Gambling on slot hoki Terrorism

As the beer took hold, wrapping its maternal hug around the main-line adrenaline of a winning 13-hour session, I stood up. I racked my chips, nodding good wishes at the 1am drunks who were just sitting down. I hated to leave them, but I had friends waiting on me. And I’d been sitting for so long that variance was bound to come in for the graveyard shift.
Joey Two-Hands was with me and had been working up a good bender for the better part of our sit. Seven hours ago he’d flopped two monsters and raked two pots full of confidence. Since then, he’d bled away his wins, rebought a couple of times, and drank the Luxor bar dry of Jack and Coke.
I cashed out and led Joey out of the Luxor and onto the slot hoki motorized walkway that led into the Excalibur. We laughed our way through the maze designed to keep us in the building, not looking anywhere but forward, anywhere but toward a Pai Gow table full of similarly drunk college buddies.
We escaped the Excalibur and didn’t look around. We focused on the steps that would lead us to the walkway to New York, New York. We hit the conditioned air again, sat down, and drank with our buddies for four hours. When Joey decided to bet a miniature breath mint for the dealer, we decided it was time to head back to the rooms.
I was in little condition to be the designated walker, but somebody had to. Somebody had to lead Joey out of peril and into a room at the MGM. We crossed the catwalk over Las Vegas Boulevard, never looking anywhere but forward, embracing the freedom of tunnel vision that only Las Vegas and New Orleans can provide.
When we reached the MGM, Joey looked at me and said, “I want to hit you. Can I hit you?”
Declining the offer, I led him to the elevator to one of the towers, never looking back over my shoulder, never once looking for anything suspicious.
We’d do it all again the …

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