Foreword: I started posting Downtown Oliver Brown on blogdowntown, a mostly news blog, back in 2008. It took just a few weeks for me to realize that  Downtown Oliver Brown needed a home like downtownster and so did a lot of other writers. And in 2009 downtownster was born. So now with downtownster up and running here is the first Downtown Oliver Brown written exclusively for downtownster:

Kristen, in public relations, could not believe such a matter could have fallen on her shoulders. Thousands of employees at the nicest resort casino in the world and it was her walking into the spa…to do the unthinkable.

            “Hi Danny, I need to speak to Mr. Wynn right away.”

            “He’s in the middle of a massage.”

            “It can’t wait, take me back there.”

            “Are you crazy?”

            “No, I just happened to stay late and be the only one in the office,” she said forcing a smile. “Lucky me,” she thought to herself.

            “This better be good,” said Steve Wynn, the legendary hotel and casino owner.

            “It’s all how you define good Mr. Wynn. If you mean good news…”

            “I mean good enough to interrupt my massage.”

            “Unfortunately, I’m afraid it’s exactly that kind of good.”

            “Don’t tell me…”

            “I’m sorry Mr. Wynn, but it seems as though Downtown Oliver Brown is in the hotel with his friends…”

            “Tell me he’s not with Dave The Jew and Stan Peters Hollywood’s scummiest and most powerful producer—again.”

            “They’re with him.”


            “Whiskey Peet and fat Andy are too.”

            Steve Wynn rolled off of the table wrapped in the 1,000-thread-count sheet. “First a global financial meltdown and now this. Can’t a billionaire get a break these days? Please tell me they haven’t made it to the tables yet…”

            “They’re playing a million hand…”



            “I love this place!” I said, betting another million. Originally, as you might recall from earlier blogs, playing million dollar a hand poker had made me nervous, but after hanging around with Whiskey Peet, Dave The Jew, Fat Andy, and Stan Peters (Hollywood’s scummiest and most powerful producer) long enough I had somehow become acclimated to this totally irresponsible behavior – given that unlike my friends I have, at best, two cents to rub together and at the time of this story still owed about ten million give or take from my previous trip to Vegas.

            “My boy! My boy! Of course you love this place! You live in Laaas Angeleees with 34 million liberal fagooots! What’s with all the fruity butterflies? Shiiiit not one dead animal carcass on the walls to be found…We should have just played at my place!” He turned to Dave The Jew. “Did you check on the White Lightning before you left?”

            “Sure I did,” responded Dave, going all in.

            Now this was not exactly true, but when your best friend is one of the richest men in the world and more importantly never leaves home without a six-shooter strapped to each thigh you get a pass if you stretch a little. And in this case, the still located in a three thousand foot shed behind Whiskey Peet’s fifty-five thousand foot mansion happens to be an elaborate contraption. We had tested some of the clear liquid magic but the gauges were impossible to read—mostly because we didn’t have a mirror handy and the white powder we poured out onto the glass made a hell of a mess.

            Anyway, given I don’t know a thing about poker I’m not too sure how I won, but I did and just like that my ten million dollar debt was gone.

            “Son of a BITCHHH!,” exclaimed Whiskey Peet. “What type of lucky Jew are you?” He said to Dave The Jew.

            “Shit,” said Fat Andy.

            “How the f**k was I supposed to know Oliver was holding…” Dave The Jew was saying when Steve Wynn walked up.

            “Gentleman, gentleman, what type of language is that—especially in the presence of ladies?”

            And for the first time we all noticed that Barbara Bush, the former First Lady, and one of her hot granddaughters were sitting with us.

            “Don’t worry about it Steve, I’ve played with a-holes like these guys before. Let’s see if the pussy writer can put together another flush.”

            “Pussy? Bring it on Old Lady!” I said. And then with the luck of a drunk Irishman she caught me with a pretty good right to the jaw. Frankly, I probably would have caught a beating but for Steve getting in the middle. I know I’m a former Golden Gloves Champion but the White Lightning and Cocaine had rendered me into a gelatinous blob with legs and arms. And the old broad still has plenty of steam left.

            “Guys why play in my casino when you could be having a good time in our new club?”

            “CLUB?” we all said simultaneously.

            “Well shiiiiit! We can always gamble at my place! It’s not some little fagggot club?”

            “Sixty-thousand-square-feet, I spent twelve million dollars on it—I think you boys are going to like this place,” assured Steve Wynn.

            Keeping my eye on Barbara I asked, “What’s the new club called?”

            “It’s called XS,” Steve said gently guiding us as a group away from the table.

            “You better hall ass out of here,” shouted Barbara after me.

            I began to turn around, however Steve’s firm grasp kept me on the path to the mega-club located conveniently between the Wynn and Encore. “Here we are.” He motioned for one of the well-dressed VIP hosts to come running. “Jared…”

            “Yes, Mr. Wynn!”

            “This here is Los Angeles’s very own great writer, Downtown Oliver Brown.” He nodded at the boys. “And friends. I want you to give them the best table in the place and make sure they have a great time—until closing. I’ll be very upset if I hear that they’re not in the club the rest of the night having a great time…Do you understand?”

            “Yes Mr. Wynn!”

            Steve seemed…how should I put it?…Relieved, when he turned to us. “You’re in good hands guys. Drink and dance the night away—“

            We followed Jared into XS the sixty-thousand-foot twelve-million-dollar-club. I no longer had ten million in gambling debts on my mind. My girlfriend was back in Los Angeles studying for midterms at USC or something…I felt that exited feeling that you can only feel in anticipation of a goodtime in Vegas. Steve was indeed a wise man. It was good that I quit while I was ahead. And then came the crushing of arms around my neck and breasts against my chest.

            “Oliver,” panted April The Stripper into my ear. Then here tongue was in my mouth, so I couldn’t possibly tell her about my girlfriend Nichole. “You came back for me! Who told you I was going to be at XS tonight? Oh it doesn’t matter just so that you’re here and we’re together.”

To be continued:



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