"THE DRAMATIC FINALE"...What Happened in Vegas: PT V

Last time on “WHAT HAPPENED IN VEGAS…” (Part IV) ...I almost had to choke a B
PT III ... I almost signed with Death Row
PT II ...all dressed up and nowhere to go
PT I ...just happy to be there

And now, the Dramatic Conclusion…thank GOD. How long were you there anyway?!

I’m not even gonna front…and I was quite vocal about this to my crew…when we left the club I wanted to hurl. I could feel the night’s liquid indiscretions settling into my stomach and I wanted no parts of it.

But I was a soldier, standing in the loooong azz line outside of Caesars while my crew tried pathetically to hustle their way to the front of the line. The Boss of Me was starving, and when he’s hungry he gets festive. He dances.

So we head to the Pink Pony, our fav late night diner, and wait on some food. Again, I’m sitting there knowing that I should empty my stomach before I eat, but I don’t. Too exhausted and weak to go to the bathroom and back.

Finally sitting still I notice my quadriceps are on fire. Too much gettin’ low. It’s at this point that I recall a guy on the dance floor wearing this girl out. He was literally ON THE FLOOR, yet still on his feet, and the girl was doing her best to keep up. She was no match.

I realize that guy was Anger Management.

I’m telling Mommy.

So we’re waiting on our food, recalling the events of the night…but the crew is sans Entourage (with the white girl who dodged a bullet), and Bourgie…who knows where his pretty azz is. [editor's note: all this time I thought he just wasn't ready to leave... but he calls me today and informs that we left him at the club. No one bothered to look for him, so he walked back to the telly alone.]

We’re all pretty tore down, but none more than "London Bridge". There is a reason he is so named. All weekend LB has been mistaken for Charles Barkley. It all started Friday when he was wearing the Sixers throwback jersey. White women were begging for his autograph, posing for pics. He’s getting a kick out of it. He’s yella, yeah, and he’s built like a mack truck, sure (6’8, bout over 200 under 300). He’s in MUCH better shape than Sir Charles, but he’s a big, bald, black guy nonetheless.

So he’s basically asleep at the table, waiting for the food. He and Boss of Me are each others’ fav whipping boy. So of course he’s fcuking with him. Taking pics of him asleep, shaking him awake, etc.

All of a sudden London Bridge, without warning…falls down. Clear out of his chair.

You know how you’re nodding off and you wake yourself up when your head jerks? Well you’d think that the weight of his own azz swaying would have jolted him, but it didn’t. He fell to the side, and hit the floor with a thud. THAT’S when he woke up.

We’re crying laughing. He doesn’t even jump up, embarrassed. My man sat there for a good minute, got his bearings, then returned to his chair like it never happened.

I’m guessing this is not the first time this happened.

This white guy at a booth behind ours is in stitches.

“Dude, that was soooo classic!”

The diner manager is also nearby…he lifts himself up and looks at the heap on the floor. Shakes his head laughing.

The next morning when he's awake and able to defend himself, I help him out and insist that he only fell after Boss pushed him.

It’s a lazy day, spent walking off the knots in my stomach through downtown LV.

That night, our last we decide on Light, a club at the Bellagio.

Long story short…celebs out the azz.

The champ is here.

Anger Management is impressed.

Floyd is standing a good 10 feet away and my cousin tells AM to take a pic with him, but my brother says, “Naw, I don’t want dudes thinking I’m dick riding.”

Within seconds Floyd is standing next to him, and says, “Naw, we all fam, yo. It ain’t nothing. I ain’t even like that. Let’s go.” [taken with his camera phone]

AM is startled but appreciative. They take some pics, part ways…and AM now has all the courage he needs to holler at Serena Williams. She wasn’t having it…something about their lame reality show. She was nice at least. Had a huge bottle at her table. Looking way out of tennis shape.

When Keepin It Real Goes Wrong...

At some point in the night, AM and Bourgie are talking and AM says, “Mayweather is like, my height (not even 6’) and he still the toughest cat in here.”

But one of Floyd’s handlers mistakes the comment as something about “I can whup that nigga’s azz. He ain’t bigger than me.”

They kind of shake it off, but not before my brother says, “I can whup YOUR azz.” His anger management has been under control all weekend…until now. Oh shit. On the real, my brother is INSANE. I’m worried.

So fast fwd to after the club…we’re at Fat Burger. A luxury sedan pulls up. It pulls in reverse. According to my overdramatic brother, the driver isn’t even paying attention to the parking spot. He’s got his eyes locked directly on him. It’s Floyd Mayweather. Coming to look for AM.

My brother is no punk, but he’s whimpering now. “Don’t let him hit me! I'm not ready!”

We bounce out of there real fast. Thank God we’re on our way out of Dodge.

But before we leave there is an informal investigation that must take place.

Pour Out a Little Liquor...

"Excuse me, Mr. Cab Driver? Oh, uh, lo siento. Donde did Tupac get shot?"

We had already scoured the lobbies of the MGM Grand where Pac had his last scrap. You remember, the one where they stomped the living shit out of this guy. We question dozens of sources, none of which were working there at the time of the fight, few of which speak English.


We pretty much decide on our own where it all went down...did the obligatory reenactment (London Bridge aka Charles Barley playing the role of Suge, as we rewind to the shot of he and I in my digital camera...I will NEVER live that down), then bounce.


The cab driver explains the legend of Tupac's downfall...yet it's suspiciously unlike anything I've found on the internet since. Whatever. We decide to erect a memorial for Pac in front of our hotel before we leave. Not really. But we want to. For now we just leave it on wax.

*

The taxi ride back through the city to McCarran airport is a somber one. All the lights are to our backs now. The adventures are no longer before us in real time. They are implanted in our minds…if we can recall them.

I start writing this immediately for all our friends, including you reading this now…who couldn’t make it out to Vegas with us. I am the crew’s scribe.

The slot machines in the airport are still a shocker, even though I am anticipating them now. I didn’t expect to see him again, for like the 5th time.

“Hey Mr. Smith,” I say, flirting one last time.
“What’s up, lady?” he says from his seat at a quarter machine near my gate.
“Did you enjoy the fight?” I ask.
“I did,” he responds, shifting his body slightly toward me, like we’re about to tango.
But I keep it moving…a flask of booze in my hand…headed back to life in the real world.