Ok, time to collect my thoughts, about a year later.
It sure seemed like a bad omen when the gas pump popped out of the Gold Cherokee outside of Vegas. QOB had told me she didn't want me to go there for her party about a year earlier. Fuck that, I thought. She owed me! Taking care of my wounds was her JOB. Not give me new ones. All she had done so far is tell me I had to face death for her after I had faced death because of this sick whore. Besides, some old wench has been living in some house I should own for the last few years. That is how you know that wench is a thief.
The crowd was gonna be huge outside of Pure for the Jessica Simpson "hosted" party for the Pussycat Dolls. Really, she is just a bimbo who is just there to fill out the ranks. If Jessica really cared she would have invited me, right? Red hair rinse or whatever is meaningless. I believe she was still into John Mayer at the time. Or is that the other way around?
I finally squeeze through the crowd into the club. Considering I was fighting Lyme Disease you would think the PCD would have the decency to invite me instead of just partying in the world I saved after surviving too many assassination attempts. Star treatment goes to guys who used to be N'Sync. My bad knee was starting to ache. The crowd was too thick. Before the show started my silver skull bracelet had been lifted.
Jessica pointed at the Dolls.
Robin pointed at the Dolls.
The girls who where acting as if they were the Dolls pointed at me. Thanks, girls.
After the show broke up, I moved around and helped myself to some strawberries someone left behind. I saw Robin Leach and his "escort." I did not want to get too close. Holla! Jay-Z is in this movie. Great taste you got there, buddy.
An over-muscled guy, who claimed to be Muslim, made a derogatory comment about me and Muhammad after accusing me of taking someone's strawberries. I was sick and he was too big for me to take on. Place this man in another country and he probably gets killed.
My room had been broken into and stuff was missing. I did not feel like going to any of the other shows since I could not even trust the maids at the hotel. Women were really rude to me all over Vegas this trip, could not get directions from them to save my life, and all had their hands out for money. I spoke to a woman sent by the hotel in my room about the troubles I was having. Gypsy Curse? Oh no, it is much worse than that! But I tell her none of the curse stuff. It could not have been constructive at that point.
Something strange happened to my "Neo" Coyote sunglasses. I run them over with the Cherokee. I buy myself a new bracelet for a few bucks at a gas station that I really like. I still want the stolen bracelet back, BITCH! Pimp Daddy owns you Ho's!
I make a stop on the way back and the Charade players seem to be telling me the old girlfriend and Pussy Number One are OK and watching out for each other. As if I was really scared about her eyeballs after all I had been through.
At this point I am thinking on the way back, just have some fun with it, they will take care of the real business soon enough. I still needed to see if the cops had found my stolen black car.
Who could have known how wrong I was . . .
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