NO ENCORE FOR OLIVER

“Whooooo Shiiiiiiit!!! Look what the cat done dragged into Vegas!!!!” screamed the large, handsome, cowboy looking fellow that had come to greet us at the airport.

            I staggered off of Stan Peters’ Gulfstream V and watched as the cowboy fellow lifted Stan off of the floor in a hug that would have crushed a hearty Grizzly, no doubt. Hopefully you’ve read the last blog where the drinking binge that resulted in the flight to Las Vegas with Stan on his private jet began. Because Stan’s Gulfsream is well stocked with fine Scotch the drinking had continued unabated until the moment where our story continues:

            “James Whiskey Peet the third, I’d like you to meet the best and possibly most dysfunctional writer in Hollywood, Downtown Oliver Brown.”

            James Whiskey Peet the third, crushed my hand with a vice like grip. “Well any friend of Stan Peters the scummiest and most powerful producer in Hollywood is a friend of mine.”

 I pried my hand loose. “Are those real six shooters you’ve got strapped on there, James Whiskey Peet the third?” 

            He pulled the pearl handled, diamond studded, beautiful instruments of death with the skill of true shootest and fired off a couple shots each into the air. “Damn right they’re real—writer boy. And call me Whiskey Peet! Now enough of this shiiiiiit hop in the car and let’s go play some cards!” Then wrapping his arm around my shoulder. “Bet you don’t have any cars like this in that faggot, liberal city you just flew in from.”

            I took in Whiskey Peet’s Rolls Royce Phantom stretch limousine. It actually made Stan’s normal Rolls Royce Phantom look small. My eyes had some trouble focusing but eventually made their way down to the front of the car where they came to rest on an enormous set of what appeared to be solid silver steer horns.

            “This is a fine automobile Whiskey Peet. I take it that it’s equipped with a bar?”

            He slapped me on the back. “My boy! My boy! Get your ass in there and see for yourself.”

            Whiskey Peet shoved Stan and myself through the back door where we were greeted by a bunch of girls wearing nothing but chaps and cowgirl vests…And a guy named Dave.

            “Girls these are my boys from the coast!” The girls all said, “hi” on cue and made various comments about how cute we were. “And boys that’s my buddy Dave The Jew!”

            We shook hands with Dave The Jew and the car whisked us off to Seamless, which is apparently Dave The Jew’s favorite strip club. Now while I do not profess to be an expert on Vegas strip clubs I would usually have gone to Treasure for this type of harmless by Vegas standards fun. Seamless however, proved to be quite nice. I’m not exactly sure why with a car full of almost completely naked girls we went to a strip club, but then again I wasn’t exactly sure why I had agreed to fly to Vegas with Stan Peters only to find myself with a wild gun toting cowboy named Whiskey Peet.

            “I’m April. Who are you?” asked the beautiful girl that cuddled up to me at the bar at Seamless. It took a minute for me to realize that she didn’t have chaps on and thus wasn’t one of our posse.

            “I’m Downtown Oliver Brown, failed writer extraordinaire.”

            “I’ve read your blogs, they made me want to go to LA. Are you really Downtown Oliver Brown?”

            “It’s really me. I’m sure people come in here all of the time pretending to be broke, single, childless, critically acclaimed writer, but this time I’m here in the flesh.”

            She pressed her body into mine. “I’m here in the flesh too and I love guys with brains. Do you mind if I join you for a drink?”

            I rested my right hand on her derrière, which was nothing less than spectacular; I was particularly struck by the softness of her skin. “If you want to lap dance me you don’t have to go through the whole having a drink thing, I’m totally into you. I’ll give you all the money I can possibly borrow off of Stan The Scummy Producer and Whiskey Peet.”

            She kissed me on the cheek. “I want to have a drink with you…And you don’t have to pay me for dances…I’ve got money I’ll pay you.”

            “How much?” I asked.

            “Well I get twenty a dance, so I’ll pay you what everyone else pays me…It’s only fair.”

            As I sat there drinking with April I found myself not feeling so upset about not getting the inside look at LA Live that I had wanted. By the time she was pulling me back to the couches for the dancing part of the evening I couldn’t even remember why I lived in LA. Because this story is not written for an adult website I’ll skip the description of the dance April laid on me, but suffice it to say I was convinced by its conclusion that I could be happy the rest of my life with her.

            “No I can’t accept that,” I said pushing back the money April tried to hand me as I followed the Whiskey Peet express out the front doors into the giant Rolls Royce with silver steer horns.

            “A deals, a deal,” she said continuing to extend several hundred dollars in twenties my way.

            “My boy! My boy! A girl that wants to give you money is a keeper.” Then picking up April, who was still only dressed in a g-string and tiny bra, Whiskey Peet carried her off to the car. I’m guessing nobody bothered to question this unusual behavior because he still had his six shooters strapped to his thighs.

            Whiskey Peet’s house, all 50,000 feet of it, could best be described as western opulent. On the walls hung the handy work of three generations of Peet’s who had apparently never come across an animal that they didn’t want to shoot.

            “I call this Whiskey Peet’s at Whiskey Peet’s,” said Whiskey Peet to April and myself. I stared at the nicest casino I’d ever seen—that just happened to be in a private home that was larger than most hotels.

            “Very impressive,” I said to Whiskey Peet.

            “Let’s find a bedroom,” whispered April into my ear.

“I don’t always feel like going to the strip, too many foreigners and last time they complained about my guns—liberal fagoooots! I said I play a million dollars a hand boy and you don’t want me to have my guns…I’ll play in my own damn casino. I ain’t no public company, asset leveraged, new fangled casino owner. I own gold mines, silver mines, the largest cattle ranch in the country, and a million acres of land. I’m keeping my guns…Let’s play some poker boys!”

I cleared my throat. “I think a million dollar a hand poker sounds a little rich for my blood, Whiskey Peet.”

“Don’t give me that horse shiiiiiiit!!! I’ll stake you, my boy.”

“I also kind of wanted to a…” I nodded toward April.

“You can break that Equus caballus in later my boy…Hell I’ll stake her too…You know how to play poker little girl?”

April, having taken four years of Latin in college, was not thrilled about being referred to as a horse, and apparently had done pretty well in the World Series of Poker. “Well, I’ll give it a try Haus,” she said with a smile to Whiskey Peet.

Four hours later, the sun rising, Dave The Jew and I were bust, which meant I owed Whiskey Peet, Stan Peters, and April the stripper ten million dollars each. April on the other hand seemed to be up my ten million and another five.

I decided a trip to the spa would be a good idea, and after a great deal of convincing, Dave The Jew agreed to come with.

I called the Wynn, which is my spa of preference when I’m in Vegas.

“Hi this is the Spa at Encore. How can I help you?”

“Well I’ve been up all night drinking and gambling, I’m down thirty million that I don’t have and it looks like sex with April is out, at least until she’s done taking Whiskey Peet and Stan Peters to the cleaners. So, I was thinking a spa treatment might be called for…Oh, and I’m trying to call the Wynn.”

“Well Encore, is the new hotel at the Wynn and I highly recommend our new spa.”

“I usually go to the Wynn, but hey I’m always up to try something new. You’re sure it’s nice.”

“You’re going to love it…I’m sorry I didn’t ask your name?”

“Well there goes one of your diamond ratings,” I teased.

“Oh no, I’m so sorry, please don’t take away one of our diamonds—I’ll lose my job.”

“I was just kidding—relax. Besides my few million readers, no one cares what I think. Anyway, my name is Oliver Brown, but my friends all call me Downtown Oliver Brown.”

“Will you be coming by yourself Mr. Brown?’

“No, I talked Dave The Jew into coming with me. Make it a reservation for two.”

Where Dave The Jew got his hands on peyote, Lophophora williamsii if April is reading this, I don’t know, but I assure you it is much stronger than the shrooms I used to take in college, before I got kicked out.

The next thing I know I was being waved over by security at Encore. I was thinking that driving Whiskey Peets’ Palomino painted, convertible Lamborghini wasn’t such a good idea—as it attracted too much attention.

“Can I help you?” asked the Asian security guard in a decently fitted gray suit.

“We’re here for the spa,” I answered, ignoring the giant, fire breathing dragon that had appeared from nowhere in the driveway blowing flames out of its’ nostrils just missing the Lambo by a few feet.

“Do you have your employee I.D. with you?”

“No, but that’s because we’re not employees. I’m a writer—” And then there was a whole family of bunny rabbits frolicking on the hood of the car, which along with the fire breathing dragon I ignored. “And Dave here is a Jew—like your boss.”

“Well, Encore doesn’t open until Monday.” Twenty cars drove past us into the valet. “It’s just friends, family, and employees today.”

“Well, then why did the spa tell us to come on down?”

“You have an appointment?”

“Of course we do.”

“Can I see your license?” I gave him my license and he started dialing someone on his cell phone.

I turned to Dave. “Can you believe this guy? No wonder Whiskey Peet built his own casino.”

The Asian security guy came back. “Sorry, you don’t have an appointment.”

I called the spa. “Hi Marie, it’s Downtown Oliver Brown, they won’t let us in. The guy here is saying that we don’t have an appointment.” I hit the speaker phone button.

“You have an appointment Mr. Brown. And I cleared it with my supervisor.”

To which security responded. “I don’t know who that is. You could have called anybody.”

“Have him call extension 4008.”

The security guard dialed on his cell phone and walked away. As I feared might happen the dragon began to snatch the bunny rabbits off of the hood of the car, and one by one he tossed them in the air, roasted them with fire, and ate them. What seemed like and eternity later the security guy came back.

“I’m sorry Mr. Brown, but the supervisor at the spa did not have proper authorization to give you two an appointment and even with a license we cannot verify who you are right now.”

“Do you know who Kevyn Wynn is?” I asked.

“Yes, I know who Mr. Wynn’s daughter is.”

“Well, she knows me.”

“There’s no way to get a hold of Kevyn.”

“I’ll call her.” I hit Kevyn’s number on my iphone. “Hi Kevyn.”

“Hi Oliver dear.”

“What are you up to?” I asked forgetting I was about to be arrested by security for a moment.

“I’m skiing with Joey. And in a little bit we’re going over some friend’s of his for dinner. What are you up to?”

The Asian security guard glared at me. “Hey Kevyn, I was on my way to the spa at Encore…”

“Oliver, don’t call me about problems at the hotel. I don’t work there. I’ve had three calls already from friends…”

“But…”

“Dude, I’m on vacation with my boyfriend. I’m trying to relax. Do you understand? Don’t bother me for favors, Oliver!”

“Whatever Kevyn,” I said hanging up, thinking about the ten days her boyfriend Joey had just spent on my couch…funny how favors go.

The Asian security guard seemed pretty satisfied that I had just been told off by the owner of the hotel’s daughter. “Why don’t you come back on Monday Mr. Brown…The doors open at 8:00 p.m.”

“I think I’ll have to miss that. But I’ll figure out something to say about you guys.”

“Sorry you feel that way, Mr. Brown.”

I drove off. The dragon roared, upset that the last bunny rabbit was escaping on the hood of Whiskey Peets’ Lamborghini.

“That sucked,” I said to Dave The Jew.

“Yeah, I was enjoying the unicorn chasing the elf’s. But you know they shouldn’t have made an appointment if the place wasn’t open.”

“What about Kevyn going off on me like that? I just wanted to write something nice about her dad’s hotel.”

“Rich people can be sensitive about being asked for favors. She probably gets hit up by people all the time.”

I turned to Dave The Jew. “With great wealth comes, great responsibility, Dave. That’s the moral of the story. We all have to help each other. It doesn’t matter, rich or poor. We all have to be there for each other, otherwise the world it’ll just keep going the way it’s going.”

 

 

 

 

             

            

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