She’s waylaid and wallowing in Vegas. Vodka-soaked and reeling, awash in the peccant propensities of the masses that crawl the town like rats in a Manhattan KFC. In the diaphanous haze of one too many vespertine martinis, she languidly contemplates the strangely compelling horror of another night, another Lucullan fete, another round of craps-table causerie with the cognoscenti of sleaze. Vegas; where a surfeit of cash and booze foments an evanescent illusion of sophistication, which in turn veneers a dearth of fecundity and a marmoreal cruelty that nurtures only the icky, supported entirely by con men and whores. Cheap cologne, the “duende” of another velveteen Lothario, leering at her from under a plateau of hair gel like Donald Trump at fake tits, she knew - Vegas is sweaty satin sheets tangled around a farrago of cigarette smoke, strippers, and Cialis.