The Strip is hip

Pepsi sticky dashboard vroom into cruise control city strip no passengers. Cream beige hat to toe fresh to impress SNAKEPIT VEGAS LOUNGE slide in. Crowd is moving as one to flashing disco gobo traffic light. Stop don’t stop at red. We throng, we throb, we mostly love that hand up our ass. Downtown turn a coin Vegas and own it baby becuz we love to belong like a bad drug. Faces are familiar burnt out vehicles from too much nothing in their daytime lives. Constant dust on sunlight breaks the brain. Failed punters all: flaky gamblers, cheesy balladeers, broken crooners, mutilated magicians and lost buggers all present and incorrect for we could not find the effort to be found. All drinking UV lit mauve tequila n slinky plastic cherry drinks off a mahogany work surface stroke bar. It’s where we mingle, infuse and swap stories along with tomorrow’s opportunities.
- Say there’s a strip club opening you free? I’m free!
- We’re free
- Well then that’s a threeway!
It would be networking but there ain’t no net hunny not even for the glass jar bunnies who patrol these aisles like frenzied storm troopers. Never settling. Never stopping. Never slowing down.

Deep sensitive souls are tethered on the upper level like a cord fitted to a toytown balloon and we pulse with the desire that some madman axe fellow will come and sever all ties that bind. It’s a link to be slashed.
- It’s the toilet flush
- It’s the armitage shanks
- It’s a bottle up my ass. You mean that?
- I mean it
- Ow baby god I smell sublime
- You smell of toilet paper. Industrial toilet paper glued to your tail feather by basin cleaner but oh you look divine
- hey fella, least I'm clean. Capiche?
Heaven knows we do not make connections we do not tote emotional commitment. Our hands are full with swizzlers, funky promo matchbooks and glow sticks, we are the tribe of Siegfried and Roy all gasping to puff into a ball of smoke until we are no more. Gripped by the claustrophobic intensity of a Penn and Teller show, Vegas becomes our cultural currency and The Bellagio becomes Roma. We breathe but we do not know what it is we head shoot. The rising heat from slot slot machines changes our complexion.

Push past the drones of money monkeys who work the gaming levers to get anywhere. We wonder what stood here before the obsessive compulsive. Dust bowl wit no soul. Alcohol is numb-making (given) plus sharper drugs spike up the feeling until its ramped up reality becomes a faded repetition and life is circular choo choo train you can’t get off. It’s all go go go for out of towners in crocodiling Limos made radioactive by The Strip. Mostly ageing obese once in a lifetimers are cocooned in the illuminated moving metal boxes whilst outside wild sharks are ready to snack on their carcass. Tick tock.
- Miss your plane darlin and you perish.
- Think you can survive outside of the MGM Grand I give a dollar to watch you try?
Doris of Idaho decides to stay on the Route after capturing it all on her Nokia. The snaps are crap. They are a thumb print. Which in itself is a form of identity. She sits contented.

Gamble a fortune. Lose your money. Gain your soul. It’s a spiritual lightbulb in a desert eschewing craziness. What did you expect? A chance for redemption, a chance for love baby? Well it’s all that too. Swing in wit the locals here in SNAKEPIT LOUNGE and it’s a different show you’ll see. Legs are kicking but the body’s already dead. Ain’t no vacation destination. But it is one helluva show. Oh it is. It’s legendary. Stay for breakfast. You’ll see.

OK game over chips down and a question asked. Where did we, the locals, the temporaries, the residents come from? That’s what we don’t know. It’s what we’re hanging around to find out amongst flashing fountains, flaring flames and flaming Lamborghinis. Stick it all on Lucy Seven.