is strictly a pump-and-dump operation to get quick carbs and energy.

You quickly wolf down the three sausage-egg Mcmuffins, while you stare at the homeless dude with no shoes on; who looks like Aladdin, before he became Prince Ali Ababwa. He is smiling like a heroine addict who just saw another full needle on the table, except the needle, in this case, is a Big Mac; most likely the first decent meal he's had since the two tall boys of Coors drank last week. His feet look like that of a coal miner and your first thought is, "Can someone get Aladdin here, a rug?"

9:15 a.m approaches on your watch as the morning sun reflects off of the glass face. It's time to hail a cab; because you are going to Freemont street even though it doesn't get busy down there until mid-afternoon. You're feigning for the older casinos where getting blasted is a breeze since they are all nicely packed together all in a short radius of each other. You find a Desert Cab and make small talk. The cabbie then starts on a rant about how Uber is slowly undercutting the cab companies and causing fierce competition among cabbies. He insists he is not like the other cabbies who are now driving more recklessly; speeding in most cases in order to get more fares in a day.

Oh no, your cabbie today lectures on and on about how he is not like the others, just as he ramps up his Honda onto the freeway at breakneck speeds. He continues to act as if what he is doing, at this moment, doesn't completely contradict the past five minutes of him talking incessantly about driver safety and how he will not turn to the 'dark side'. As he passes on the shoulder through the mid-morning traffic you begin to think, "This is it, this is how my trip ends...with me and this guy's body mangled and pasted onto the hot pavement in this desert town." Suddenly, your cabbie slows down; there is a motorcycle cop(Highway Patrol)up ahead.Before you know it, you're stopped near Binion's. You pay your fare, but you didn't tip. The tip money meant for the cabbie is now for the extra beers you will need; in order to get over the PTSD from the near death experience, you just had with Abdar, the cabbie.

If there ever were a reason to get hammered early in the morning, taking a Vegas cab ride in the midst of a Cabbie war with Uber constitutes as the perfect excuse.



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