Starring . . . . . Jimmy Haystack as the
most dangerous man in the West . . . Dr. House as the High Roller . . .
Laura as the lady in the million dollar dress . . . Barb as the damsel in
distress . . . Mike as the nifty sidekick . . . and Ron as the titular
protagonist . . . . . . . . . . . .
"Are you the writer?" a Military Police
officer asked Ron, opening the door of the writer's golden 1966 Cadillac
DeVille. He was practically a walking billboard for recruitment with the blue
uniform and armor, armbands, and white helmet, all stamped with a blue
"MP."
Ron noted the officer's nameplate, attached hastily to
his tactical chestplate: "Benny Benson." Amused, the writer smiled,
"Your parents weren't the most creative bunch, I take it," as he
stepped out of the car and into the holy city of Las Vegas. He looked around in
awe at the desert oasis: fountains, palm trees, and blooming agave plants lined
the thoroughfare, spotlights perused the night sky, and the various casinos
towered over him.
He turned around, and kissed Barb on the cheek as he
led her by the hand from the car. The city's bright neon lights shimmered off
of the Cadillac's antique gold hue, casting a subtle sheen on their
faces. "Dr. House is waiting for you," the same officer gestured
toward the entrance to the Lucky 38. The casino tower, decked out in what
seemed to be a million little light bulbs, pierced the sky, stopping just
before the clouds. Lucky 38's sign, comprised of red, black, and warm white
neon lights, reminiscent of a roulette wheel, flashed "Welcome to the
Defense Contractors' Summit!"
The tall, red and black doors, framed by black marble
stamped with a large golden diamond in the center, were held open by two
Securitrons. Inside, the casino floor reeked of cigarette smoke, whiskey, and
cheeseburgers. Rows and rows of slot machines, as far as the eye could see, lit
up the room. The room buzzed with excitement, and so did the machines, lighting
up in a frenzy whenever someone hit the jackpot. "Hey, sugar," a lady
in a pink flamingo dress and a matching flamingo hat said, winking at Ron as she
strolled by.
A jazz band, all members dressed as Elvis, played
somewhere down the other end of the floor. Jimmy and Laura made their way to
the cramped bar, lit only by two warm lights and a dozen cathode ray TV's.
"One whiskey, good sir," the outlaw requested. Laura jumped in,
"Make it two!"
Next to them sat Monique, a good-looking, black-haired
woman who hailed from the Mediterranean. Working for the Enclave, she flew in
to Vegas to see the most dangerous man in the West, in all his glory. "He
said he'd kill us both," she said with a tear in her eye.
Jimmy saw right through her act and replied, "He
might kill you, but there's no fucking way he's ever killing me." He
paused to take a swig of whiskey before shooting her an incredulous look.
"Fucking asshole. He said that?"
Ron, Barb, and Benny headed up to the penthouse in the
casino's express elevator, a tin can of despair, battered by the hundreds of
thousands of guests over the years. With a high-pitched ding, the silver
elevator doors slid open at the indoor balcony, overlooking the penthouse
suite. "Well, howdy, partner!" Victor, Dr. House's personal
Securitron, greeted the group. "Howdy," Ron replied with a smirk on
his face.
Ron, followed by Barb, reluctantly stepped out onto
the balcony. Seven, floor to ceiling, thirty foot windows, overlooked the
entire city. Below, Dr. House, baring unkempt greying hair, a roughly shaved
stubble, and a wrinkled grey blazer over a shirt that said, "Send more
tourists, the last ones were delicious," swiveled around and looked up to
face his guests.
"You're Dr. House?" Ron asked in disbelief,
leaning on the balcony railings, expecting someone more professional to be
running the city.
"Who else would I be?" Dr. House replied.
"The Easter Bunny?"
The two paused their bickering for a brief second,
listening to a faint, continuous scream that kept growing closer. Swinging from
the roof like Indiana Jones, Jimmy expected to break through the glass, but
instead, he slammed right into it.
"Fuck," he swore as he pulled out two silver
Desert Eagles, and fired away at the glass. The windows gave way, and he swung
into the penthouse, clipping one of the golden chandeliers before dropping to
the marble floor, strewn with glass fragments.
From underneath the fallen chandelier, Jimmy looked
up. "Your wife is a robot."
-
Written by Jerry Zervas on 2/20/26.
DO NOT USE UNLESS GIVEN PERMISSION BY ME (i.e. email
me)
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