The story of this year’s Las Vegas trip started to unfold in Spring 2020. As the lockdowns and the quarantines began, and as vacations were scuttled one after the other, the Fall Las Vegas trip seemed untouchable.
As the months continued and the restrictions either stayed in place or very slowly receded, the trip started to seem somewhat touchable. Then very touchable. Then this thing started to border on unlikely.
Guys started to drop out, some officially and unequivocally, and others unofficially with some wishy-washy in their voices.
Throughout it all, I stayed in my home office, scampering around my hamster wheel. As wheels go, it’s pretty awesome. Our jobs remained safe. Our kids remained healthy. But a wheel is a wheel is a wheel, and round and round I ran.
I felt the need to jump off. So I read, and I planned, and I bounced ideas off the other guys. We came up with a trip plan and an itinerary that would minimize our risk of coronavirus exposure.
I’ve been back for more than a week now and I haven’t shown any COVID symptoms. G-$ had some flu-like symptoms over the weekend, but our group of nine was relieved to hear his negative test result. With each passing day, it looks like our plan—and its execution—were successful.
In short, it was all worth it. The extra planning, the extra hand-wringing, the back-and-forths on this restaurant or that one. I wore a mask a lot—so much that my ears started to get a little raw and sore. Working from home, I haven’t had to wear one a lot, just when I go out to buy groceries or pick up takeout, so my face wasn’t used to it. But I’d do it again in a heartbeat to spend a few days with my buddies, participating in our usual brand of tomfoolery.
So before I jump back on my wheel, I’ll recap this weird, wild trip. Masks. Social distancing. Plexiglass everywhere—well, almost everywhere…
Our flight down out of SeaTac was “corona-full,” which is to say, it was full save for the middle seats, which continue to go unsold. After plopping into my seat, I was invited by Miles and G-$ (and a stewardess) to swap into the middle seat between them. I happily obliged and Alaska was able to sell my seat to a standby passenger. Everyone wins!
The Downtown Grand offered a few of us a 3-night comp, and the Golden Gate ponied up a 3-night comp for a few more of us, so after a couple hours of checking in and a bit of who’s-staying-where, we were ready to enjoy some post-check-in-beer beers. After a quick survey of the DTG casino floor, we decided our best option for playing in proximity to each other was to seat ourselves at the bar. With pay scales at full-pay, the bartop proved to be not only a great social option, but also the best financial option.
And away we went! I opened up with $1 8/5 BP, thinking that if I could grab a quick 4 of-a-kind, I could surf the momentum until dinner. Miles hit the first 4 of-a-kind and he ordered up a round of shots for G-$ on his right and me on his left. A short time later, G-$ hit a 4OAK, and then I hit 4 Queens. I texted a photo of the beauties to my wife and told “my queen” I was thinking of her. Yeah, it was cheezy, but gimme a break, I was barely an hour in and was already sucking down my third Jager.
As Jared grabbed a seat one off from G-$, and as Sergent pulled into the seat around the corner of the bar from me, I hit 4 7’s. I did not advertise the fact, because another Jager shot did not at that moment seem prudent. But when I hit the quad 4’s a half-hour later and quad deuces a half-hour after that, I was boisterous indeed!
The Triple George certainly did not need my multiple Jager shots, nor my hefty video poker winnings, to taste better—it was great all by itself! Seeking restaurants with an outdoor patio, I selected this as the replacement for Steak Night. But steaks were certainly available, and while a couple guys had terrific slabs of meat, I had the highly-recommended and well-reviewed fried chicken. Although I was a little too blitzed to truly, properly enjoy the meal, I can say with certainty that this was a great meal with great service. That we were outside on a beautiful, low-80s desert evening just added to the overall experience. Jersey and G-$, seated at the neighboring table, created their own chicken-and-steak combo by each ordering one of the entrees, then swapping half-portions. Genius!
We took Ogden up to Main Street, then over to the Go Go Golden Gate after our meal. One of our other adjustments for the trip would be avoiding the chaos of Fremont Street. While the people-watching is always sublime, we thought avoiding the semi-masked crowd was the smarter way to go. Along the way, we got to check out the soon-to-open Circa and its fabulous porte cochere, replete with a ceiling full of old-school blinking bulbs. Can’t wait to check it out next year.
We hit the Go Go Golden Gate and immediately went our separate directions. I headed for the slot club to redeem my $25 table play and my $25 LVA POV match play coupon, then made an orbit to find Wilner seated in the center seat of a $15 table. I didn’t see anyone else, so I figured, what the heck, they’ll find us, and took a seat at 1st base, my preferred position.
This table, unlike all other places we visited, had no plexiglass dividers. All other casinos featured tables with plexi not only between players and dealer, but also between individual players, creating a phone-booth effect that was definitely a low point as far as COVID adjustments.
With the GGGG’s loud music, and wearing our masks, it was still difficult to have an intelligent (or unintelligent, as the Jager would have it) conversation with Wilner or with the dealer, but we did manage to have a few hours of fun nonetheless. The session started off ominously, as both my $25 free play and $25 MP were quick losers. I managed to win a hand here and there, though, and I thought I noticed that Wilner was making some hands and some dough, so I stuck it out.
A few shoes in, Miles and G-$ sat down next door. I don’t know how long they lasted, only that they didn’t last as long as Wilner and me. First David, then Damon, visited them, but were shooed along, first by G-$, then by casino security, because they weren’t permitted to linger behind the players at the table. I glanced over during a shuffle (which isn’t really a shuffle anymore as much as it is a deck change from the shuffle machine) to see Miles looking quite droopy. As G-$ explained it, “Jeff passed out, then we went home!”
Miles’s explanation for their departure was similar. To explain why he stood on a 15 against a dealer 10, he said, “I was dreamin’ I had different cards!”
So down the street they went. “I was very blurry, eyes tired,” explained Miles. “Gavin wanted to gamble more and since we were back to our hotel I said ‘nite nite.’” That means Miles was left to his own devices to maneuver from the lobby to his bed. Somehow, he had an adventure.
“The escalators to our tower were closed, and signs directed you to the elevators. I still think someone got stabbed up there and they were cleaning up. Why the hell else would they close both escalators? Anyway, when I went over there, there was a crowd of people waiting, and you’re only supposed to have 2 people in an elevator. I gave up on the elevator—it was going to take too long and I might have to sleep in the lobby, so why not just step over the barrier and walk up?”
“Immediately I heard, ’Hey, you! What are you doing?’ A pair of security guards hurried over. I told them about the elevators, and one of them volunteered to take me across the street to the Grand Tower elevators.”
(At this point in the story retelling, G-$ and I told him this sounded like an extremely bad idea.)
“So we went across the street, and he unlocked a door (Danger, Will Rogers! Danger!) and we went inside this dark room. He hit the elevator button and when the doors opened, he let me in.”
Meanwhile, back up at the Go Go Golden Gate, my steady drain (of money as well as energy) was taking its toll, but as I spied over at Wilner’s stacks, they seemed to be continuing on the upswing. So I stayed on this lukewarm-to-cool table, but after another shoe or two, I’d had it. With just $30 left, I squared it up as a walkaway bet.
Back at the Grand, G-$ had finally decided to call it a night. Crossing the skybridge, he trailed a small group of younger partiers, one of whom was on her first trip to Las Vegas. G-$ celebrated with the group, shouting a few words of encouragement.
The Vegas Virgin then lifted her shirt, giving him a brief flash.
“Vegas!” shouted G-$.
Back at the GGGG, I received some doubling cards on my walkaway bet. Sigh. I went into my pocket for another hundy, doubled the bet…
…and whaddaya know, it hit! Not only that, but that double ushered in a terrific run of cards—not a monster like my old Riverboat run with my dad a gazillion years ago in Shreveport, but still, it was a great run. And you know, at a $15 table, minimum bets, sprinkled with upsized (and super-sized) bets, really add up! After another 3 or 4 shoes, and some supportive dealers, I finally retired and colored up, receiving my first pink chip as part of the haul.
Although the plan was to avoid Fremont Street, by the time Wilner and I left the GGGG casino cage, it was late enough (early enough?) to walk under the canopy and straight on to the Grand. I’m sure Wilner wanted food of some sort, and I vaguely remember telling him no way, I’m going to bed. So I guess that’s why I don’t remember if Wilner got in the elevator with me or not.
Whatever. I arrived home to hear the Tee Vee roaring away at high volumes in G-$ and Miles’s room, so I swung the connecting door closed before hitting the hay. I know, I know, genius.
Saturday morning arrived early as it always does. While pulling on a pair of shorts, I settled an internal debate on how to get to Starbucks. I tugged on my running shoes and walked out, instead of opening the connecting door to root through G-$’s shit for the rental car keys.
The internal debate was generated in part by the news coverage of violence being on the upswing, mostly on the Strip but elsewhere as well. My walk takes me past the regional justice building and the area is typically pretty deserted on my weekend walks, so with my running shoes, I thought I’d be able to escape anything I saw coming. It didn’t matter as nothing remotely interesting happened on Saturday, Sunday or Monday mornings.
When I arrived home with coffees and breakfast sandwiches, G-$ and Miles were not yet stirring, but they were fixin’ to. The coffee put a little pep in their step, and I started to slide next door for a shower.
“A shower! Why the hell you need a shower? We’re goin’ golfin’,” railed Miles.
“I’m taking a shower too,” said G-$.
“Aw, what the hell…”
“Miles, I only shower twice a week at home,” I explained. “I’m going to take advantage of this shower here. This whole ‘work-from-home’ thing has me on a much different schedule.”
“Yeah, same,” G-$ chimed in. “Mondays and Thursdays!”
“Those are my days too!”
“You guys are disgusting,” Miles grunted.
Temperatures and conditions out at Angel Park’s Mountain course were terrific, and we had a raucous time on the course. As Pat (the opposing foursome’s supposed weak link) slotted a perfect drive up the right-center of the first fairway, I began to have an inkling that the group of Sims, Jared, Pat and Wilner would be hard to beat.
G-$, Miles and I took a cool selfie to send to our missing 4th golfer, Jonny Reno, who got some bad roof news the week before the trip and bowed out. We missed ya, pal.
The #9 tee box was guarded by a huge flock of Canadian geese, and as we approached the box with our drivers, the geese appeared nonplussed. They casually wandered out of our way, giving us a somewhat narrow berth for our shots. We were surrounded on three sides by the geese, and even as I teed off, then G-$ teed off, they couldn’t have cared less.
That’s too bad, because Miles, with his typical vicious backswing and ferocious follow-through, sent an unintentional low screamer just over the lip of the tee box and into a goose’s undefended body. The thump we heard left no doubt that the shot would do damage. None of us really investigated further, but I did see him flailing a wing.
“Coyotes are going to have a good dinner tonight,” a dejected Miles said, shaking his head.
We laughed a lot during the round, did our best to keep the cocktail wagon in business, and even hit a few good shots. In particular I had another really close call on the par-3 15th hole, landing a 7-iron to about 3 feet, somehow backspinning it to a foot or so. Great shot, one I birdied for us with my trusty putter in one hand and my trusty Coors Light in the other, but it was our only bird (except the goose) for the day, so our +2 was three shots off the -1 pace set by Sims, Jared, Wilner and Pat. Nice job, fellas. Most of the damage they did was on the back nine, as they reported being even at the turn. Pat, doing his best Miles impression, also tagged a goose on #9, but his goose seemed fine as it paddled around in the lake. But Wilner did apparently serenade his group all day long with a brief song about his new sand wedge. Lucky them.
While the golfers were killing golf balls, brain cells and a goose, David and Damon were having a bunch of fun playing quarter 8/5 Bonus. I saw a few 4 of-a-kind photos drift in. First it was 4 Aces hit by David, then 4 Kings. And, sitting at my machine from the previous night, Damon lined up his first-ever 4 OAK: Aces! Nice work Damon!
After a short break to change out of our sweaty golf shirts, we hit the Grand gambling floor for a while before dinner. I took another shot at $1 8/5 Bonus, this time losing $200 despite hitting 4 6’s and 4 7’s.
Looking to shake things up before dinner, I took the POV out of my back pocket and cashed in the $50 matchplay coupon. I had noticed the new $1 table was entertaining just a single player at 1st base, so I hustled over to see what would happen. As I took a seat at 3rd base, I discerned that the player across from me was just learning the game, so I guess I gave him an unintended lesson in aggressive (but accurate) play.
I cashed for a hundred, slid 10 red chips out on top of the coupon, and received a pair of 3’s. I glanced over and sure enough, the dealer flipped a 3 of her own. I’d lived this story before, and it rarely ends with a boring outcome. I wasn’t headed for a tie—I was looking at the thrill of victory or the agony of defeat.
My erstwhile student raised an eyebrow as I slide another tall stack of red chips and signaled a pair split. The first 3 received some garbage, and the second received another 3. As my heart started to bunny rabbit, I pulled another hundred out, cashed it for chips and split out the additional three.
“Damn,” First Base said, “You a baller.”
Garbage cards rained down on my other 3’s, and the dealer flipped a 7 to go with her own three. My heart seemed as if it were ready to leave my chest and go back down to the Go Go Golden Gate. Anywhere but here.
Amazingly, a little card came out of the shuffleupagus machine, then a ten, for an immediate and wonderful $200 profit, wiping out a couple hours’ worth of losses on video poker. I slid a bet out for the dealer and played a few more hands until I thought I could walk away from the table without passing out. Aye carumba.
Once again avoiding Fremont Street, we took Ogden down behind the Fremont East neighborhood, then turned right to approach The Kitchen at Atomic. As we entered and were seated on their spacious patio, I thanked Beatrice for her help on the reservation (and multiple changes). She was the first of many Atomic Kitchen servers who were funny, courteous and prompt. Our food was upscale pub fare, and it was delicious. The cheese sticks in particular may have been the best I’ve ever had, somehow thick yet light, fluffy and crunchy. I drank a couple of “Down in the Forests,” selecting gin as my spirit to go with blackberry, lemon, lavender, apple cider vinegar and cinnamon. It was tasty and a great accompaniment to my spicy buffalo chicken sandwich. At our table, we heard Damon tell a few amusing stories about COVID life as a manager for one of Red Robin’s busiest (and most seasonally impacted) locations. The headline: it’s not fun, but it’s damn funny. To my right, Pat miserably told a tale of forgetting to hit “cash out,” thereby leaving some $120 in his video poker machine. Oh, Pat.
The parade back to the DTG took us past the Bling, so naturally we stepped inside. I ran a quick out route to the slot club to redeem my free play coupon. After redeeming the coupon and losing the associated FP, I wandered the floor, looking for friends and/or good gambling options. After a few increasingly confusing texts, I finally found most of the fellas in the corner playing video craps with the giant, wobbling dice encased in a translucent bubble reminiscent of Trouble.
I watched the game and chatted with David, who was playing video poker at a neighboring machine, but when Miles wandered up, I was ready to leave. Everyone agreed, and Wilner led the charge away from the game. His route took him first to the cash machine, then perhaps past a pickpocket, because late that night he texted the group to see if anyone had his wallet. Ouch. Luckily, he had stashed the newly acquired cash in a front pocket. Not-so-luckily, he would spend the next day trying to figure out how to get on a plane without photo ID. It worked out and he got home, but that’s the last we saw of Wilner for the trip.
We arrived back to our home casino and found our way quickly back to the bartop video poker. This time, I eschewed the dollar game and instead chased the $1,700+ RF progressive on the DDB game. Next to David and G-$ (for a little while), I lost another $240, then trailed Miles and G-$ as they played a penny slot along the wall. The evening wound down in a somewhat mellow fashion, and I woke up Sunday morning quite a bit less hungover than Saturday.
Surprisingly, Miles and G-$ wanted to accompany me on the walk to Starbucks. It didn’t take long for them to regret that decision, but I found it to be a wonderful start to the day. We walked, we bullshitted, we donned our masks, we ordered, we bullshitted, and we enjoyed our food on the patio of the Starbucks as the day started to heat up.
With an expectation that sports watching might be quite a different in the Time of COVID, we had planned to go go-cart racing at Pole Position Raceway near the Palms and Gold Coast. Jared, Damon and Sims opted out, choosing instead to bet on and enjoy the many NFL games of the day.
Before we left for the racetrack, Miles and I played a bit of nickel Ultimate X. Although I was down early, a dealt 3 Queens, on which I got the 4th Queen twice (with one of those on the 3x line), helped me stampede back and win $100.
Meanwhile, Wilner had apparently blazed a fiery trail on his way out of town: “Won $450 playing blackjack while killing time at the Grand, then hit 3 four-of-a-kinds playing $.50 vidpo. Gave TSA answers to weird questions and got through security. Currently sitting by my gate eating a Chili’s burger, contemplating going to Cinnabon before we board.”
(I’m betting that he got the Cinnabon.)
Over at Pole Position, our driving skills and aggression divided us into three factions: Hyper Aggressive (Pat and Miles); Aggressive (G-$); and Mater and the Motorhomes (David and me). Pat in particular subscribed more to the Cole Trickle school of thought (“Rubbin’ is racing”) than to the instructions given prior to our race (“Don’t hit other carts and racers”). He demonstrated his technique in race 2, when he eased me to the wall while executing a high-speed pass. Dick.
Our third (and final) race again featured Pat (“You big bully!”) making some aggressive moves, this time trying to push a 14-year-old driver (who himself had some questionable passing prevention moves) out of the way on a pass attempt. This earned Pat a killed motor and a sound verbal thrashing by one of the 17-year-old (18-? 19-? Does it matter, Pat’s almost 50, so this is high comedy regardless) Pole Position employees.
We enjoyed a round of beers while we went over the post-race stats. For our group of 5, Pat was the winner, with two first-place finishes and a 2nd. Miles had our other first-place finish and the two seconds. G-$ was easily our third-best racer, followed by Mater and the Motorhome. It was a damn good time, though like axe-throwing, I’m not sure we’ll follow it up with a second trip. The victim of a too-tight helmet, Sergent spent the afternoon with a pounding headache, which is too bad, because before heading back downtown we enjoyed a terrific dim sum at Ping Pang Pong and some silliness on the Gold Coast gambling floor. I won a grand total of $2, basically breaking even on some Multi-Strike and some nickel 10-play BP, while G-$ and Miles played some Wonder Woman and some of that Oktoberfest beer slot that G-$ loves.
Back home at the Grand, we hooked up with Sims, who not only had lost every one of his sports bets but also was the victim of Jared betting the “Don’t Come” on his bets and winning, and Jared and Damon. Before dinner I decided to take another run at the blackjack table with a $50 MP. This one did not go as well. Instead of a pair of 3’s, I got a stone cold 13. I didn’t bust, but the dough got scooped anyways. Having bought in for a hundred, I tried to see if I could at least crawl back to even, but ended up jumping off the table with just $3.
We checked in at Pizza Rock right on time, and the friendly hostess ushered us to 2 tables in the back of the restaurant. After mourning the loss of Lone Star, I ordered a gin & soda (“Soda, right, not tonic? I’m a soda gal too,” said our server), and it was a great accompaniment to the terrific pizza. For our hungry table of 4, we got a Caesar salad, some calamari (½ regular, ½ spicy), a Little Italy and a New Yorker. This was still a couple slices too many, but in terms of leftovers, this represented a drastic improvement over last year.
As the marvelous meal wound down, we asked our server for one last favor: because our pal Mattt, one of our usual captains for Monday’s Chug ‘N’ Put Gamblepalooza, did not make this year’s trip, we needed a second team captain to oppose Sergent. She obliged, writing a nickname for everyone on a slip of paper, dropping them into a washbucket, and pulling out a name: Gin & Soda was drawn, and I therefore was your 2020 captain. We chose teams, grade-school-style, and paid the tab.
I really wanted to play some cards, so I led a group up to the GGGG to try to repeat Friday’s awesome experience. We talked Sergent into joining us. Although he’s not a card player, we told him about the terrific video poker available to him—and promised to join him after we won a bunch of money playing blackjack.
While Sergent and I worked out our battle plan for our respective teams, G-$ and Miles opened up a table. After working out an equitable—and hopefully competitive—strategy for the CNPGP, I wandered around the corner to join the blackjack melee.
Forty minutes later, tails tucked between our legs, the three of us skulked back to the video poker machines. To say what we got was an ass-whipping would be an understatement. Our dealer was pleasant enough, and appeared supportive, but manoman, she pulled a whole lot of good hands and scooped a whole bunch of chips in a short amount of time.
Sergent was a bit surprised to see us so soon. We described the bloodbath that was the table, and slid some greenbacks into the video poker machines, wanting to chase down the 3 progressives—but really caring about the highest one. The resulting session was much less a money suck, which was welcome news to those of us trying to get our courage and equilibrium back. Cocktail service was bomb-diggity. Casino security was also bomb-diggity on its enforcement of mask-wearing. Take that however you want—I see it as a plus.
The 4-K progressive was hit early and often. We played for a few hours, and eventually G-$ cracked the straight flush progressive, which by that time was in excess of $100, with a nifty 9-through-K of hearts. (Oh, 9, why oh why couldn’t you have been an Ace?)
We marched along, trying to crack the royal flush progressive. As the beers flowed and the hands kept coming, we told stories of cocktail servers of trips past; heard stories from Miles & Sergent’s shared Moses Lake history; and played hand after hand. Our play, and our drinking, got slow, then slower, so finally I called it for us: next 4 of-a-kind (or royal flush) would send us to bed.
About a half-hour later, I lined up 4 Queens to the delight of 3 other sleepy dudes.
We executed our typical Monday morning scramble, checking out of the DTG (and GGGG), hitting the grocery store, checking into the Suncoast, and finally checking in at Angel Park for Chug ‘N’ Putt Gamblepalooza 12. The course was really quiet on this Monday afternoon, so we had our run of the Cloud Nine. We even saw the cocktailer—twice!—and did some more damage to our livers.
The event was great fun. G-$ won the title with a terrific, consistent round that was 3 strokes better than his personal best. I managed to win some solid dough, coaching the team to a team win, a 4-hole head-to-head advantage, and a KP—which ended up being worth 2 KP’s because nobody hit the #8 green.
The post-event party was scheduled for Miles & G-$’s 8th floor suite. We had grabbed a bunch of snacks, chips and dips at the grocery store, and invited the gang upstairs to hear the awards commentary and watch the Monday Night Football game. Our original plan also involved dinner, but as everyone turned their heads towards me, I was out. Out of ideas. Out of the leadership energy needed to get everyone downstairs for dinner or aligned on what additional takeout to order in. Just out. I know that I let people down, and I know that stuffing my face with mini pepperonis and chips was not the healthiest choice. But there you have it: if it’s not planned by Monday, it ain’t getting planned.
With some emerging, newfound self-awareness, I led a charge back downstairs for our last night of gambling. We decided to try cards again, and G-$, Miles and I settled ourselves into 3 pie wedges at a $5 table. These plexiglass barriers proved to be the thickest of the weekend, and conversation between myself and G-$ (separated by Miles) was impossible. Miles, in fact, ended up playing the telephone game anytime G-$ and I tried to exchange witticisms. This blackjack session could easily have gone off the rails in a hurry, as we all felt as if we were gambling in separate phone booths. But our three dealers (Mike and Net were two of them) were amazing. They clearly knew that the plexiglass was a struggle for players, and they went above and beyond the call of duty to make the game engaging and fun.
Mike, for example, went along with us when Miles decided to start taking advantage of the second betting circle in his fishbowl. Calling the second bet (bettor) Jon, he placed bets and controlled a second bankroll. Mike rolled right along with it, congratulating Jon on good hands and commiserating with him on poor ones. Similarly, Net enjoyed giving me fist bumps against the plexiglass for good hands—particularly those on which she was also a winner.
At some point, I convinced Miles to swap from Coors Light to whiskey sours. Heh. Sorry pal.
Because of the combined efforts of dealers and cocktailer, we stayed at the table longer than maybe we would’ve otherwise—those booths were really weird and stuffy. G-$ and Miles were around even, while I ended up with another good run, having tucked 8 $25 chips into a shirt pocket during the session.
As we left the cashier cage, G-$ and Miles had that ol’ penny slot itch to scratch. I did not, so I found some nearby 8/5 Bonus and sat down with Sergent to fire away. Having reached our last night in Las Vegas in extremely good shape on the gambling end, I decided to finish as I started—at the dollar level.
Four Kings told me this was a swell idea, and a bonus 4 of-a-kind (possibly 3’s?) reinforced the notion. When I wandered over to the penny slots to boast my success, I was greeted with some sass from Miles: “Where’s the shots, wussy?”
Five minutes and a visit from the cocktailer later, we had shots. Was he happy? I’m not too sure. After they finished their penny run, they took Sergent’s place on either side of me. Miles didn’t last very long as the whiskey and shot (not to mention about a million Coors Lights) caught up to him. Somebody—probably Sergent—took him up to bed, while G-$ and I continued on. Holding K-J of hearts, I filled an improbable straight flush—and like G-$’s from the previous evening, was just an Ace short of being a royal. Oh man, that woulda been tasty.
But that hot tomato ensured I’d go to bed a big winner again, this time up nearly $600 on the session.
On Tuesday morning, we aborted our planned Starbucks run and instead joined Sergent at Du-Par’s for a traditional breakfast. Hungover me really enjoyed the eggs benny and hashbrowns, topped off with a bunch of decent coffee.
We rolled back upstairs to begin the painful process of checking out. But hearing the wonderful words, “Thank you sir, your balance is zero” made the pain of re-packing worthwhile. We trundled our stuff out to the car, loaded it, and then opened a few beers, as if we were tailgating for some nearby game. Upon emptying the beers, we decided not to screw around with going somewhere else and wandered back into the Suncoast to spend the last few hours.
Miles and G-$ sped for the penny slots, while Sergent, Sims and I explored some video poker. I found an Ultimate X machine and lost a hundy in it, while Sergent and Sims tried out Super Times Pay with similar results.
So I headed on back to my machine from last night. Determined to lock up a really nice casino win for the trip, I downshifted to quarters, hitting 4 6’s to cap the session up $20.
As we turned the rental car in, Miles wandered near (but still socially distanced from) the attendants, waving a half-empty bottle.
“Hey, you guys want some Fireball?”
They declined. Shame on them.
