After getting completely demolished at Fremont you head on back to the main strip. This time, however, you take the Deuce instead of a cab. A bus ride is generally safer in Vegas; you're up higher, and if the bus driver decides to go full-retard the steel beast will likely crush anything in it's path if the misfortune should arise that your bus driver is, indeed, 'having a bad day'.
In about an hour you're back in the heart of the animal out front of The Mirage. You stumble across the street toward Harrah's; onward into the well air-conditioned Flamingo--Bugsy Siegel's paradise. Lore has it that Bugsy named the Flamingo after his girlfriend, Virginia Hill; who loved to gamble and whose nickname was "Flamingo," a nickname that Siegel gave to her due to her long, skinny legs. You take in it's rich history as you walk through the front, realizing that many men have died over this place. Vegas was built on mob money and with the bodies of many people; Blood as paint, guns being the brushes to give it that neon shine.
Sitting inside, you begin to crave the food over at Carlos and Charlies near the back of the casino. You announce yourself to the hostess, you follow her wiggling tight ass to your booth. She seats you, gives you a wink, "Your waiter will be with you, shortly." Your waiter is quick, he's gay; You can tell by his lisp and immaculate punctuality. He is the best though, most efficient waiter around Vegas by far. He gets you the pitchers of beer you ordered, and the chicken Parmesan, with melted swiss, is out before you know it. You're finished your meal and the bill is at your side; even though you never said you were ready for it. It doesn't matter because you are, this is Vegas; it's life in the fast lane.
Waddling out of C&C's you hit up some machines, so that you can take some time to digest and work off the brick in your stomach with some light gambling. A waitress rolls around, "Cocktails, drinks?" You order one because why not, right? Five minutes later your Sam Adams arrives just in time for you to collect your losses and head to the restroom; where you let out the biggest fart known to mankind. Lurching out of the facilities you notice that the casino has gotten lighter in volume, where the fuck did everyone go? A crowed is forming near the entrance onto Las Vegas Blvd. You take your Sam Adams in hand whilst heading towards the crowd. It's not a street performer, though. It's something much more appealing.
The entire strip has been shut down; all lanes of traffic in either direction, closed. A Desert cab can be seen mangled between two palm trees in the median. Two cars in the opposite direction are up on the sidewalk where hundreds of people walk on every second of the day. Thankfully, nobody seems to be hurt. No blood, no body bags on the sidewalk. Your attention focuses toward the cab in question. Fire Rescue is using the Jaws on it. People are taking pictures and video, discussing what just happened. Apparently, the cab driver was speeding at an incredible rate; he lost control and slammed into the palm tress, sending his cab into on coming traffic. Was it Abdar? You never find out. You do find out, though, that whoever it was, lived; No passengers were in the cab at the time.
Truth is stranger than fiction sometimes. Coincidences are often unthinkable. Sometimes life writes itself in the most perfect, yet, horrifying ways. Is life a script already written? This is all a dream though, remember? Vegas is wonderland, the American Dream already written and soon to be forgotten.