There, Sampson Jefry was, sitting under a light post, next to a Yard House Brewery near the Las Vegas strip, watching the people walk past. The kush he had bought from some dude on the strip earlier was stronger than he had expected. He reached into his left pant pocket, and a slight smile formed on his face as he looked above at the sky, at some clouds which oddly resembled a dick going into an anus. He pulled out a yellow pack of cigarettes. The pack was nearly empty, only three stogies remained. He grabbed one and brought it towards his dry lips, flicked the lighter, lit the stick, and inhaled deeply. “Oh, yeah,” he thought, “that’s the stuff–Hostess.” The peppery, toxic smoke filled his lungs. He observed those that walked past him: merry families, intrigued tourist, hungover party animals, homeless people, almost naked street performers, a baby walking a chihuahua. “A fucking baby walking a chihuahua?” he rubbed his eyes. Yes, it was a baby walking a chihuahua. “I must be tripping balls,” he thought, “that’s gotta be a midget, and this is some good shit, should have gotten the dealers number!”
He finished his cigarette, put it out, flicked the butt into a nearby trash can, got up and proceeded to walk towards where all the action seemed to be taking place. Ahead, there seemed to be a crowd of people gathered around some street performers. The street performers were a group of three girls. They were dressed very seductively. All of them wore short-shorts, fish netting shirts, no bras, stickers on the nipples of their mammaries, cowgirl boots, aviator shades, an abundance of make-up, and police caps. “Only in L.V.” thought Sampson.
He had arrived right on time for the performance of a life time. The girls sat behind a table, and on the table, over a clothe promoting a local strip club, rested three huge blue dildos, three peeled plantains, three peeled cucumbers, and in front of the table an orange Home Depot bucket for tips. The crowd, mostly male, as would be expected, anxiously waited for the show to commence, while Darudes–Sandstorm blasted from some nearby speakers. It was presumed that the three girls where going to be competing against one another in a “deep throat,” contest. Sex does sell, the side walk was crammed.
Sirens were heard coming from not too far down Las Vegas Boulevard, towards where all the action was taking place. There were many groans of disappointment coming from the crowd. Sampson looked around, one of the many groaning, was a lunatic stroking his dick over his piss-stained sweatpants, tongue out, loony-eyed, in the middle of the crowd–no fucks given. This was about the time Sampson’s high was killed. The cops arrived on the scene, the girls put away their toys, and the crowd disseminated.
As Sampson walk back toward his hotel room, he passed up another drug dealer, this one very sketchy looking, announcing as he walked past the crowd of people, “Coke, weed, coke, weed, weed coke?”
“Only in Las Vegas,” thought Sampson.