Hustlin’ a Hustler

Turning a hustle around on itself and causing the hurt and anguish upon the perpetrator of the original hustle that they sought to enact on you is such a fulfilling sensation, an absolutely giddy high that can’t really be replicated. It’s a lot like getting locked-on by a MiG and trying to shake off its heat-seeker, only to split the S and swing close enough to the firer that the missile gets a thermal lock on the jet that fired it.

Basically that’s it.

That’s right, I am (beat) dangerous.

Anyhow, tonight. After I caught a short siesta after a long walk around The Strip, I found myself at one of those dirty indoor malls full of the tacky sort of stores that people of low means think are high class. I’m talking JC Penny and Sears and Foot Locker. Overpriced junk sold by morons for morons.

I wander about, looking for a nosh and a quiet place to sit and hammer out a few more screenplay pages (bee tee dubya, I’m up to 80 over the last four days, I’m a fuckin’ machine now that I have purpose, like a shark with blood in the water). I happen across a Sbarro, the sort of place at which I’d never in my lifetime considered eating and always sneered at when wandering through the same sort of mall the country around. What the fuck, yo, I’m on a damn Vegas Adventure here, doing shit I’d never do otherwise back home.

A few tables over, I see a little freckled redhead. A cute, skinny little thing with the tips of her hair dyed green from St. Patrick’s still. I make eye contact and like all men, imagine how she tastes as I move between typing out lines of dialog and picking at a tomatoes-and-zucchini salad.

As I finish another page and look up, and this little redhead is staring back at me. She makes eye contact, smiles and then gets up and sidles over to my little table. I look up beyond my little eee’s screen as she swishes her little hips toward my table.

She asks if anybody’s sitting there. I smile and invite her to take a seat. She sits right next to me and immediately begins to lay out her sucker sob story.

Now, let’s stop for a minute and talk a bit about this girl. Basically she’s Faye Reagan. Pale, Oirish-looking, freckles, red hair, short, skinny, gorgeous white trash. I could tell from her voice, a certain twang on certain stressed syllables, her diction belied her as low class white trash, a street rat hustler looking for an easy score.

And if you know me, I look all the world like an easy mark. I’m a shitheel from Schmuckleberry USA an innocent, smiling face, wide-eyed with wonder at the world and seemingly staggered when a wiry little redhead starts running her fingertips up and down my leg.

Now, I’m not going to say I’m street smart. Far from it. I know I’m a naïve rube from a lame little desert trailer park town in rural Nevada. But I can smell a hustle when it’s coming. Pretty girls don’t just come up to a dude like me unless they want something. Some would say that I’m being incredibly cynical, but my stepdad used to work for the Moonlight Bunny Ranch  and the girls there were part of my extended family (sort of). I knew Brooke (Philips) before she was murdered. We chatted, she knew that she wasn’t getting anything out of me (as I had nothing to give) and as a result her hustle was switched off, she became a real person, not just a big old set of fake titties ringed with bleached hair. She was an actual, nice, real person, one with whom you could carry a conversation. As we talked, I listened and learned. I picked up on how these girls in the sex trade industry work. They’re pros, they’ve fine-tuned their hustle to a laser-scalpel artform. They’ll do whatever it takes to get every penny out of you while leaving you thinking you came out ahead in the deal. Professional whores are artists when it comes to negotiation and I admire them greatly for those skills. A poor negotiator (hustler) will give away the house while a savvy negotiator (hustler) will have you walking away with empty pockets.

What I was dealing with was a pretty poor negotiator.

So, this girl (I don’t even remember her name, it’s irrelevant anyway, any name she would have used would have been fake anyway, I told her my name was Matt Sirachi) came on with her sob story, how it was her birthday and she was lonely and sent to the mall to get a pair of shoes but didn’t have enough and she neeeeeeded them so badly et cetera et cetera. I knew she was looking for a handout and wasn’t above prostituting herself for it.

So, before we even get up from the table, she begins kissing on me and snaking her hand into mine. With this, the hustle begins. We wander through the mall and talk about the shoes she was sent down to get. They’re a hundred bucks plus tax and she only has ninety. Such a sob sob sobbity sob story. After she kisses me a few more times, I realize that she’s not opposed to spending the evening together. So whatever, I spent 20 bucks to go see W.A.S.P. last week, so I’m really not against spending about the same for an evening of entertainment.

We go to several stores and look at the shoes she’s after, those Sketchers with the heels that supposedly work a gal’s ass as she walks. Whatever. We negotiate with the varied vendors at the mall and I secure the best price. She slips me her money, 93$ in assorted small bills. I pay for the shoes, 108$ after tax using my debit card. No big deal, 15$ for an evening’s entertainment ain’t a big thing as far as I’m concerned.

She puts the shoes on and staggers about, she’s drunk, has been taking nips off of pint bottles of cheap vodka all night. Rookie move. Expert hustlers don’t get drunk. She offers some of the rotgut to me, naturally I take her up on it, but only take tiny sips off the bottle. A trick I picked up from watching the bartenders at the ranches. When the girls order drinks, the bartenders always pour the drinks cool, less alcohol to the mixer, where the customer gets hot drinks, considerably more liquor than mixer. Alcohol removes reasoning ability in primates.

So, this little redhead was sloppy drunk, falling over herself. I smiled, smiled the sort of grin a wolf grins as it circles a lame lamb. This is way too easy. Since it’s too easy, I knew it had to be a trap. She kept asking me where I lived and for me to take her to my place. My Spidey-sense blinked. I had imaginings that if I took her home (which I did, since I’m technically sort of living out of my Cherokee), that I’d eventually be visited by a couple of hard, pipe-hittin’ niggers with a pair of pliers and a blowtorch. Out of all the trouble in my life, that’s trouble I don’t need.

She crawled into my car, we hesitated at the passenger door, kissing, petting, making out like stupid teenagers. Fuck yeah!

We drive around town, chatting about what to do. I drive into the Old Downtown, at every stoplight this girl effectively crawls into my lap, lips and tongues swirling around one another like waves in the whirlpool. Hands slide under shirts, fingers go into damp places. Vegas doesn’t suck that bad, I guess.

A few hours of driving later, she’s nearly passed out. I suggest getting a hotel room. She could use the rest and I could use the fuck. I pull into the Stratosphere, knowing it has damn cheap single-bed room rates and also to thumb my nose at their posted NO FIREARMS, CONCEALED OR OTHERWISE policy.

This girl, this foxy little redhead is attached to me like a remora upon a shark as we wander through the casino. Lips almost permanently locked on my own or running up and down my neck and throat.

We stand in line for reservations. I rent a room, pay with cash. 57$ for a double-occupancy single-bed. No big deal. I’m kind of broke, but no so damned destitute that I can’t afford sixty bucks to get turbo laid.

As we walk hand-in-hand through the casino floor to the tower elevators, she begins to have second thoughts about this whole enterprise. She attempted to hustle a pair of shoes out of me and ended up close to being committed to being fucked all night in the Stratosphere. She sits down on the ground in front of the elevator like a child throwing a temper tantrum in the ice cream novelties aisle of a grocery store. You’re thirty plus years old, lady, get up goddammit.

I convince her into the elevator, practically carrying her, cooing at her as an authority figure would to a petulant child. When we get up to the ninth (and top) floor of the Stratosphere hotel tower, this is when she turns white and has an absolute screaming fit. She realizes that she’s now in too deep and her hustle had gotten away from her. Maybe if she’d been this aware two hours ago when I’m first sliding my finger into her in the mall parking lot, we wouldn’t have gotten this far.

The redhead storms away, staggering down the hall and toward the staircase. She clonks and bonks her way down the stairs, and I follow a few steps behind. She insults me, laying out the hoary old ad hominiems I’d heard since second grade. Plus ce change, I guess.

As we round a few floors, she stumbles, spilling her purse to the ground. The girl screams at me, spewing venom and invectives, that this was all my fault, that she had family, that she had big hard-hitting nigger boyfriends that would destroy me. That I ought watch my back in this city. Oh man, I’m horrified.

At this point, I step over her as she writhes around drunkenly on the staircase and enter the sixth floor hallway, she yells, calls me names as I walk away. The last thing I remember her saying is “I ain’t got any change to get home now!”

“Not my problem anymore” I retort as the door swishes closed. I board the elevator, mosey down to the front desk and explain the situation to a clerk who gladly refunds my money. With a smile, I depart the Stratosphere, head on a swivel as I go through the casino floor, eyes open for the short, skinny little redhead drunkenly staggering about. No such luck to get a glimpse of her face, slick with tears and failure from her defeat.

On the way out, I spot a morose blonde in a black cocktail dress, hands shaking as she tries to light a cigarette and ask her if she got stood up. I said I was in a similar situation and wondered if I could buy her a coffee or cocktail whatever. She declined and I wished her the best of luck. I left the hotel with the biggest smile I’d had since I arrived in this town.

All in all, fifteen bucks well spent. I have several regrets. 1: that I wasn’t able to fuck this chick basically all night and 2: that I wasn’t able to get a pic of her on my iphone to corroborate the fact that this chick seriously was the spitting goddamned image of our favorite puffy-nippled porn starlet and 3: that she still had the shoes I bought. If she’d left them in the car, you’d better believe I’d have taken those fuckers back and come out ahead 80-some-odd dollars.

Vegas, Baby.


One Response to “Hustlin’ a Hustler”

  1. Thanks Says:

    Actually you lost the game. You paid for nothing and attempted to rape a drunk woman. Delusional much? You must either be locked up or in a mental institution now. Pathetic.

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