THIS STORY DOESN’T END WITH A PERFECTLY TIMED MARK BRISCOE ELBOW FROM THE TOP ROPE.
BUT RATHER STARTS WITH THE FAINT CHIME OF A JACKPOT RINGING OUT, IN A SEEDY MOTEL, SITUATED JUST OFF THE WORLD FAMOUS LAS VEGAS STRIP.
A STORY ABOUT THE ROAD IN THE PROVERBIAL WILD, WILD WEST.
NOT BEING A GAMBLER NOR HAVING A POKER FACE. I SIT ON THE BUS AND LISTEN TO 2 HOMELESS MEN DISCUSSING WITH EACH OTHER WHERE IT IS THEY ARE GOING TO SLEEP TONIGHT, WHILST OTHERS AROUND THEM DISCUSS HOW MUCH MONEY THEY ARE GOING TO THROW AWAY INTO GAMES OF CHANCE. A DEPRESSING JUXTAPOSITION, BUT YET AN ACCURATE ONE.
A SAD CIRCUMSTANCE INDEED, BUT IT DOES GET ME THINKING, NOT ONLY ABOUT HOW MUCH MONEY MUST PASS THROUGH THIS CITY EACH DAY, BUT WHAT ABOUT THE PEOPLE....? WHO ACTUALLY COMES HERE? DRUNKEN HOOLIGANS LOOKING FOR A GOOD TIME? PROBLEM GAMBLERS DETERMINED TO CHASE THEIR LOSSES OR ASPIRING PERFORMERS AIMING TO MAKE IT IN THIS OASIS IN THE DESERT. WHY AM I HERE? I ASK MYSELF, WHAT IS MY ROLE?
TO BE HONEST I DON’T KNOW. SURROUNDED BY THOUSANDS OF FACES, ALL WITH AN AGENDA, I SIT FORWARD AND CHEER.
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