The sounds of the slot machine danced in Frank’s head as if it were a sawed off chrome mail box you’d find on a street corner. The yellow and red lights winked at Frank like meth fed exotic fruit. “yes, I’d like a beer,” Frank told the cocktail waitress watching her ass move. Later in his room they tussled naked in the manufactured cool air. She liked it brutal-rough. Frank punched her in the face knocking a few of her teeth lose and she came “oh yes, Frank you fucker. Now kiss me,” she grugeled through her mangled mouth a clown like look to it. She pulled him down to her, she kissed him and he went to the bathroom and puked. “What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas, Frank thought pulling on to the desert interstate. He looked down–there still tiny flecks of blood on his pants. Looking up he watched the heat dance on the road.