Free Leaving Las Vegas by John O'Brien

modestly and only losing one hundred dollars, she shrugs off the loss and goes out to get a cab.
    (There ought to be a stronger connection somewhere. There should be another level.)
    She tells the driver where she wants to go and closes the cab door.
    (Her father loved her in the super-sexual way that is far too sublime for incest)
    The driver says excusememiss.
    ( )
    The driver says excusememiss.
    ( )( )( )
    “Excuse me, miss,” says the driver, turning around, “but I can’t seem to get my meter to run. It must be broken. If you want to, you can get another cab, or I can charge you a flat ten bucks for the ride. That’s about what the fare would be anyway.”
    “Sounds fair,” she says, first expressionless, then smiling too broadly at the potential pun.
    As the cab pulls into traffic she looks in her purse for a ten and a five. She finds her compact first and opens it up for a quick look in the little mirror. She spots some dried semen in her hair. Damn, she thinks, looks like I’m going to have to stay up and wash my hair tonight.
    “So what happened to your face?” says the driver, looking in the rearview mirror.
    She looks up, a little surprised at the question.
    “Nothing,” she says.

bars
     
    “BREAKING THE SOUND BARRIER!” The bartender spins triumphantly and slaps the bar with a wet, soiled lag, but the sight of his audience reminds him that he is already the acknowledged master of the morning lineup and must maintain decorum. “Breaking the sound barrier,” he says quietly, authoritatively.
    “Breaking the sound barrier?” guesses a contestant, three inches tall in an upper corner of the room. In saying it she changes the usual pronunciation of the phrase, placing the emphasis on the word
the
rather than the word sound. Those at the bar who are paying attention cock their heads and move their lips silently.
    “BREAKING THE SOUND BARRIER,” this the confirmation from the master of ceremonies, the host.
    “You should go on that show.” Any of several hoarse voices from the far end of the bar tend to assert this several times each morning.
    The bartender nods in solemn assent.
    Ben looks longingly at the television. It’s ten o’clock and the game shows are at their daily peak. There’s no longer any need to call in to work—he won’t be in today, or tomorrow, or next Nsday—and the threatening-three first drinks of the morning, tall vodkas-cranberry, have been downed and kept down. He’s ready to sit for a while and watch game show models display game show prizes, beautiful girls fuck expensive stuff.
    His vision drifts past even the pseudo reality of the cathode-ray tube to a deeper level of fantasy. He is looking at a Hollywood grown American sweetheart, but he sees a dangerous looking woman clad in short leather and sheer lace. Black and disheveled, her hair hides part of her face. She gives the impression that she’s probably just been fucked, or more accurately, that she’s probably just fucked someone. Now she’s looking at him, talking to him, ready for him.
    Just look at this fucking studio, Ben,
she says,
filled with glamourous merchandise, fabulous and exciting bonus prizes, including an extra special prize chosen just for you!: a big bad black BMW motorcycle, complete with saddle bags containing hundreds of thousands of dollars in United States Currency! So let’s find a bar, get drunk, and go for a ride. Then we can get a suite somewhere, have room service send up a few cases of bourbon, vodka, anything you want, while we fuck ourselves silly. Then champagne for breakfast, and off on a wild fucking ride to some more bars. This is it, just for you, Ben, because you’ve been so patient, and because I want to fuck you, take care of you, and because there’s nothing else in the world worth doing.
    Wait… whoa, yes: queasiness arrested. Perhaps a conversation is in order. No, not yeeeetttttt: stretching, shoulders back, a breath, a sigh. RoOoOoLlLlLiNg ThE nEcK, just like