MMR: What happens in Vegas...

...goes in my blog.

I started out 2007 with the exact same blog post intro. I then went into detail about the trip and the insanity of the ride home. Not this year.

This year, my Vegas trip was too outrageous for me to write about. This year, for the most part, what happened in Vegas is staying in Vegas (and among those who were there). If you want to know more specific details about anything that happened, you can ask me in person. But I won't promise anything more than what you see here. Stories will be given out on a case by case basis based on whether I think you can handle it or not.

So, there will be no stories here about the girls from New York (who tried to fake name us while we were fake naming them). No stories about friends striking out with grenades. No stories about the strikingly beautiful swedish girls who found us and spent an hour with us on New Years Eve. No stories about bridesmaids and crashing wedding receptions. No stories about Hooters models and being opened instead of opening. No tales of how we drank, every day, from 1pm to 8am. Nothing. You get nothing...

Except this.

I wanted to tell the tale of our Conquering of Norway on our last night in town. It was a glorious feat that all should know about. And then Bubba wrote up his write-up, and it was perfect. In every way.

So, I don't usually do this, but this week's MMR will be done by a guest writer...Chaz "Bubba" Gerhart.


The Conquering
by "Bubba" Gerhart

The tale I will spin for you now is not one for the feint of heart. This is the story of destruction, demise, and drinking. Inebriation aside, the fall of Norway at the hands of myself and PQ will forever be known as “The Conquering”. Be ye warned, the following will bear some harsh imagery not for the weak, pregnant, or emo crybaby bitches. I give you… The Conquering!

It was our last night in Las Vegas. We had just rung in the New Year in style and parted with one of our traveling companions. PQ and I met up with our third friend for the trip, The Lieutenant at our usual haunt, a bar and lounge at the Luxor called Aurora. We surveyed the scene and took up a booth next to the one we had sat at the night previous when ringing in the New Year. Both The Lieutenant and PQ had seats overlooking the bar; I sat across the table from them and read their expressions as to the goings on behind me.

What was our mission this evening? We weren’t interested in the pursuit of the companionship of a female, but rather just a good time out with the boys on our last night in the city that never sleeps. I was informed of a beautiful blonde that had sat in eye view of my friends and they quickly gave me the play by play of a long haired skater looking cat that had swooped on her as soon as she sat down. We contemplated the savior angle, but decided to let it play out and enjoy the show. Our mulleted friend was shot down as quickly as he approached, but I have to hand it to the guy, he was persistent. He returned with his friend, a silky haired man in need of a shave and a haircut. They began the double team of the blonde trying to woo her back to their table, but again, no avail. We shared a few laughs at their expense and purchased another round.

This opening scene seemed to play out two more times identically to the first when PQ had a realization. All of the beautiful bunnies at the bar were being chased off within five minutes by the long haired classless bastards, leaving us no eye candy to enjoy from our booth against the far wall. A bet was laid out by The Lieutenant. For twenty dollars I was to approach our friends with the long locks and tell them not only to get haircuts, but that they were embarrassments to men everywhere and needed to just buy the companionship of a woman from the street corner. Having more than a fair shake of Gin in me, I obliged this bet. My approach was spot on; I snuck up to the bar beside them and ordered a Captain-Coke for PQ then turned to face my prey. The exchange was nothing but. I spoke my peace and they looked at me like I had just blown a snot rocket on their shoes. I knew in that instant they were foreign and had no idea what I had said.

The skater looking man with the curly hair spoke first, but not in opposition to my opening comment, but inquisitively regarding the cigar I held in my hand. He introduced himself as “Roy” from Norway and his accent proved that true. His friend, the one with the long silky hair that resembled one of the band Whitesnake, introduced himself as Evan. No accent on this one, but still a great lack of the English vernacular, led me to believe he too was foreign. He inquired about what it was I was smoking, and the dialogue followed something to this effect.

“My friend, what is that you are smoking?”
“It’s a cigar…”
“I know we just met, but would you allow me to try it?”
“Look Francine, you have a better chance of getting a knuckle sandwich than you do of getting to try this cigar. If you want one, go buy one from the cigarette girl roaming the casino floor. She’s in all black and has a tray in front of her, you can’t miss her.”
“Thank you my friend, we will do that right away.”

And with that I returned to the table to collect my $20. I looked to my left and saw my two Norwegian friends moving aggressively towards Maribel, our cocktail waitress for the evening. I knew they were drunk and stupid, but not colorblind… I had to correct the situation. I went over to them and told them that the girls in blue can’t get them smokes, they need the ones in black walking the casino floor. They nodded in half drunken agreement and stumbled off. Maribel smiled and mouthed me a little “thank you” from her position filling drink orders by the bar.

Upon returning to my seat, again, we shared a few laughs at the expense of the entertainment for the evening and realized that they would soon find the cigar lady. Once they did that, they were just drunk and stupid enough to return to the table next to us and try and spark up a conversation. A plan formed in our heads at this moment… the plan that would lead to the conquering of the country of Norway.

The Lieutenant assumed the identity Mr. Pettibone, an arms dealer from the Philadelphia area privately selling planes and other items not to be mentioned here. I ran with the name Chaz, head of security for Mr. Pettibone. PQ became Mr. Quinn, a soft spoken man who seemed to have his hands in multiple parts of the operation from security to finances… not one to be trifled with. The roles were established, now we needed the prey to fly back into our web.

Almost on queue our boys came stumbling back into the bar, Macanudos in hand. As anticipated they came right to me and wanted to thank me for my generosity in suggesting them a cigar. They wanted to meet my companions and the story we had spun was allowed to unfold. I stood immediately and would not let them approach “Mr. Pettibone” telling them that he is my employer and does not like to be bothered. Roy reached out to shake his hand and my arm quickly shot out and grabbed his wrist.

“You are not to touch Mr. Pettibone. It is nothing personal, but please don’t make that mistake again.”

With this Mr. Quinn and Mr. Pettibone both nodded their approval at my action as I invited our two new friends to sit with me and talk a while. They took up a table behind us and the look in their eye told me they were going to try their luck with the two ladies sitting across the lounge. Phase two of our plan was going to unfold, and by this time Maribel started to take notice to what was going on and only offered a wink and a smile in our direction. As Maribel went to our table to assist with phase two, I followed our Norwegian prey to the table and as soon as they started to embarrass themselves and scare off yet more women from the bar I swooped in on them and asked them to have a drink with us. My employer, Mr. Pettibone, in an act of good faith to prove no hard feelings would like to purchase them each a drink that we enjoy back home in Philadelphia. They seemed shocked and honored at this proposal and they headed back to our table. The ladies thanked me silently and I whispered to them to keep an eye on the boys with the long hair for some entertainment. Maribel had also told these ladies what we were up to as well as the other bartenders. Word of our sick joke had spread throughout the bar and all eyes were on us from this point on.

What did we order for our new friends? What is it that an arms dealer and his security staff drink back in Philadelphia? A little thing called a Three Wise Men. I’m sure some of you have heard of this, but not the way I ordered it. Take a highball glass and in it pour one shot each of Jack Daniels, Jim Beam, and Jose Cuervo. It looks like a beer and smells like a latrine. I set their drinks in front of them and told them that in Philly it is bad taste to not go bottoms up on this particular drink. We toasted to good health and up went the glasses. They did as instructed and pounded their three shots. As soon as their cups rested safely back upon the table you could hear a cumulative laugh and chuckle from the bar. Our friends sat with their hands propped on their knees, eyes closed, breathing slowly trying to force back the vomit that was sure to erupt from their lips at any moment. Drool slowly started to spill from the sides of their mouths and I could no longer contain my laughter. I bent down to tie my shoes (which possessed no laces) and let loose a belly-laugh which was quickly suppressed.

Once they maintained composure, our friends thanked their host graciously for the honor of a drink with him and complimented his taste in a good choice of mixed drinks. I saw the opportunity, but Mr. Quinn was quicker than I.

“Did you enjoy the drinks we ordered for you gentlemen?” spoke Mr. Quinn softly.
“Yes, indeed. We’ve never had those before and they are quite good.”
“Excellent, then you will join us for another round!”

The look of pain, suffering, and imminent regurgitation crossed their faces at that moment, but they were too drunk and stupid to turn down another round from the gracious host Mr. Pettibone. As the next round was ordered, Evan (the smooth haired Norwegian) told me that he had lost his wallet. I told him that if that was the case, he should not be wasting his time with us and should go to the security desk in case it was returned. I may be a prick, but an asshole is something I am not… especially when it comes to somebody’s identification and money. He agreed and departed, we never saw him again.

At this point, we had two drinks and one Norwegian to drink them. He was leery without his friend so “Mr. Pettibone” engaged him in conversation and asked Roy to join him on the couch. So enamored by the opportunity to shake hands and speak with the host, Roy obliged quickly and before long, that second drink was just an empty highball glass upon the table.

One drink to go, and one drunken foreigner yet still stuck in our web of humor. The conversation grew longer between the host and the guest. Stories of his father’s business spewed out in drunken slurring, a lucrative business that grosses 46k Euros a year. Amidst this drunken stammering came the question he had been wanting to ask us all night. I was asked if I had any pot or coke for sale. I can’t say I was surprised to hear this coming from this individual, but I took it as an insult that I would look like somebody dealing those substances. I quickly informed our guest that discussion of illegal substances was one quick way to end the conversation and the generosity of Mr. Pettibone and he immediately withdrew all talk of narcotics.

The Lieutenant raised his glass in toast of our friend, who raised his as well. Mr. Quinn and I put the kibosh on this drink immediately because at this point they were still on the couch together. The last thing I wanted was for my buddy to have to go upstairs covered in vomit, so we whispered in his ear and Roy was immediately relocated to his chair across the table. Apparently he took offense to my asking him to move and decided mouthing off to me was a good idea. Mr. Quinn, quick with the wit, informed Roy that taking an aggressive stance was a surefire way to find himself waking up in two to three days time.

Again the glasses went up and came down. With this, our friend was quite hammered and our joy at his stupor had expired. I went to the bar and he followed, still intent on starting trouble at my expense. The barkeep was surprised to find that our guest was quite belligerent and when I informed him of his desire to deal in narcotics, security was called immediately. Roy made two moves at this point; the first was an advance at me, stemmed by PQs quick interference stepping between us, then the second at Marisol, also stemmed by a restraint at the hand of PQ. A manager and security guard came and escorted our now Neanderthal drunk friend out of the casino.

We decided we had better change bars and at the smiles and nods of approval from many of the bar patrons who had enjoyed our spectacle, we left a tip on the table and moved on to Liquidity… conquerors of Norway… as three mere men with the aid of Three Wise Men.