Ceremony of Flies Read Free

hypodermic needles, are stuck into Mort’s shirt. If the horrified look on Mort’s face is any indication, the spike holding the crown jewel has found its way into his heart.
    Fuck.
    The sounds of Bon Jovi or Journey wavers and warbles until it turns into a buzz like a swarm of flies. The Whoo! Whoo! from the guy at the bar is noticeably absent.
    That train has left the station.
    As Mort’s knees buckle and he heads for the floor, I jump down from the lofty heights of my shoes and do the only sensible thing.
    Run.

 
     
     
    Las Vegas
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
    In prehistoric times, marshes receded from the Las Vegas Valley, leaving an arid, inhospitable desert behind. Millennia later, water trapped in labyrinthine geological formations underground spewed forth, creating an oasis.
    Many years later, gold diggers on their way to San Francisco and Mormons expanding their empire from Salt Lake City vied to settle the patch of green, the Meadows in Spanish, Las Vegas.
    On October 1, 1910, an especially harsh law that forbade all gambling, even the flipping of coins for purposes of decision making, inspired Las Vegas gamblers to take their games underground. With the help of secret passwords and officials willing to look the other way, gambling flourished.
    By 1931, gambling was legal, and Vegas was booming. The gold diggers, in a substantially different guise, had won.

 
     
     
    2
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
    Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!
    This is not part of the plan. This is some tangential alternate reality. I have been transported to some new coil of string in someone else’s theory. Plus I’ve got no shoes and I’m wearing a green and purple dress that would put a Puerto Rican welfare queen to shame.
    I slink back into the shadows of the basement level of the parking garage for the Cortez. I’m not kidding myself. I know I’m not hiding. I fucking glow in the dark. But it’s empty down here. There’re hardly even any cars.
    It should be cooler in the darkness than it is. The air feels like the inside of a mausoleum, still and oppressive. I’ve really dug my own grave this time.
    Fuck.
    I listen for sirens or the shouts of police. All I can hear is muffled clatter and the blast of Downtown Vegas noise.
    That’s a good sign.
    Maybe things aren’t so bad after all. Maybe Mort’s all right and he’s shining ashtrays and giving out Mardi Gras beads because I’m not at my post.
    Yeah, keep dreaming.
    I should take the stupid dress off. Find some shoes. That’s the first thing I need to do. That’s how you solve a big problem. Break it down into little pieces. I only wish my heart would stop pounding in my ears so I could think and the tightness in my chest would let up so I could breathe.
    Think—breathe.
    Things aren’t any worse than after me and Joey ran away to New York and I tried out to be a singer in the Slipper Room. I was scared shitless that night. When I stepped up on the stage to audition, I had a panicky feeling like a wave was cresting over my head. I held my breath and walked right up to the mic anyway. The wave crested and the feeling receded. Whatever was going to happen was going to happen. I was pretty good. They even told me to come back. I would have too, if the situation with Joey hadn’t gotten out of control. I wanted that job really bad.
    Things aren’t any worse now. They’re about the same actually. Except this time I’m the one who killed somebody. Feels about the same.
    Whatever is going to happen is going to happen.
    I catch a glimpse of something moving in the dark cave of the stairwell. My heart jumps up into my throat.
    A little black kid with a head full of unruly curls pokes his head out and stares right at me. He looks just like the kid who was always hanging around us back in New York trying to steal our food. Two dots of red glow from out of the darkness like a dog’s eyes reflecting light. The kid sticks his tongue out, then turns and runs up the stairs. The sound of his