The reporter

I wanted to drink myself to death. I wanted to let my liver fail while in an alcoholic stupor. I wanted my kidneys to fail while processing the shit beer, bourbon, and wine coolers I abused them with. The latter I was not only flagellating my liver with but my sense of self. I was after all a man's man, an ex athlete and a sportswriter for a major magazine.

Of course the magazine had been going down like the titanic for some time. Who reads these days? No one. Luckily my writing was quippy enough to garnish a point and click spot on the home page, usually under the swimsuit model's groin. A lucky spot all the other hacks at the rag would say.

I'd relocated to Vegas. The city of sin. Now the city of economic recession. The city that was every other city but more. The lights still burned on the strip but powered by what? The staff of all the hotels, casinos, and resorts were all being chopped up like garlic at Gilroy's annual festival. Somehow though the show still went on. The spectacle still turned itself over and over even if its structure was more fragile, and more masqueraded.

I'd been moved out to Vegas to cover all the major shows. The magazine didn't want to have to fly to pay better writers to Vegas. They settled on me because I was; single, willing to relocate, and a mediocre writer able to churn out the dribel they wanted. If there's anything I'm good at its dribbling. So much so that when I sleep I sometimes drool. Mainly when I sleep on my left side and am under the influence of the drink.

I got a small apartment for five hundred dollars on the north side of the strip. Far enough away from the strip proper to be slummy, south enough of old Vegas to be well, slummy. The good thing was that it wasn't far from the bus stop where I could take an air conditioned bus to whatever air conditioned house of cards I wanted. The air conditioning was important as my, well lets face it slummy apartment, wasn't air conditioned. The blazing desert heat parched my tongue forcing me to drink more, and drinking more made me even more dehydrated, the poor, poor, plight of the alcoholic. I'm sure you've heard it before. Who hasn't read that repetitive fuck Bukowski, the boring Miller, the overstated Hemingway?

My first assignment was at the Palms. It was a new casino off the strip, a late bloomer. It vibed sexy, young, modern, and ridiculously stupid. I did a piece on an MMA show there. Young cornfed fucktards fought each other for thousands of dollars as orange skinned retards from southern california cheered on. It was an exercise in not asking for the wrath of God.

After the show I went upstairs. Having a media pass does have its advantages, mainly in the access to the clubs, thus to the plastic tits in the background of these shows. I'd been looking for some silicone when I saw her standing on the balcony. She dressed really classy. Pearl beads strung around her swan like with matching earrings. She looked like Jackie O but who the fuck looks like that these days. Who the fuck remembers who Jackie O was!? I stood by the railing and said a few things, I can't really remember what. If I could remember those sort of things, you know the first things you say when you meet someone maybe I'd be a better writer but I can't. Fuck it.

Later I would find out her name, Holly, Ms. Golightly.