part0034

The feat was of a rare and unusual nature, the kind of accomplishment that doesn’t hold a benchmark with the Guinness Book of World Records. It was a feat that more so secures a presence at Ripley’s Believe It or Not! or like one of Madame Tussauds’ sculptures. If Michael Milenko had it his way, a commemorative statue would follow his accomplishment.

It didn’t matter that Lloyd Luchtenberg thought he was an idiot. Michael was going to be rich. Filthy rich. So what if his old fishing buddy and lifelong rival took a vodka-fueled piss all over the parade? Over a dozen witnesses could attest to his accomplishment. They’d watched the spectacle with ambivalence, straining to catch passive glances through squinted eyes, and Michael Milenko intended to compensate each of them in due time. But first he needed to engrave his name in the annals of strange and bizarre culture in order to join the ranks of Harry Houdini and Mabel Stark.

The compulsive stroking of his own ego started the moment he walked away from the certainty of death, and Michael wasn’t about to stop now that he’d reached Las Vegas. It was time to sell his story; more precisely, it was time to sell pre-calculated portions of the story. Specific chapters would be withheld. That was crucial.

“The purpose of the tabloids is really quite simple,” he gloated into his cell phone from a pink taxicab that carried him to the Flamingo.

“And what purpose might that be?” Lloyd Luchtenberg inquired, his stoic and uninterested voice muffled by raspy reception.

“They’re bait,” Michael continued. “I just need the tabloids to get some rumors stirring, you know, get my name out there, earn some quick cash. I’ll start with The Tattler , then move on to The Midnight and The Confidential. I’ll even let The Enquirer in on the scoop. Then the bigwigs will come knocking: Life, Time, People…Rolling Stone . I’ll give them the full story or most of it, at least. Gotta save some details for the talk shows, my friend. I’m gonna milk this thing dry, and then live like a pig for the rest of my life.”

“I wish you luck,” Lloyd said. “But Michael, you need to be a realist here. How much time can you possibly have left? It’s a miracle you’ve made it thi–”

“A miracle !” The pink taxicab lulled into the glitzy bulb-embroidered foyer of the Flamingo. “I survived, Lloyd. I survived! Do you even hear me?”

“Yes, Michael. I hear you. But I thi–”

“I survived and I’m in Las Vegas. The only ailment I have is a sore throat, you know, a desert cough. But Lloyd, I can’t blame you for turning green with envy.”

“Oh please, Michael. I’m not envious of you. If anything, I pity you.”

“Hold on, hold on. What’s that?” Michael asked, lowering the cell phone as the balding middle-aged driver opened Michael’s door and muttered some sort of incoherent jibber-jabber.

“Fifteen dollars,” the driver shouted.

“Fifteen bucks? Sure.” Michael handed over a twenty. He didn’t instruct the driver to keep any change, but didn’t much care that it wasn’t returned. Grabbing the handle of his bag, he headed for the hotel’s entrance, sand spilling from his sneakers with every step. He lifted the cell phone to his ear and said, “You know what, Lloyd? You can sleep with my wife.”

“Michael, that’s ridiculous.”

“No, really. Sleep with Carol. I’ve seen the way you dote on her, and don’t you for a second think that my filing for divorce before making my millions is a coincidence. I ain’t givin’ her a penny, not a single gawd damn penny. She can commit all the infidelity she wants. See if I care.”

“You can’t be serious, Micha–”

“Just make sure you take Buster for a walk afterward, and don’t let Carol keep him locked in the basement, all right? Oh, and Lloyd, I’m hanging up on you. It’s time for me to check in.”

The line was painstakingly long; the conversation could have continued, but Michael Milenko had little patience for his fishing buddy and suspected lover to his wife. They’d spent their entire lives trying to one-up the other, from leisure sports, to women, to cars. Even petty accomplishments, like catching a slightly larger trout, carried bragging rights that lasted years.

Carol had always served as an unusual victory for Michael, being that she was skinnier and prettier than the prototypical floozy that Lloyd Luchtenberg was known to attract. Now she’d be a victory to Lloyd. But in the shadow of Michael’s newfound fame, stealing Carol was a meager accomplishment, and Michael knew that Lloyd knew that he knew that it was just that: an insignificant little accomplishment. That’s why Lloyd had urged him not to do it. And now that he’d done it, Lloyd kept telling him that he’d regret it.

But none of that held any significance. The only thing that mattered was checking into the Flamingo and cleaning himself up. The desert had taken a toll. His lips were dry and chapped, his skin sunburned, and his face was overdue for a shave. The odor lingering in his every pore yearned to be scrubbed clean with a pad of steel wool, and everyone seemed to notice.

“Sir, you’re next.”

A blonde directly behind him was gorgeous until she made a hideous face, as was a tan brunette with a tiny waist and endowed chest. She’d paced back and forth, cigarette in one hand, glass of wine in the other, but wrinkled up her peeling nose at the notion of standing in the same line as Michael Milenko.

“Sir, may I help?”

A pair of young Asian women–twins, presumably, as the lethargic eyes of Michael Milenko wished them to be–scooted to the back of the line. They grimaced at the unfavorable odor now surfacing from the front.

“Sir, really, can we please help you ?”

The line of jetlagged arrivals shook their heads as Michael turned toward the desk clerk, and then nonchalantly shuffled his sand-crusted shoes to the counter. Plopping down a folded newspaper, he said, “Michael Milenko. I’ve reserved the Hunter S. Thompson Suite for the next two months.”

The clerk’s face underwent immediate transformation, her smile signifying acknowledgement that he was not an ordinary guest; it was almost genuine.

“Mr. Milenko, we’ve been expecting you. I do wish you’d have used the gold members’ check-in. No need to wait in line with all of these people .” Her nose scrunched in disgust as the words plopped out of her mouth.

Michael yawned as he picked an indecipherable speck of crud from the corner of his eye. He could smell himself, and he knew it wasn’t pleasant. But the woman standing before him was young, articulate, and attractive; picturing her naked was all Michael needed to forget the unpleasantness of his own condition. She smiled artificially while she swiped his credit card and collected his signature. The Hunter S. Thompson Suite awaited, with promises of a bathtub, soaps fragranced with honey, oils smelling of coconut, and various exotic gels.

In Michael Milenko’s opinion, a Las Vegas evening void of women and bourbon was a terrible misfortune. Unlike the dirt and grime that he’d washed away at first opportunity, however, the virtues of good judgment and sound discretion had to be preserved. It was crucial. His interviews depended on it.

Confined to the solitude of his suite, lights didn’t flash, buzzers didn’t buzz, and women didn’t twirl around brass poles. But he welcomed the morning, for his brain was still sober and his body had embraced its first full slumber since the completion of his magnificent accomplishment.

He’d told Cynthia Janese of The Tattler over and over again, “I’ll give you a twenty-four hour lead on the interview, but you’ll be payin’ for it, in cash. And I mean boatloads of cash.”

She delivered, and she was dazzling. As Michael stood in the open doorway, wearing nothing but a white full-length bathrobe, his first impression was that Cynthia Janese deserved better than The Tattler .

She was pretty, CNN pretty, perhaps even E! News pretty. But when she opened her mouth, a set of grimy nicotine-stained teeth greeted him, providing a slight indication as to why this attractive young woman remained faceless behind the smutty pages of a checkout line magazine.

“This is Javier,” Cynthia announced, motioning to the boulder of a man standing behind her. “He tags along whenever cash is involved.”

Javier was enormous. His skin looked beaten and worn, like an old leather pouch. His unspoken dominance held the aura of a cage fighter or a professional wrestler, maybe even a hit man.

The only certainty was that he felt relieved when Javier unloaded the bags and waited quietly in the hallway. There was no reason for the goon to impose on Michael’s first interview, especially if said interview provided the opportunity to become better acquainted with Miss Cynthia Janese.

She was so delightful, in spite of her chain-smoking, and her questions didn’t stray from the previously negotiated topics. Michael’s health rested at the top of the list, and he gave her the same scoop that he’d given Lloyd Luchtenberg: “The only ailment I have is a sore throat, a desert cough.”

Michael thought about his statement. He felt an odd stiffness in his feet like nothing he’d previously encountered. It hadn’t been noticeable until he’d sought refuge at the Flamingo. He’d traveled so many miles into the desert, with nothing more than the conversation of strange witnesses to occupy his time. So of course he felt stiff, and of course the colossal ball of mucus that he’d coughed up first thing that morning was unusually hard and slightly coarse. He was in the desert, and he planned on staying in the desert for some time.

Michael told Cynthia Janese: “I’ll be in Vegas for awhile, you know, long enough to get some long overdue rest and relaxation.”

She smiled wide, a gesture that showcased her grimy teeth, and undid her top button. Poignancy rested on her face as she asked, “What was it like out there? What was it like staring into the face of death?”

Having rehearsed in front of the mirror, Michael’s response was cool and calculated, albeit slightly artificial. He’d traveled into the depths of Hell and was alive to tell the story. It didn’t matter how scared he’d been or that he’d nearly shit his pants. This was The Tattler , and as far as Michael was concerned, the first publishing of his tale should hold the same degree of honor and masculinity as a Conan the Barbarian story. It made little difference that he was a short, balding man in his early forties. The chain-smoking hussy seated before him, dressed in a cheap blouse and short skirt, legs parted wider than they should be, was going to print whatever he told her.

“It was a moment of intestinal fortitude,” Michael said with arched eyebrows. “I had to prove once and for all what kind of man I really am. Sure, I had my hesitations, but when a man has confidence on his side, there’s really nothing that can’t be accomplished.”

Cynthia Janese blushed, then took a drag from her cigarette.

Michael clamped both hands over his mouth and sneezed, catching a handful of snot that felt oddly tough. Discreetly, he wiped it on the side of his robe, hoping the gesture would go unnoticed. And then he sneezed again. There was nothing he could do. The smoke attacked his sinuses without mercy. It had been years since his last cigarette and considerably longer since Lloyd Luchtenberg had first introduced him to what he now considered a disgusting habit. But Cynthia Janese made it look sexy, even natural, just like the girls had back in high school.

Wiping a second smear of snot against his robe, Michael pushed the temptation to ask for a cigarette out of his mind and said, “The whole feat was just a question of mind over matter. I held my ground and I created my own destiny.”

“Tell me about this destiny,” Cynthia requested as smoke seeped from her mouth.

Michael didn’t hesitate to mention that his Saturdays spent fishing were a thing of the past. He was becoming a wealthy man and felt he should partake in the pastimes of wealthy men.

Cynthia raised both eyebrows and parted her legs further. “You mean scholarly pursuits?”

Michael chuckled, then pondered his response. He dared not mention his plans for womanizing, especially to a reporter. His fame would last longer if such gossip unraveled in due course. And he couldn’t possibly mention his intentions of wasting away at strip clubs or flying to exotic lands in order to nibble at the delectable treats squatting in their brothels. Instead, he rubbed his chin and said, “Traveling. I see myself doing a lot of traveling.”

“Any journeys like the one you just completed?”

“No, no.” Michael laughed. “I’ve stared death in the face once already. I have nothing to gain by pressing my luck any further.”

“You might change your mind about that. Evel Knievel didn’t stop after his first stunt. Men of your occupation often have trouble bowing out gracefully.”

Michael shook his head. “Evel Knievel broke every bone in his body. I don’t see much point in going down that road. Besides, in this day and age, a man needs to learn from other men’s mistakes. I’m willing to gamble that Roy Horn wishes he’d stopped performing at the Mirage long before Montecore ripped his neck open.”

“But it didn’t stop Siegfried & Roy from performing one last show with that same tiger,” Cynthia said as she ground her cigarette into the ashtray. She undid another button.

Michael shrugged. He had no interest in being compared to seasoned professionals. He was the working man’s daredevil, and it didn’t matter if they made him out to be a one-trick pony. Tabloids turned nobodies into multi-millionaires. They could publish whatever garbage they want alongside their photos of Kim Kardashian’s enormous butt. It didn’t matter. Michael hoped the photographers would pester him until his dying day. He welcomed the nuisance, and the bad-press-is-really-good-press paychecks destined to follow.

In Cynthia’s line of work, she probably saw this kind of greed every day. The only thing different about Michael Milenko was that he’d accrued the type of accomplishment capable of supporting his desires.

With a smirk situated atop her soft face, she asked, “What about your sex life?”

“That’s not on the list of topics I agreed to discuss.”

“It’s an off-the-record question.” She undid another button and spread her legs as far as they would go.

Michael sneezed, wiped a glob of snot on his robe, and admired Cynthia’s thighs. He gave the thin stretch of fabric covering her privates a hungry leer. He couldn’t have been happier that Javier had waited outside the room.

The reporter from The Midnight wasn’t the pleasant surprise that Cynthia Janese had been, nor were the reporters from The Confidential or The Enquirer ; instead, they carried the poise that a generation of infomercial watchers inevitably carries. They had bad skin hiding beneath layers of cheap cosmetics. A lingering foulness of heavy perfume followed their every step. And their pudgy hands were crusted with remnants of chocolate truffles.

Presumably, they could at least jot down Michael’s words and turn them into a published story. If not, plagiarism was a viable option, and that was bound to happen sooner rather than later. The headlines were destined to be nothing more than carbon copies from The Tattler . The articles would all be the same, with emphasis directed toward Michael’s good health, how he felt on that death-defying day, and his obvious plans for a gluttonous future.

Michael never mentioned the unexpected twinges gnawing around his stomach. And why would he? They were reporters, not doctors, and it made little difference that they’d purchased the rights to report on his health. The pains were negligible, the distraction was moderate, and Michael Milenko wasn’t going to let some minor discomfort spoil an otherwise fabulous blossoming new life.

The interviews were over, and the stacks of money he’d collected were tucked away in the spacious closet of the Hunter S. Thompson Suite. Outside, sunshine bestowed a layer of warmth atop the synthetic glow of flashing lights. Hobos begged for change and leftover food. Street entertainers hustled for tips: they sang Elvis Presley songs, imitated Liberace, and posed in superhero costumes for pictures.

Michael paid little attention, for his own agenda was of greater concern. He needed new clothes, loads of them, and he needed the expensive kind. Other people went to the Forum Shops at Caesar’s to stare in awe at the cloudy blue-sky ceiling, take their photographs with the statue of David, maybe dine at Spago. Michael Milenko was there to spend money with the assumption that an endless stream of interviews and guest appearances rested securely in his future. And he extracted a perverse notion of sexuality from the saleswomen that helped him in and out of his new attire. They blushed and giggled when he removed his pants, and stood closer than necessary as he stepped into their recommended selections. They knew who he was. The Tattler had hit the newsstands, and competing publications would start popping up any day now.

Michael relished in the attention he received behind the privacy of dressing room doors. Even for high end stores, Michael’s kind was a rare breed. The women were used to old money and they were used to stolen money. But new money went to the craps tables and the strip clubs, rarely to overpriced boutiques.

The phone call made to Lloyd Luchtenberg was nothing more than a formality. The walk from the Forum Shops to the Flamingo was relatively short, yet Michael happily paid an inflated delivery fee to avoid carrying his own bags. It wasn’t a choice, but a necessity. People were noticing him. Even street performers turned and stared, watching the tourists snap photos of a real personality standing right there in the flesh.

Dressed in designer denim purchased at Calvin Klein, a Ted Baker button-down opened to mid chest, and a pair of leather shoes, Michael held the cell phone firmly against his ear and said, “Lloyd, I think you know why I’m calling.”

“Michael, if it’s more of this nonsense about Carol, then I’m going to be frank with you. I haven’t the slightest intention of ever slee–”

“Lloyd, my friend,” Michael interrupted. “You underestimate me. I called to gloat, not to accuse.”

“I see.” Lloyd’s voice was low, unnaturally monotone, seeping with simulated disinterest.

“Have you been to the grocery store this week?”

“I’ve seen The Tattler ,” Lloyd confirmed. “Very impressive, Michael. You’ve joined the ranks of circus geeks. Bitten the heads off any chickens lately?”

“Don’t be jealous, Lloyd. You know I’ve raked in more cash this week than any circus performer earns in a lifetime. And you should see the clothes I’m wearing or the women I slept with last night. Better yet, Lloyd, you should see the women I’m going to sleep with tonight. Shall I send you a picture?”

“Sounds like you’re spending the money just as fast you make it,” Lloyd said, his voice still low and uninterested. “What are you going to do when it’s gone?”

“It won’t ever be gone.” Michael ran his stumpy fingers over his balding head of greyish hair and adjusted the Saddleback leather belt that cinched his designer denim. “The real magazines are next, after that the talk shows. And you know what I think I might do in a few years? Just guess, Lloyd, just guess.”

“Oh, please share. I’m dying to hear what the magnificent Michael Milenko has in store for round two. Wait, let me guess. They’re going to fill your pockets with raw meat and drop you in a cage full of tigers. Or maybe they’ll cover you in honey and hurl bee’s nests at your head. Which is it, Michael? What’s your next stunt going to be?”

“You can make fun all you want, but I’m going to write a book. Not just about my accomplishment, but about the life of excess I’m living thanks to that glorious accomplishment.”

“That’s right, a book. Just like the rock stars write, so the whole world can read about my fabulous lifestyle. That’s what Americans care about, you know.”

“Yes, yes,” Lloyd said, a hint of liveliness seeping into his voice. “In this current age of economic uncertainty, America wants to read about how rich you’re becoming. Sure, that’s what we want. That’s why Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous was discontinued all the way back in the mid-nineties.”

“Don’t be a smartass,” Michael said.

“Me? A smartass?” Lloyd chuckled. “You underestimate me. I wish you nothing but champagne wishes and caviar dreams.”

“Lloyd, it might be time to hang up on you. But before I do, just one question: have you been walking Buster like I asked?”

“Why on earth would I go over to your house to walk Buster?”

“I just thought that after you slept with my wife you’d have the decency to take Buster for a wal–”

“Michael, I’ll be the one hanging up this time. Give me a call when your head’s out of the clouds, alright? Maybe we can go fishing.”

The cold silence of a disconnected line followed. Michael didn’t care. It wouldn’t be his last opportunity to get the final word. His old buddy was probably at his house right now, sharing intimacies with Carol, lounging around in one of those gaudy robes he always wore on Saturdays when he wasn’t fishing. The stench of cigarette smoke was probably irritating Buster, and Lloyd was undoubtedly acting like a douche, puffing through his long cigarette holder with a dirty martini resting on the nightstand.

Michael was no stranger to watching Lloyd Luchtenberg hold himself to high standards, even on his bookkeeper’s salary. The man didn’t have a family; up until now he didn’t have a woman like Carol to suck the change from his pockets. He probably hadn’t even bothered to take Buster for a walk, but Michael didn’t care so long as someone fed him. Carol would see to it. She wasn’t that cruel, at least.

Michael exhaled a deep sigh that made his lungs ache with stiffness.

As he shoved the cell phone back into his pocket, a riveting pain rose from his hand and crept up his arm, causing an unexpected soreness to linger around the shoulder. The grossly abnormal sensations reminded him of the newfound stiffness in his feet, a tenderness that had accompanied his every step since returning from the middle of nowhere.

Michael was tired and needed rest. An afternoon void of interviews and worries was long overdue. There’d be women by the pool, hordes of them, in groups and by themselves, lounging on plastic recliners in tiny swimsuits that scarcely concealed their unmentionables. Michael wiped the sweat from his forehead, his worries dissolving as perspiration dripped from his fingertips onto the cemented walkway of Las Vegas Boulevard. By sundown he’d be sipping cocktails more expensive than any drink that had ever soiled the lips of Lloyd Luchtenberg, with his free hand pinioned between the thighs of an escort.

It occurred to Michael Milenko that the women standing on either side of him had probably seen the fountains outside the Bellagio shoot spears of water in synchronized rhythm to Viva Las Vegas more times than they cared to remember. He knew the flesh of their cheeks had spent so many hours scrunched into simulated displays of enthusiasm that remnants of artificial joy would be forever molded below their mascara-embroidered eyes.

Michael had yet to tire of watching the show. With an arm wrapped firmly around either woman’s waist, he watched with the passion of a tourist while his escorts seemingly resisted the urge to yawn.

Neither woman wore underwear. Michael’s hands had solved that mystery shortly after making their acquaintance, and for the amount of money that they’d extracted from those same hands, they’d soon be wearing nothing more than plastic smiles.

They walked casually toward the Flamingo. The evening was just beginning its progression into night as the fountains fired their final shots and the accompanying lights slowly faded into nothingness. Hints of darkness crept between the glows of sparkling casinos. Michael tried not to acknowledge the pain in his legs or the odd sensations moving toward his knees. The women on either side of him were of greater importance, and the discomfort of walking too quickly proved to be a minor distraction.

His hands were on their backsides before they reached the hotel, and their hands were all over his shoulders and chest as they entered the casino and weaved through the gauntlet of slot machines. In the elevator, they kissed his cheeks and his neck. Upon reaching Michael’s floor, they stumbled down the hall with their heels in hand, giggling like schoolgirls. They nearly ripped the shirt from Michael’s back before making it inside the suite. When the door closed, their dresses were on the floor before Michael could kick off his shoes and pour a drink.

Scratches lined his back from the night before. Additional marks littered across his chest and shoulders. They were inconsequential, nothing more than temporary battle wounds that Michael wanted to grow worse before healing.

The women rubbed his shoulders while he fondled their backsides and kissed their ears. The shorter of the two gave his penis a long stroke before falling back onto the bed. Spreading her legs, the look on her face made suggestions that no words could adequately articulate. Michael gave each of her feet a kiss, then ran his mouth up her body until his lips were pressed tightly against her neck. Long locks of blond hair brushed his face. As Michael slid inside, her long red nails tore into his back. He planted kiss after kiss on the woman’s neck, hearing a noise like nails scraping along a blackboard.

The unoccupied escort sat on the corner of the bed, scrunching her eyebrows. The escort Michael was screwing ran her hands through her hair, and Michael noticed that her nails had disintegrated and only bare fingertips now roamed up and down his body.

Michael ignored the fingernail chippings and panted like an out-of-shape old geezer, gasping for air between the deliverance of impersonal kisses that landed atop her cheeks and shoulders but nowhere near her lips.

The unoccupied escort brushed her palm back and forth across Michael’s calf and then his thigh, eventually traveling across his ass and over the hardened flesh of his back. She pulled her hand away, and without uttering a word, scooped her dress from the floor, stretched the expandable fabric over her young body, and then stepped back into her heels. Taking her Prada handbag from the table, she ruffled around inside, and then discarded a wad of cash. The door shut quietly behind her as Michael released a final, pleasurable scream.

He rolled off his temporary companion, then stretched his arms as sweat trickled from his greyish hair, dampening the pillow.

“What the fuck?” the woman said. “What the fuck happened to my nails?”

Extending her hands, she peered at her fingertips, and then scoured the bed with uncertain eyes. Chipped nails coated in red polish were strewn about. As the flustered blond woman cast vehement eyes on Michael, he felt his blood begin to boil. It warmed his head, his cheeks, and his chest, leaving a sour taste in his mouth. But the heat didn’t circulate all the way down his legs or to his hands. The twinges that gnawed at his stomach returned. The pain perpetuated in the uncomfortable silence, as they both peered around the empty room. Neither mentioned that the other escort had gone or that she’d left her money on the window-side table. The unspoken silence created a breed of discomfort that words could not have cured.

The escort slipped back into her dress, found her shoes, and grabbed her purse. The door slammed behind her, and the sound of her brisk footsteps soon faded into an undisturbed stillness.

The afterglow that Michael had paid for was overshadowed by aches and pains. He’d felt so young the night before. Making women scream while he slapped their asses and called them names had rejuvenated him. And now it did just the opposite. He wasn’t a young man. Even in his prime he’d never pleasured women by the pair. The over-indulged acts of youthfulness were bound to extract a toll from his sedentary self. Michael hurt. The pain moved all about his body. At his age, gallstones were a reality, as were kidney stones, even ulcers. It was nothing more than an impediment of passage. He didn’t know what caused his stomach to throb, and he didn’t care to speculate beyond common problems that could be relieved with common medical procedures. The broken nails weren’t his defect. There wasn’t anything weak about his keratin. His outsides had never felt stronger or more unbreakable.

It was time for a drink. Michael knew nothing better suited to wash away worry than a stiff bourbon on ice. He dressed significantly slower than the women who’d fled from the intimacies of his tough exterior and then took a moment to admire himself in the mirror.

Michael liked what stared back. The features were well proportioned, even attractive, and were accentuated by the refined dignity of receding hair that contained a modestly greyish quality. The new clothes concealed the imperfections of his unexercised body, and his entire look seeped with the residue of wealth. Even people who didn’t yet recognize his face could tell that he was somebody.

His muscles ached on the stroll to the elevator, throbbing with an unfamiliar stiffness. He pressed a big round button, and then watched the overarching numbers count down to lobby level.

Diving headfirst into a new lifestyle had been foolish. Michael longed for rest; he wanted more than just a day by the pool. Maybe he’d get a massage in the morning and spend the afternoon lounging at Cheetah’s, bourbon in hand while an endless parade of twenty-somethings waved their asses in his face. He needed to build up the anticipation, crave the forbidden fruit for a while instead of bloating his body with as many bites as he could muster.

More than that, he needed exercise, but not tonight. Tonight he needed cigarettes and bourbon, the ingredients for distraction. He’d gone long enough without smoking that an isolated binge shouldn’t hurt anything. Besides, Lloyd Luchtenberg wasn’t around to say, “I told you you’d start again someday.”

The flapper girl selling smokes was delightful, in a Cynthia Janese sort of way, and the smile on her face suggested that she recognized Michael.

All sorts of people were beginning to recognize the Magnificent Michael Milenko. They pointed him out to their friends over spilled drinks and hastily placed bets. Bells and whistles around the slots grew quieter as he walked by, heads turning in his direction.

Michael helped himself to a seat in front of Blazing 7s, slid a Benjamin Franklin into the machine, and then ordered his drink from a doll of a waitress. With a cigarette perched between his lips, Michael played the highest bet, repeatedly, as the night progressed with an ashtray and a collection of empty rocks glasses.

The weight of watching eyes rested on the back of Michael’s head, and he could hear their whisperings. When a member of the paparazzi popped up, he gave the camera a polite smile and a brief wave and then ignored the man altogether, leaving him free to snap all the pictures he wanted. With a crumpled matchbook in hand, Michael drove one tobacco-filled nail after another into his coffin, the pack growing smaller as the hours slid by. His mind entered a strange vortex where nothing tangible seemed to matter save for the pouring of fresh drinks. Money slowly disappeared from his pockets, but it made little difference. He didn’t even reach for his phone when it vibrated. There was nothing he cared to discuss with Lloyd Luchtenberg, and he didn’t much feel like gloating. It would be better to leave Lloyd in the dark, let him think he was tied up with the press, or negotiating his first talk show appearance.

Besides, it couldn’t be real. None of it felt real. It was just nervous anxiety. The pain would only be temporary. He wasn’t used to the desert, the enduring episodes of sex, and his body had a strange way of adjusting. That was all.

Kimberly came highly recommended. The desk clerk had nothing but kind words to say about the short redhead. She was cute, in an alluring way that often necessitates lewd comments, inappropriate suggestions, and the occasional misplaced hand on her backside.

After everything he’d been through, Michael just wanted the massage and nothing more. Sprawled helplessly atop the massage table, his face was tucked snugly into a padded opening at the head, a towel tossed carelessly over his midsection. Michael hardly noticed the warm sensation of oils dribbled over his skin, and he barely acknowledged the hands kneading his flesh like unbaked bread.

If Kimberly hadn’t cursed before stepping away from the table, extending her parted fingers as Michael lifted his head, he’d have never known that she’d broken her nails.

Kimberly gave her hands a final stare before shifting her attention toward Michael, her intruding eyes inspecting his body as though he were a lifeless dummy that had suddenly mutated into an amorphous blob of flesh and bone.

Rising from the table, Michael paid no mind as the towel fell to the floor. His limbs felt heavy and strangely lethargic, almost unwilling to move as he proceeded to the window-side table. He didn’t count the wad of cash that he scooped up, but he had a rough idea of the amount. It was enough to make women shed their clothing and taint their purity, and likely amounted to five or six times the cost of a massage.

Kimberly avoided eye contact as she snatched the wad from Michael’s hand, but allowed a quiet “Thank you” to pass between her lips.

Michael shooed her away like a river rat. She folded up her table. He stepped into his boxers, followed by a tattered pair of shorts that he’d owned prior to his wardrobe update at the Forum Shops. Opening his pack of smokes, he could hear Kimberly quietly closing the door behind her, and he sighed at the sight of one remaining cigarette.

He hadn’t planned on smoking after the pack was gone, but the virtues of self control no longer held any importance. Room service could send up another pack, and the minibar was stocked with an adequate selection of bourbon.

Michael stood before a wall mirror and examined his back. The collection of sores and scratch marks was gone. There wasn’t even a trace of redness where Kimberly’s nails had brushed against his shoulders, rather chalky indentations that were small, almost unnoticeable. He shrugged and stepped onto the balcony. Every muscle in his body stiffened as he parted the blinds and gazed down upon a city where hope flourished amongst encrusted scraps of despair. The degenerates were all ignored, sitting on street curbs like garbage that should have been ushered away, and the hopeful cared not to learn from the mistakes of the wretched.

Placing the cigarette between his uncharacteristically tough lips, Michael knew he could do the same. Nothing was happening that couldn’t be ignored. Besides, it wasn’t real. His surroundings weren’t even real. It was just an elaborate mirage in the middle of the desert, a man-made illusion constructed for no other purpose than to make his wallet lighter.

Michael saw little reason to stay any longer. The heat was affecting his judgment, and the women weren’t what they should have been.

It was time to wake his brain up with a drink and enjoy another pack of cigarettes while he pondered the possibilities of a limitless future.

The taste of booze lingered subtly about his mouth submerged beneath the stronger residue of cigarette smoke. His tongue tasted like an ashtray. It had been years since he’d quit, but even back then the balls of mucus he coughed up didn’t resemble the alien artifact that he’d just spat into the sink.

He’d been smoking for two weeks now, but the younger version of Michael Milenko was no stranger to coughed-up blood in the morning. Lloyd had given him his first cigarette when he was only fifteen, and he wasn’t even halfway through high school when the two of them started associating the pastime of pilfering trout from the river with the enjoyment of smoking one cigarette after another. But he’d never coughed up blood in such quantity, with sanguine liquid coating his mucus, even dribbling from his lips. He didn’t want to touch what had come out, not with his bare hands. And it couldn’t be washed down the drain.

Michael knew exactly what he’d spit up, but he still felt the need to poke at it, just to be sure. It wasn’t just one pebble, but several, each of them black as tar and tough as marble. They made coarse contact with the tip of his finger, though he hardly felt the friction.

Michael digested the scene splattered before him. A hoarse cough erupted from the pit of his upset stomach, causing a second spattering of pebbles to let loose, a rich coating of mucous preventing them from making a clank as they hit the side of the sink and were immediately suctioned into place. Larger spurts of blood gushed from his mouth, coating his fingers as he touched his trembling lips. With shivers tickling the length of his spine, he couldn’t even feel the wetness of the blood.

“Motherfucker,” Michael repeated, slamming his fist down with such might that the countertop cracked beneath the blow. Jagged shards of granite bounced into the air. An indentation of his curled pinky was left behind, though he didn’t feel a thing. There wasn’t even a hint of numbness.

Stepping back, violent pains shot from his knees, as though bone was rubbing against bone. He’d never before suffered the malady of arthritis, but this felt real, too real. Pain climbed all the way up his thighs and cascaded down his shins. He didn’t feel it below his ankles. He couldn’t even move his toes. They were null and void to sensation, just like his fingers. But at least he could wiggle his fingers. He could hold his hands in front of his face without a shred of feeling.

Michael gazed into the mirror, reluctantly making eye contact with his reflection. He quietly pleaded for nothing to be out of the ordinary. He’d been in the desert for three weeks, so of course his throat was hoarse; it burned from a dryness that was gradually easing down his esophagus, tainting his digestive track with an inflammation that seemed to harden his interior.

“Snap the fuck out of it,” Michael yelled.

He fumbled with the knobs on the sink, eventually managing to release some warm water. Cupping both hands beneath the faucet, he couldn’t feel the accumulated wetness. Splashing it over his face to wash the blood from his lips, there was no sensation at all. He needed to quit smoking, stop ordering room service that was piled high with bacon and eggs, lay off the booze, and most importantly, get out of the desert. If he did all that, he’d feel better. He had to. Whatever was attacking him from the inside would go away. He could live the rest of his life any place he wanted, and he’d be stinking, filthy rich.

Michael’s body ached when he turned the faucet off. His knees screamed in pain as he hobbled out of the washroom. He lacked the wherewithal to gather up his cash and leave. He was sick, and he didn’t expect to get better until someone helped him escape from this horrid desert air.

Picking up the cell phone was a reluctant gesture, for he knew only one man who could help.

Lloyd answered on the first ring, as though he’d been expecting the call. Michael could just picture him, staying over at his house, reading his newspaper, and drinking his booze while seeking comfort in the arms of his wife. Had he even bothered to walk Buster? Michael doubted it. The man had nothing to one-up him with by walking a dog.

Lloyd Luchtenberg was a man of superficial actions, and Michael was reminded of this by his tone of voice: “Oh, Michael, calling again already, are we? I’ll save you a little time. The answers to your questions are, no, I’m not sleeping with your wife, and because of that there’s really no reason why I’d take Buster for a walk.”

“Lloyd, let’s cut the bullshit.” Michael paused to clear his throat. The mucus lining of his throat felt like concrete. “I’m sick. I’m really sick.”

“You sound it, good friend.”

“It’s the gawd-awful climate out here. It’s so hot, so dry. And I haven’t taken care of myself, not just now but for years, and it feels like it’s catching up with me. I need your help.”

Lloyd didn’t respond immediately, as if he was searching for the right words to fill the uncomfortable silence. Michael knew what he wanted to say, but he also knew that his own voice was weak, raspy, and even Lloyd Luchtenberg knew better than to kick a man while he’s down. The long silence finally broke: “How can I help?”

“I’m at the Flamingo, still in the Hunter S. Thompson Suite. Room nineteen seventy-two. One. Nine. Seven. Two. Everything I’ve earned these past three weeks is in cash, stuffed in the closet. I ain’t got the strength to pick it up and get it myself out outta here. Lloyd, I need to leave this filthy city. I’ve gotta get out of the desert and get myself someplace where I can rest and recuperate.”

“Michael, I’m on my way,” Lloyd said. “Just hold tight an—”

Michael Milenko let the cell phone slide from his hand and onto the floor without bothering to disconnect.

Lloyd Luchtenberg arrived at the Las Vegas airport at three o’clock in the morning. The flesh on his back was still raw from Carol’s fingernails, just as the flesh beneath his ear still carried teeth marks from kisses planted too hastily.

He caught a pink taxicab to the Flamingo, the driver weaving in and out of traffic while the glitter of fluorescent lights sparkled on either side. A full moon shimmered overhead. The air was cool, particularly for late summer.

Passing through a gauntlet of gold and pink lights, Lloyd entered the hotel and made his way to the elevator, mentally disregarding the onslaught of bells and buzzers, the proverbial yawns and lazy sighs emerging from craps tables as hard-earned income diligently became property of the casino.

The door to room one-nine-seven-two was ajar, and Lloyd shut it quickly behind him, ensuring that it was locked and he wouldn’t be disturbed. The sight made his stomach churn, though it didn’t surprise him. None of it surprised him save for the piles of cash stuffed inside the closet. He had a rough idea of how much was there. Michael had gloated endlessly about his earnings, and Lloyd only had one question: How much had yet to be spent?

The answer appeared favorable. The stacks were piled high, all in large bills. Lloyd shook his head and laughed. America really wanted to read about Michael Milenko’s little stunt, and the fruits of this strange and bizarre fascination stood before him.

Biting his lip, Lloyd scooped the cell phone from his pocket and placed a call.

“Carol,” Lloyd said, his tired eyes glued to a stone statue once constituting the mortal being of his good friend and lifelong rival.

“Yes. Lloyd, is that you?”

Lloyd Luchtenberg scratched his temple and shook his head. The money behind the statue never strayed from his eyesight.

“We’re through, Carol. Do you hear me? We’re through.”

“What? Lloyd? Why would you say such a thi–”

Lloyd dropped the cell phone back into his pocket.

He inspected the statue of Michael Milenko. His old friend had hardened with a macabre expression chiseled into his face, pure terror captured in his unbelieving eyes. The arms were straight, resting at the side, as though he’d given up and just stood there, no longer trying to fight it.

Ashtrays littered the room, stuffed tight with cigarette butts. The walls expelled an odor of mildewed smoke. Unfinished room service was strewn about, just beginning to acquire mold around the edges.

Lloyd suspected that he’d find an empty bottle of booze for every pack of cigarettes, a near-empty bottle of wine for every entrée. It was a miracle that Michael hadn’t burnt the place down, given his newfound stiffness and the collection of half-burnt cigarettes on the floor. The stacks of money were clean, but everything else carried layers of filth. Even Michael’s new wardrobe had been flung around the room.

Only one piece of luggage rested within the spacious walls of the Hunter S. Thompson Suite.

Just like Michael , Lloyd thought. He came here to collect millions, and only brought one suitcase.

Lloyd didn’t trust armored car services, not in a mob-infested town like Las Vegas. More suitcases would be necessary in order to get all of that cash to a bank. He didn’t yet know where he’d move, what he’d do, or how he’d live. But two absolutes had certainly become manifest: Carol wasn’t going to be a part of it, and Lloyd would never do anything half as stupid as Michael had. There weren’t enough riches in the world to tempt him into a stunt like that, and he could do without the fame, not to mention the undesired side effects that would transform him into his own commemorative statue, just like his old fishing buddy.

Looking Medusa in the eye was clearly not worth the risk, even if Lloyd Luchtenberg thought he could pull the stunt off with greater success than had the Magnificent Michael Milenko. •