Vegas II: The Beginning

Before the forces of Las Vegas rose up in opposition against me and shredded any fragment of pride I ever possessed, I was making a little travelogue about the trip. Here's the beginning.

Time: 8:25 AM on January 9, 2005
Flight 890 takes off from DFW towards LFV

The morning starts with a surprise. Apparently, the Betik time zone is 15 minutes ahead of the Central, as I am awakened by a knock on the door. "You ready for Vegas?" a shadowy voice asks. "Who is that? I don't have any money for your kind!" I replied. Before I could get my taser charged, he stepped into the light. It was Paul, my loyal manservant. We had previously agreed that he would pick me up at 6 to hit the airport (no time is wasted with this group), but someone got a little antsy in the pantsy. Completely understandable, as I had been up all night playing blackjack against whoever was in the house. By the time he picked me up, I was down $400 to the blender.

We pick up Danza and Kristin, and head to the land of Indonesian security guards and $20 ham sandwiches. As we arrived at the airport, I realized that I had a cinnamon twist monkey on my back, and bad. The only way to get it off was with one last hit. I rose from my seat, just as a familiar figure emerged from the metal detector. "It's Santa!" I screamed. "Wait, that's Damon." "Ahh," I surveyed, "so it is. In a Santa suit." There is nothing better than a vacation surprise, particularly if it involves a little bit of Christmas magic. Sadly, Damon was travelling in his human form. "Saint Nick or not, that dude can fly with us," I declared with the airport personnel. Recognizing my weight in the airline industry, they immediately made it so. Before she could print up his ticket, though, I snuck around the counter and whispered into her ear, "But don't let him sit next to me; he likes to smell my hair."

Damon hadn't been slated to fly with us, although he had been the munitions expert on the original Vegas trip. When it was declared that he wouldn't be joining us, I didn't take the news well. I chased my cat into the garage, and cornered her behind the wall of pizza boxes. "You!" I screamed. "This is all your fault! You ruined Vegas!" It sounds irrational, but she is Damon's attorney and so she shares fault in any curious decision making. Immediately upon his arrival, I placed an apologetic phone call back to Powell Manor. Our party was set; I barely had time to dry my tears before we boarded the plane for Vegas and, perhaps, our fortunes.

Posted by Cody at January 16, 2005 4:32 PM