Viva Las Virus: Chapter 2
(note: sorry I've been out of it for so long. I've been...unmotivated to write in LJ. Happens alot, don't mind it. Enjoy the story!)
Saturday.
With brains full of breasts and time still bountiful, Laura and I awoke to resume our adventures. It was decided that Saturday was the day to see Cirque du Soleil, and that was the set plan for the evening. However, we still had an entire day to kill.
So, with the idea of perversion in mind...
I looked at an informative cocktail napkin containing wisdom from my favorite stripper, Phoenix. The name of what could possibly be an excellent clothing store which would no doubt have leads to stores of a far more perverse nature. It was decided that we would set forth to find this place. After a buffet breakfast, we began to gather as much information as we could. What we learned was a new rule of Las Vegas: 5.) NO ONE gives proper directions. They give out such information portionally, so you have to piece it together yourself and hope that you are correct. Sadly, this rule was not immediately learned until the end of our little side quest. We hopped a bus and got dropped off at an intersecting pair of roads, whose names escape me. I relearned a well-known rule of the sun: 1.) NEVER wear a tank top in sunny-ass weather, or you will regret it for roughly eternity. I wore a tank top, and Laura, with her super squirrel powers, was able to resist the sun's ultra-tanning rays. Sunburn aside, we were forced to choose a direction down an unfamiliar street. About fourty five minutes passed of walking and a stop for fresh air conditioning at the Nascar Cafe, we came to a very ominous area of Vegas. Let me just say this...I've heard of areas of cities that are mostly closed or under great renovations. This section of town was UNDER ARREST. Deserted, barren and behind bars, stores stood, sparsely surrounding us, mocking us with their sale/bargain signs, still adding ironic pizazz to the convicted establishments. We were in dire need of direction and liquid, so we journeyed into the heart of this strange dimension of destitution. Thankfully(?) we found a sleazy porn shop. This meant two givens: a.) a source of water. b.) air conditioning, to which we were irrevocably addicted. As Laura perused the especially terrible porn movies, which Frankenstein (aka Wankenstein) managed to get a part in, I encountered one of Vegas' most horrifying creatures: a troll. Hairless and shady, this troll was nonetheless kindly, though the stereotypes of the porn shop patron he threw at me started to hurt. When I asked for the location of our destination, he instructed us to come out with him to his truck. He did not mention that his truck was dirty, rusting, full of paint and various unknown objects, but I easily predicted such a description beforehand. He revealed a weathered phonebook, which he gave to me as a token of goodwill. After showing me the number for our destination, he asked us to get into his truck for a ride there. I told him that I would check with Laura, and that we would most likely walk there for the sake of exercise. I didn't realize it at the time, but my bullshit stank out loud. Exercise outside in Vegas is purely anathema, unless you are some sort of reptile who enjoys sunbathing as you sweat your flesh off. Knowing that I had most likely irritated the troll, I slipped back inside the porn shop to meet with Laura, who carried a bag full of obscure, stupid movies, as was a matter of course with her. By word of whisper, I informed her of the troll's offer, knowing full well that she would also be...reluctant. We decided to make a break for it; we would rather face the heat than the wrath of a porno troll. Politely bidding farewell, we absconded the store and began the longest walk of our lives. After several stops each half hour for an air conditioning fix and liquid sustenance, we came across a rather mysterious sign. "Terrible Herbst," it read. We wondered if this giant billboard had just made an awful typo on the word "Herbs" but even then, there was the question of why someone would so boldly advertise terrible herbs. We were hardly in the mood for bad weed, so we continued on our sun-scorched journey. During our last oasis break at a ramshackle subway/smoothie place, we looked in the phonebook for Terrible Herbst, hoping to call them and find out what they sold; we didn't know what herbsts were, but we knew we needed one. To our surprise, Terrible was the name of many a store in Las Vegas. There was auto-repair and all manner of franchises. Truly, this Terrible must be a powerful being. We discussed it, and concluded several things: a.) Terrible owns Las Vegas. It is his realm of neon torture and flourescent agony. b.) That porno troll must have been Terrible himself, seeking to use us for some unholy purpose. c.) We have angered Terrible. We had to lay low before his Herbstities found us. Through this conspiratorial revelation, we learned a new rule of Las Vegas: 6.) Don't fuck with Terrible Herbst.
Finally, after we had attained "medium well-done" status, we reached our destination. Like so many things in life, this was a small place with a few freaky articles of clothing, little coherence, a vague porno/fetish feel to it, and a little Asian guy who sounded like a chick. To the melodies of Green Day, Laura and I perused the limited selection. Short of a few things that we weren't able to afford, we were unable to find anything satisfactory. However, we were pointed less than a mile away to Madam C.'s, a prominent bdsm outlet in Vegas. Who were we not to go? There would no doubt be plenty of bludgeoning weapons to fend of Terrible's minions if they ever attacked us. Indeed, we found santuary and pleasant company in this place. I was able to stock up on supplies for work, and Laura was able to obtain some literature. Madam C. proved to be one of the most down-to-earth, awesome people we had ever met, and perhaps among the best human beings in Vegas as a whole. We were referred again to an even MORE perverted place in Vegas, but apparently it was so perverted that it closed at 5:30 in the afternoon. We found this out around 5:00ish, so that was thoroughly out the window. With the sun still seething in our brains, boiling the pornographic images we had been assaulted with all day, Laura and I made it our next goal to see Zumanity, the most sexual of all the Cirque du Soleil shows. We mounted a bus and headed to New York New York, where our tickets would be bought and consumed by the Cirque vendor minions. A meal was had before the show. Remind me never to eat anything with "pork" in the title in Las Vegas. I am omitting the show and how it made me feel out for content. Nothing I say would do it justice. You will all have to just travel to Vegas and see the show yourselves. That's right...ALL of you.
With our minds amused and our hit points restored, Laura and I hitched a taxi back to our craptastic hotel. While she opted to sleep, I chose to conclude my evening in a traditional Vegas way: a strip club and two more shots of uber rum. I sleep better on an inflated ego, because then my ego is soft and fluffy. Well breasted, I dozed off to sleep myself, eventually.
But! The tale of Josh and Laura does not end here. What adventures await them on SUNDAY? Will they hire prostitutes? Will the prostitutes hire THEM? Will Terrible have his revenge? Stay tuned and find out!
Saturday.
With brains full of breasts and time still bountiful, Laura and I awoke to resume our adventures. It was decided that Saturday was the day to see Cirque du Soleil, and that was the set plan for the evening. However, we still had an entire day to kill.
So, with the idea of perversion in mind...
I looked at an informative cocktail napkin containing wisdom from my favorite stripper, Phoenix. The name of what could possibly be an excellent clothing store which would no doubt have leads to stores of a far more perverse nature. It was decided that we would set forth to find this place. After a buffet breakfast, we began to gather as much information as we could. What we learned was a new rule of Las Vegas: 5.) NO ONE gives proper directions. They give out such information portionally, so you have to piece it together yourself and hope that you are correct. Sadly, this rule was not immediately learned until the end of our little side quest. We hopped a bus and got dropped off at an intersecting pair of roads, whose names escape me. I relearned a well-known rule of the sun: 1.) NEVER wear a tank top in sunny-ass weather, or you will regret it for roughly eternity. I wore a tank top, and Laura, with her super squirrel powers, was able to resist the sun's ultra-tanning rays. Sunburn aside, we were forced to choose a direction down an unfamiliar street. About fourty five minutes passed of walking and a stop for fresh air conditioning at the Nascar Cafe, we came to a very ominous area of Vegas. Let me just say this...I've heard of areas of cities that are mostly closed or under great renovations. This section of town was UNDER ARREST. Deserted, barren and behind bars, stores stood, sparsely surrounding us, mocking us with their sale/bargain signs, still adding ironic pizazz to the convicted establishments. We were in dire need of direction and liquid, so we journeyed into the heart of this strange dimension of destitution. Thankfully(?) we found a sleazy porn shop. This meant two givens: a.) a source of water. b.) air conditioning, to which we were irrevocably addicted. As Laura perused the especially terrible porn movies, which Frankenstein (aka Wankenstein) managed to get a part in, I encountered one of Vegas' most horrifying creatures: a troll. Hairless and shady, this troll was nonetheless kindly, though the stereotypes of the porn shop patron he threw at me started to hurt. When I asked for the location of our destination, he instructed us to come out with him to his truck. He did not mention that his truck was dirty, rusting, full of paint and various unknown objects, but I easily predicted such a description beforehand. He revealed a weathered phonebook, which he gave to me as a token of goodwill. After showing me the number for our destination, he asked us to get into his truck for a ride there. I told him that I would check with Laura, and that we would most likely walk there for the sake of exercise. I didn't realize it at the time, but my bullshit stank out loud. Exercise outside in Vegas is purely anathema, unless you are some sort of reptile who enjoys sunbathing as you sweat your flesh off. Knowing that I had most likely irritated the troll, I slipped back inside the porn shop to meet with Laura, who carried a bag full of obscure, stupid movies, as was a matter of course with her. By word of whisper, I informed her of the troll's offer, knowing full well that she would also be...reluctant. We decided to make a break for it; we would rather face the heat than the wrath of a porno troll. Politely bidding farewell, we absconded the store and began the longest walk of our lives. After several stops each half hour for an air conditioning fix and liquid sustenance, we came across a rather mysterious sign. "Terrible Herbst," it read. We wondered if this giant billboard had just made an awful typo on the word "Herbs" but even then, there was the question of why someone would so boldly advertise terrible herbs. We were hardly in the mood for bad weed, so we continued on our sun-scorched journey. During our last oasis break at a ramshackle subway/smoothie place, we looked in the phonebook for Terrible Herbst, hoping to call them and find out what they sold; we didn't know what herbsts were, but we knew we needed one. To our surprise, Terrible was the name of many a store in Las Vegas. There was auto-repair and all manner of franchises. Truly, this Terrible must be a powerful being. We discussed it, and concluded several things: a.) Terrible owns Las Vegas. It is his realm of neon torture and flourescent agony. b.) That porno troll must have been Terrible himself, seeking to use us for some unholy purpose. c.) We have angered Terrible. We had to lay low before his Herbstities found us. Through this conspiratorial revelation, we learned a new rule of Las Vegas: 6.) Don't fuck with Terrible Herbst.
Finally, after we had attained "medium well-done" status, we reached our destination. Like so many things in life, this was a small place with a few freaky articles of clothing, little coherence, a vague porno/fetish feel to it, and a little Asian guy who sounded like a chick. To the melodies of Green Day, Laura and I perused the limited selection. Short of a few things that we weren't able to afford, we were unable to find anything satisfactory. However, we were pointed less than a mile away to Madam C.'s, a prominent bdsm outlet in Vegas. Who were we not to go? There would no doubt be plenty of bludgeoning weapons to fend of Terrible's minions if they ever attacked us. Indeed, we found santuary and pleasant company in this place. I was able to stock up on supplies for work, and Laura was able to obtain some literature. Madam C. proved to be one of the most down-to-earth, awesome people we had ever met, and perhaps among the best human beings in Vegas as a whole. We were referred again to an even MORE perverted place in Vegas, but apparently it was so perverted that it closed at 5:30 in the afternoon. We found this out around 5:00ish, so that was thoroughly out the window. With the sun still seething in our brains, boiling the pornographic images we had been assaulted with all day, Laura and I made it our next goal to see Zumanity, the most sexual of all the Cirque du Soleil shows. We mounted a bus and headed to New York New York, where our tickets would be bought and consumed by the Cirque vendor minions. A meal was had before the show. Remind me never to eat anything with "pork" in the title in Las Vegas. I am omitting the show and how it made me feel out for content. Nothing I say would do it justice. You will all have to just travel to Vegas and see the show yourselves. That's right...ALL of you.
With our minds amused and our hit points restored, Laura and I hitched a taxi back to our craptastic hotel. While she opted to sleep, I chose to conclude my evening in a traditional Vegas way: a strip club and two more shots of uber rum. I sleep better on an inflated ego, because then my ego is soft and fluffy. Well breasted, I dozed off to sleep myself, eventually.
But! The tale of Josh and Laura does not end here. What adventures await them on SUNDAY? Will they hire prostitutes? Will the prostitutes hire THEM? Will Terrible have his revenge? Stay tuned and find out!