Game On

It was time to play.


He walked through the glass doors from the cool and quiet desert night into the stale air and stuffiness of the Hard Rock Hotel & Casino. The noise of the casino hit him immediately despite the fact that the Hard Rock's entrance was set up where you didn't directly walk into the "action". The hardwood floors with rock memorabilia in glass cases to either side of you was a welcome change from the typical Vegas casino that either tried to impress you with gaudy opulence or threw you right in to the pit in an attempt to pry your money from your pocket. It did nothing to disguise the noise that was already causing him to second guess his even being here. A combination of muddled and over-distorted guitar rock blared through the speakers in mismatching harmony with the perfect C-chord tones pumped out by the wall of slot machines somewhere off to his left. Throw on top of it the constant, over-amplified voices of an obviously drunk crowd and he would have had no problems turning around and heading back out into the glow of the neon guitar that marked the establishment's territory as only a Vegas sign can.


But, it was time for the game. He had officially began playing when the smell of cigarettes, booze and overused body spray entered his sinuses on his walk through the door. He knew now that he could not turn back. Even though unwritten, these were the rules. Rules that along with the game itself remained a mystery to him until he was in the moment.


Not wanting to bring attention to himself in any of the hundreds of security cameras that scanned the floor, he began his walk towards the table games. No way in hell was he headed over to the rows upon rows of slots to find out what the symphony of an Elvis machine mixed with a simulated crowd yelling "Wheel of Fortune" sounded like. He walked with a limp, dragging his left leg slowly behind him as he passed a motorcycle once owned by the bass player from Motley Crue. Not that he needed to limp. It was what the game called for. His first moment of self-doubt and panic rushed over him the second he set foot on the purple carpet that established the gaming area.


He hated crowds and the place was packed to the point of being uncomfortable. The young and care-free demographic that the Hard Rock marketed to had come out in full force this evening. Many stood in small groups between tables, laughing and yelling to one another over the din that he thought was an Aerosmith song. Guys hung over their buddies shoulders at the Black Jack tables, watching their friends make stupid bets such as splitting a pair of 10s and then celebrating with their beer bottles high when the lucky bastard hit an Ace and a King. Girls, who were obviously less modest than their previous generation , let out high pitch squeals between rolls of the dice and swigs of multi-colored drinks from fancy glasses. He was startled when a group of them yelled all at once and two of the girls (who, in his opinion, probably were baby-sitting kids as seniors in high school no more than six months ago) gave each other an open kiss to punctuate the moment. He turned and stared at them, watching as their pouty lips, touched with glitter. opened and their tongues tantalizingly darted in and out of each other's mouths. He felt the blood start to flow south as his breathing accelerated and his mouth hung slack-jawed. Another yell from a craps table broke him from his trance. Idiot, he thought. No better way to bring a pit boss over than ogling two underage girls from the middle of an aisle. His anger at himself caused his excitement to subside (both mentally and physically) but it also brought him back to focus. He was sweating under the wig and he needed to find a place to sit down before the perspiration ran down his face and caused any imperfections to the makeup that covered his entire, visible skin.


He found an empty spot at a Black Jack table with a $25 table limit. Money was no object, nor a concern for him. He had prepared himself well for this portion of the game. He played the table for 45 minutes, never making a bet out of character from textbook "How You Win at Black Jack" regulations. He took part in the banter with the other players, all of them together in a fight to overthrow the odds and take the casino for a little money. Jim from Omaha sat to his left and was the crucial cog known as third base in their fight on the green felt. Jim's decisions affected what card the dealer received and he made sure that Jim was making all of the right decisions for the benefit of the table. Cheers went up when Jim held on 14 and allowed the dealer to bust. Groans from all when the dealer pulled the five of hearts on top of her sixteen. It was your typical Friday night Black Jack table in Vegas. No reason for any one to pay them any special attention. It was exactly how he liked it.


Except, he was still starting to feel antsy. More and more people were flooding in to the table area. Hard Rock is not one of your larger casinos and the additional people hitting the floor made it shoulder to shoulder with your fellow gambler. He overheard someone say that the show must be out and the thought that even more young & spoiled brats could be coming pushed him to cash out. He gave the dealer a $5 chip with the depiction of Jimi Hendrix on it and wished everyone luck. After slapping his new friend Jim from Omaha on his fat shoulder (thinking to himself that Jim was SOL without him telling Jim how to play), he turned to find the reason for his being here. He needed to find part one of his game. The game within the game. Most importantly, with the crowds and the noise and the smells, he needed to do it quickly so he could get out of here and settle his nerves the best way he knew how. He hated the idea but he loved how killing calmed him.