We were well on our way into a nightly dose of liver cirrhosis; but falling energy levels caused us to seek out a means of recharging our drunk and gain a second wind. We found ourselves a couple of those notorious hourglass beverages: the ones that are fruity tasting, blended with ice, turbocharged with clear alcohol, and mixed strong enough to slaughter any amateur Las Vegas visitor.
After the painfully potent alcoholic venom was emptied from the hourglass vessels, our inebriation levels were brought back up to full power. We descended the escalator into the MGM Grand Hotel and Casino. Our conscious minds were further lost to greater depths while under the spell of the spinning reels of the one armed bandits.
I was accustomed to such high energy drinking and was approaching the end of my own massive motorcycle mission that led me from Nevada, through California, and back to Las Vegas. My friend had lived on the island of Vanuatu for some time and Vegas was a rendezvous before we both started travelling home.
This electric circus oasis was no place for a man straight out of the jungle. I began to worry about my colleague. There was no understanding the technique he applied while attempting to activate the spinning functions of a slot machine. I feared he had drifted into an unrecoverable madness.
An innocent cocktail waitress had given us complimentary beers. I carefully cajoled the jungle man and got him to leave his machine before casino security could approach us and question our odd behavior.
The jungle man was no longer making any sense about anything. The booze had stripped him of all English speaking vocal abilities—basic impetus was draining from his limps. The jungle man’s mind was still twisted up in a strange voodoo intoxication and it would likely be weeks or months, under the care of trained professional psychologists, before his mind could function correctly under Las Vegas’ harsh stimulus. There was no time to waste—I had to get this creature out of the casino.
The escalators, to the surface, were within our blurred vision. However, instinct took over the jungle man. Like a hungry monkey running to a banana tree, the jungle man ran towards the Rainforest Café’s aquarium.
When I caught up it was too late—I was watching a terrible display unfold in front of me. The poor bastard had become a part of my savage and twisted journey to the limits of the mind while in the depths of pure drunkenness. I felt guilty for helping surrender another man into the deep rivers of alcohol. The situation before me was about to slip my own understanding.
Hobbes was a cackling mess, while positioned like a seal on the floor, in front of the Rainforest Café’s aquarium. His eyes darted back and forth following all the brilliantly colored fish moving effortlessly around the floor to ceiling tank. Laughter and animal sounds rang from his lips while he pointed and realized the irregularities in the aquatic species behind the glass. While all this played out, poor honest families with children shifted their way through the enormous gift shop in which the tank was located; they had feebly attempted to avoid us two sinful and villainous souls. Hobbes was entranced in the optics within the tank and I was swaggering while in deep alcoholic deliberation.
It seemed like hours went by before I was able to vocally access Hobbes’ conscious. This was achieved by diverting his curiosity to the Rain Forest Café’s photo booth. With our beers in guilty display, we became photographed with digitized jungle animals surrounding us. But for all Hobbes knew he was still in the Jungle—I think a piece of his mind will always remain there.
The Rain Forest Café was behind us; however, there was one last challenge awaiting we could leave the casino. The escalators upwards to the Vegas strip were no longer operating correctly. We were half way up the frozen stairs when, off to the side, the Café’s animatronic animal show started.
Hobbes broke free of his bloated-Caucasian-sea-porpoise handicap—he tried to transform into Super Dave Osborn and jump off the escalator towards the animatronic animals. Luckily—I caught Hobbes mid jump before he became part of the show. In hindsight, I suppose he wanted to share his beer with the mechanical gorilla.
If Hobbes would have been caught, dancing with all the mechanical Rain Forest Café animals, he would have been sent straight to the pound and later auctioned off to an illegal side street exotic wildlife display. I would have been deemed guilty by association, sentenced by a shady judge, and placed into Las Vegas slavery to silently hand out hooker cards on the corners. Thankfully we finished the ascent of the broken escalators and left the MGM Grand Hotel and Casino without being apprehended.
Hobbes and I had to eat again. We began our Vegas strip trek with bellies full from Big Macs. In our twisted alcoholic logic, it only seemed necessary to dine again at the popular burger franchise. I heard obscure oboe music playing in the back ground as we dined. Hobbes was oblivious to the music and struggled to maintain basic functions as he consumed his last chicken McNugget.
I’m positive that if I was to be examined in the final moments of finishing another Big Mac, a doctor would have warned of imminent death. Hobbes and I were collectively saturated in grease from the inside out—complete filth consumed us.
We were back on the strip and Hobbes starting talking about finding girls. He wasn’t interested in the ladies you had to pay for. He became rather adamant to find the ladies that congregate within a club, that were a struggle to enchant, and that took smooth convincing to have consensual sex with—on a first name basis only. I was skeptical but agreed with Hobbes’ proposal despite that neither of us were lucid enough converse with members of the opposite sex.
We returned to the Hard Rock Hotel and Casino and found another bar. Hobbes remained insistent on “finding where all the girls where at.” His eyes were open but the alcohol had sullied his vision. The bar whence we stood had a sufficient volume and agreeable ratio of women: there were three sharply dressed females to every jerk off in tasteless apparel—unfortunately Hobbes and I were both among the cohort wearing cheap attire.
An irresponsible bartender gave us more alcohol. Something started to cross fire within Hobbes’ jungle conscious. Hobbes’ vocabulary had further diminished to odd phrases. He began to verbally combine female sexual organ slurs with items that could be found on the McDonald’s menu.
The scene within the bar had become unmanageable: I was feeling over stimulated; Hobbes’ carried around a rum a coke he wasn’t drinking and talked in spirals—to no one. A few of the pretty ladies had become aware of our presence and were not impressed.
I manage to trick Hobbes into leaving the bar: I explained to him that if the authorities were to arrive at the scene, they surely would castrate both of us before sunrise. Hobbes was successfully corralled into our hotel room.
Neither of us got laid that evening. But I felt sexually assaulted by Hobbes’ dissolved vocabulary.
Hobbes fell asleep while mumbling incoherently to himself—there remained an untouched rum and coke on his nightstand. My own mind felt like a dozen ping pong balls were poured onto a spinning roulette table. It was well past the time for both of us to find some respite from this consciously peculiar Vegas nightmare and sleep.
I got up with the sunrise and pissed for what felt like an eternity. When I returned to my bed I saw Hobbes lying lifeless in the other queen bed. He was pale and his arm hung from the side.
Fear and poor judgement determined that I killed Hobbes by exposing him to an unmanageable amount of first world alcoholic toxins. Within a flash of a moment I saw myself arrested and beaten like an old rug for my crimes against humanity. Then Hobbes’ arm twitched; I was removed from my foul fantasy. Thankfully he survived the night and wasn’t dead.
I’ve been to Las Vegas, on a few different occasions, before and after that evening with Hobbes. It’s difficult to truly explain or recount a visit to Sin City. Depending on the person, the trip can ferment into many different experiences. I don’t think that anything Hobbes and I encountered needed to be mentally buried in the desert. Regardless, much of that night was collectively forgotten between the two of us.