Interview with a Vampire
And I was enlightened by a Vegas Showgirl.
Among the bits of worthwhile and sage-like advice I’d been given en route to Vegas was, “See a classic titty show.” As the advice came from a woman, I felt less sketchy following it. Feminine advice cleansing the guilt, a glossy ad for “Bite” caught my licentious and lecherous attention. The coupon attached didn’t hurt.
Vegas has the upper and lower strip, then upper and lower crack-town leading to a hovel of Denny’s and a few waning casinos that bookend Vegas. The performance of Bite was at a casino right before the desert, conveniently located near Crack-town for easy body dumping. The power of naked vampire girls compelled me, but wanting to avoid having my own little episode of CSI, I took a cab. The Space Needle/Vegas World/Econo-Casino, while shabby and remote, did promise ample vampire skin, nubile nosfertu, and where else could I see this, aside from on 2 am movies on Showtime.
The show, featuring girls with eyeliner, fangs, scant and needless plot, lingerie too trashy for Fredric’s of Hollywood and accompanied by the Greatest Hits of Mullet Rock, was actually good.
Impractically beautiful women with fangs gyrated and danced while light and smoke flashed. Sweet, sweet mind candy. And did I mention the goddess selection of Vamps? 2 hours later, 2 hours of tits, teeth and thongs, the melodic strains of Kansas reverberating in my skull, I need a stiff drink. The $10 ticket included 2 comp drink tickets. Who am I to pass up free drinks?
The hotel bar was as remarkable as the hotel. Ill lit and smelling like spilled beer and cheap desperate pity sex. But I was in Vegas, so I’m repeating myself.
Choking down my second Bud Light an unearthly beautiful red-head walked up to the bar. Wait, I’ve heard this joke, a vampire walks into a bar. I barely recognized the nymphette with her clothes on and fangs out.
“Hi there.” I said. While she didn’t look old enough to drink, she was old enough to, well, I leave finishing that statement to you.
“Hi.” She said with cobalt eyes and enough boredom to share with the world.
“Can I ask you a question?”
“Sure.” She visibly braced for the inevitable badly clichéd pickup line. I had a burning question that needed to burst out like an alien from my chest, only with less ichor and more pervyness.
“What’s it like taking your clothes off and dancing naked for an audience?”
“I don’t really notice, I just do my job.”
And I was enlightened by a Vegas Showgirl.
“I don’t really notice, I just do my job.” Simple yet profound.