The Protocols of Carstairs
Copyright© 2021 by Ron Dudderie
Chapter 12: The Hardest Working Man in Vegas
Tuesday, September 15th, 2015. Four Seasons Hotel, Las Vegas.
“How’s that, Mr. King?”
“Auw.”
“Wow, that’s some knot. Don’t worry, I seen worse. Hah!”
“AUW!”
“Just relax. I’ll get some more oil.”
“HHUUUUUH!”
“That’s the mint. That makes it feel cold. How’s this?”
“AUWWWWW!”
“Try to relax.”
Peter Fox, or Peter Green as Asim had come to know him, stepped into my bedroom, where I was having a massage.
“What’s he crying about, Roger?”
Peter’s accent had become American overnight.
“He’s just a bit sore from all that sudden activity, no big deal,” said Roger, who was doing unspeakable things to my calf muscles. I had needed help to get out of bed this morning, but Peter had moved into my suite two days ago. Asim was in and out all the time as well, as he found the process of setting up a show endlessly fascinating, but was just a tiny bit worried I would not be able to keep up my impersonation of Martin King. Omar was on his way, but I was kept out of the loop with regards to the exchange.
“That’s fine, just don’t break anything. Martin, how many laps did you do?”
“Twenty.”
“Only twenty?!”
“That’s back and forth. So forty times fifty metres. That’s how pools wo ... AUW!YOU BASTARD!”
Roger just grinned.
“Okay, so you swam one kilometre. Make it twenty-five laps tomorrow. Just get to the pool a bit earlier.”
“They don’t open before seven. I won’t have enough time.”
“I’ll call them, have them open up half an hour earlier. Okay, here’s your schedule: once Roger has unravelled you, call Sally. She’ll send a car. You have a costume fitting. Bring Asim, so he can see what he’s paying for. Heck, bring Alexandra. Then you have vocal coaching for thirty minutes at the office, then you and me will meet up over lunch to discuss a few song options. In fact, let’s do that here. There’s a piano here. I’ll ask Edmund over, he’s got a million titles in his head. We’ve secured the venue, so I can finally get some specs for our set designer.”
“What’s the venue?”
“The Monterey. The Montecito fell through, they couldn’t clear the place on a Friday. And the South Point turns out to smell like old frying grease. Like, the whole fucking building. But the Monterey is free the entire week, so we can redecorate. I want different levels, you know? Like in those old clubs. VIP-tables behind little fences, just a bit higher than the regular seats. Gives it that sixties vibe.”
“AUW!”
“Pussy. So you got Sally’s number?”
“Yes. AUW, Roger I swear to God, if you do that ONE more time!”
“Sorry, Mr. King but you’re, like, ninety percent knots! You ain’t never had a massage before?”
“Not like this, no. How long is this agony going to take, anyway?”
“Half an hour, at least. But then I’ll have you walking out of here. By yourself.”
“Oh. Good.”
“Of course, that’s just your lower leg. I’ll need about about ten hours to fix the rest of ya.”
“Then come back tonight, so you can do it before he goes to bed,” ordered Peter. “Okay, gotta run. Call Sally!”
“AUW! I will. Roger, STOP THAT!”
The concerts were planned for September 19th, a Saturday, through til Monday the 21st. Monday is a perfectly reasonable night to give a show in Las Vegas, as there are always people looking for a night out. Peter had rented some turnkey office space near the airport and brought in about sixty people so far. Edmund was here, the keyboard player I’d met when I did ‘I Married A Murderer’ and who had been the band leader during An Audience With Carstairs. He was like a kid in a candy store, but the first thing he did when he laid eyes on me was to give me a five minute admonition about leaving the UK and causing such a commotion. A number of locally hired Americans were present and they were very deferential to me (which is precisely how normal people turn into monsters over time) and one of them was actually on the phone with the police by the time Edmund ran out of steam. I had to explain that Edmund was absolutely right and that I didn’t want him removed from the building. And then we briefly hugged and he claimed he’d said his piece.
Peter had accounted for every single second of the six and a half days we had to plan, produce, rehearse and sell a show. The only time I had to myself was when I was in bed or on the toilet. I’d start the day with some exercise: swimming and then, to my absolute horror and dismay, a one to one workout with a personal trainer. Cindy Lee was forty-two, had the body of a nineteen year old and was relentless. She was as Californian as they come, which doesn’t half get my hackles up. I came to hate that woman with a fucking vengeance, but she didn’t give a shit. She never stopped smiling and uttering her platitudes about my ‘core’ and ‘my burn’ and God knows what else. I tuned her out completely, only mirroring her movements. But nonetheless she had me doing sit-ups and push-ups and all sorts of skip-steps and whatnots, like I was a hostage in an Olivia Newton John workout video. If Peter had hired a man I’d have decked him and to this day I still don’t know why I suffered through that, but what is worse is that it worked! I had more energy during the day than I ever recall having before. And all that happened in the Four Seasons gym, where other people were busy on running machines and rowing machines and lifting weights whilst watching the whole, sad spectacle as they were working out their functional, slender bodies without someone humiliating them. The bastards.
Only then, after about ninety minutes of exercise, did I get breakfast. Peter had left detailed instructions with the hotel and I was forced to eat meals that were almost entirely devoid of bread, pasta and potatoes. Or in other words: food. But again: it worked. I didn’t particularly enjoy those meals, but I didn’t get very hungry in between them and after three days I noticed that a mild but persistent pain in my gut, something that had been there for ages but never gave me any serious cause for concern, had subsided. I then sneakily ate a banana I’d pinched from a catering table and had a fairly serious stomach ache for a few hours, for which Peter chided me. I was ‘messing up the plan’, or so he said.
I also had singing lessons, even though Jonathan, my ‘vocal coach’ for the week, for some reason refused to call them that. I actually enjoyed those sessions rather a lot and soon became conversant with terms such as vocal fry, head voice, delineation, trills, runs, slides and scoops. He also taught me a lot about breathing, which seems so stupid until you realise how much easier it becomes to get through a song and how more confident you get that you’re going to make that one hard note. I’ve always liked doing voice-over work and honestly, I think I’ve learned a lot that will make me better at that from Jonathan.
By the fourth day we had decided what would be in the show. Not all songs were possible. Some required a different type of orchestra, some would just be plain illegal to perform for copyright reasons, some I could sing perfectly well in the shower but not on an actual stage. I’m a baritone and some songs are simply out of my reach. Getting the sheet music for everything was also a challenge. Experienced musicians use something called ‘fake books’, which aren’t sheet music but more of a collection of chord progressions and musical phrases scrawled over and under the double spaced lyrics, that help them to plough their way through a song, relying on their musical talent to make up the rest. In most cases that’s fine, but not always. It also depends on the genre with which the musician is familiar. You might know a hundred different jazzy chord progressions, but be completely at sea performing a modern pop song. Or, more likely, vice versa. And so it took some doing to come up with a set list, but once that was settled I was pretty pleased with it. It now fell to me to learn all the lyrics properly because like most people I’ll know the chorus and the first refrain of a song, but not nearly all of it.
After vocal training I got to have lunch, but that again was usually a low-carb affair. I wondered why I had not only agreed to do a show, but to submit myself to this torturous regime of exercise and dieting. Or maybe not dieting, because I could eat as much as I wanted, just not of anything I liked. I think not wanting to give Peter the satisfaction was a part of it, but in my heart of hearts I knew that my sedentary lifestyle hadn’t done me any favours. Back home I busied myself with actual work, but also caring for Edwin, cooking, shopping, cleaning, chores and if at all possible a daily swim in the basement gym at Keller & Fox, but in Saudi Arabia most of that had been taken away. Not to mention the rather rigorous and frequent exercise involved in keeping two women satisfied, although we shouldn’t overrate that because no woman likes to be pumped for half an hour. That just chafes.
I mustn’t forget to give a brief overview (I know ... as if I’m capable of such a thing) of two meetings. One was with Peter Green, the new alias of Peter Fox. Asim asked me to come to his room and told me that Arturo had suggested we meet with a Mr. Green, who could help us put on a show. I knew that would be Peter, so I accompanied Asim to a villa somewhere in Henderson. I had no idea what to expect, but I think that was the idea. The three of us (Mohammed the bodyguard had come along and we were in a Mercedes provided by the Four Seasons, including a driver) rang the doorbell and were greeted at the gate by a curly-haired thirty-something blonde lady in a bathing suit, who had covered herself up with a see-through beach dress.
“Oh! I thought you were the UPS guy,” she said.
“Hello Madam, we are here to see Mister Peter Green,” said Asim, who seemed suitably impressed by the villa lurking behind the gate. It was built in the Adobe style, with reddish walls and deep set windows. It looked stylish, but not ostentatious. To the left the path sloped down, to an underground garage. Outside the closed folding door stood a silver Porsche under a sunshade, hinting that whatever was parked indoors was even more expensive.
“My name is Prince Asim bin...”
“Oh, yeah! He said you’d swing by!” she said, and pushed a button to open the gate. She then walked us through the garden to the back of the house, where there was a large, kidney-shaped swimming pool. In it, a very similar lady but with Asian features and very ample breasts was floating on an inflatable mat. Peter was reading something on a Kindle, whilst sat in a reclining chair under a parasol. He only wore swimming trunks, but sported a few gold chains and medallions around his neck, plus a very ostentatious watch.
“Peter! Your guests are here!” said the woman. Peter looked up.
“Oh! Already! Hi guys!”
We walked up to each other, Asim taking the lead, and shook hands. I was glad I could just hang back and watch this spectacle unfold. Mohammed seemed to disapprove of everything here.
“Hi! Peter Green. Arturo said you’d swing by. Hi.”
He shook hands with Mohammed as well.
“Babe, could you get us drinks? Guys, what can I get ya?”
“Just water for me, thank you,” said Asim. We all asked for water.
“Well then I guess it’s just a Sprite for me,” said Peter. The lady, who I had never seen in my life, smiled and walked off.
“That’s Trish. She’s wonderful. GREAT dancer. And that’s Kim. Kim, doll! Could you give us, say, half an hour?”
Kim nodded and started to paddle to the edge of the pool.
“Sit, sit! So ... You’re Martin King! I’ve seen your work. Can I just say I’m a BIG fan! Really!” gushed Peter. Asim gave Mohammed a happy nod, which Peter pretended to ignore. Mohammed did not care in the slightest.
“Oh, uhm ... thank you,” I said, shaking his hand and pretending to be somewhat ill at ease pretending to be Martin King. Asim picked up on it and took over.
“Thank you so much for seeing us, Mister Green. We have heard you are the best producer in Las Vegas.”
“Well,” said Peter, feigning modesty. “I’m certainly in the top five, I’d say. Maybe three. So I hear you wanna give Martin here a chance to shine in Vegas? At short notice?”
I was impressed by Peter’s accent, but also his demeanour. He usually presents as a very polite, warm Englishman. But right now he was a businesslike American, cutting right to the chase.
“Yes,” said Asim, as we sat down around a glass table under a sun shade. Mohammed found a shady spot under a tree.
“You should take off that jacket, man!” said Peter. “You all should. Hell, we could do this in the pool if you like. Shall we...”
“NO, no, thank you,” I said. “We’re fine here.”
“Okay man. So what are we talking about here? What’s the plan? I hear Arturo is on board because he wants to put his sister in the spotlight, right?”
“Yes. She is a wonderful singer,” said Asim, who had never even seen Verónica. “But we haven’t got much time. We are thinking three nights, with a large audience and a band.”
Peter nodded and absentmindedly fiddled with his chain.
“Uh huh. But Martin is the real star, right? You wanna sing?”
“If need be,” I said, feigning reticence. Which came VERY easy to me, I have to say.
“Martin is a great singer!” announced Asim.
“I get by,” I added hastily.
“No, you’re great!” said Peter. “I saw that thing, the show in London with the little girl and Emma Lestrade. That was good, man! You want something like that?”
Asim had recently rented An Audience With Carstairs on iTunes and seemed pleased Peter knew of it.
“YES! That kind of a show!”
“Right. Well, that can certainly be done. Three nights, you say? What kind of an audience?”
“Maybe a thousand?” asked Asim. Peter whistled through his teeth.
“For three nights?”
“Yes?”
“At one hundred bucks a ticket that’s thirty K. Minus the band, the venue, support acts, catering ... That can’t be done. You either do more nights, or you get a bigger crowd. But to get a bigger crowd, you gotta advertise. This ain’t gonna work, guys.”
“We uhm ... We have a budget,” said Asim. “We think of it as an investment. Arturo is putting up some money and we can also...”
“How much?” asked Peter.
“We can match Arturo. I think he’s ready to put in half a million dollars?”
“Okay ... a million. So to break even you’ll need at least...”
“No, we don’t need to break even.”
Peter’s eyebrows shot up.
“No? Well, a million is ... doable, I suppose. We can see about July. It’s hot as hell down here in July, so prices for venues go down. If we start rehearsals at...”
“Ah, no,” said Asim. “We were thinking ... next week.”
Peter proved once more he’s a better actor than I’ll ever be.
“NEXT WEEK?!” he cried, and then started laughing. Actual laughter for almost half a minute. He worked up a sweat. I could tell Asim was very embarrassed.
“Guys! Guys! NO WAY!” said Peter. “Next week? For a million? On a vanity show? There’s NO way. Maybe, just maybe you can get a fifty seater at the back of the South Point casino. Maybe. But that’s not going to fit a band.”
Asim shifted around on his seat.
“I know it’s very soon, but...”
“Yeah, VERY soon! And you want what, a band? And, like a stage that looks presentable? And sound engineers and everything? And I don’t work for free, you know! No, sorry guys. That’s just not ... Oh hey, there’s the drinks. Well, you’re welcome to finish ‘em but we are basically done.”
“Please, please. We could maybe ... We come to you for advice!” pleaded Asim. “What would it take to get a show produced for next week?”
Peter leaned across the table.
“Next week, huh? Tell me what you want.”
Asim described what Arturo had demanded, in surprising detail. As I’ve said before: he’s not stupid. Peter listened carefully and all I had to do was look suitably worried.
“Right,” said Peter, when Asim was done. “That’s quite an ask, my friend. You’re looking at about sixty people, including a band. Local talent will already be booked, so we’ll have to fly most of them in. So that’s their fee plus hotels and airplane tickets. Is it going to be a real audience or will you just round them up off the streets?”
“No, a real audience. Maybe some celebrities, if we can get them. Just name a price,” said Asim.
Peter sighed. Then he looked at me.
“You don’t look exactly overjoyed at this, Martin.”
No. And not just for Asim’s benefit, though that helped. Asim needed to think I was just an impostor, after all. If he discovered I was the real Martin King, who had been living with him and lying to him for months, the deal would be off. I had to walk a fine line between apprehension and confidence.
“Well, it’s very short notice,” I said, speaking softly. “I’ll need some help as well.”
“Anything you need, my friend,” said Asim, briefly rubbing my left shoulder. “I know you can do it!”
Peter nodded at Asim.
“That’s some friend you got there, Martin. Are you putting up your own money, too?”
“I ... haven’t really got all that much, I’m afraid. Just some savings. And a car.”
“You won’t have to sell your car, Carst ... Uhhhh! Cars! Cars are ... very personal,” said Asim, who had nearly misspoken. Peter ignored it, though his character would probably also know Martin King plays Carstairs.
“Look, I owe Arturo a favour so my fee is not going to be the problem. I want twenty-five thousand. Remember that when you’re gone I’m still cleaning up for a week, dealing with payments, returning equipment, stuff like that. But you’re looking at four million if you want it NEXT WEEK. I’m sorry. It’s an expensive town. Now if you can push back to March, we can...”
“Excuse me. Can I step away? I have to make a phone call,” said Asim.
“Sure,” said Peter, waving in the general direction of the house. “Use the living room.”
“Shukran,” said Asim, who tends to lay on the Arabic when he thinks it helps. He disappeared inside, no doubt to call Omar. Peter and I had to keep up the act, as Mohammed was still looming in the background, clearly paying attention. He had indeed taken off his jacket. I wasn’t wearing one.
“Haven’t I read something about you going AWOL?”
“Uhm ... I’ve been looking for work.”
“Oh. With a Saudi prince?”
“He’s very ... generous.”
“I’ll bet. Maybe next time you get to do a Hollywood movie, you won’t behave like a fucking asshole, huh?”
“Excuse me?!”
“I heard some stories, man. You dangled a friend of mine off a bridge. And you fucked the unions, too. You gonna do that here?”
Now Peter was just messing with me, but he was raising points for which I had actually been blamed in the press. It was a sore spot, I’ll admit.
“I BEG YOUR PARDON?!”
Mohammed, who had sat down in the shade, now got up. I’m sure protecting me from a fight was not on his mind, but running in to get Asim if needed probably was.
“Hey, calm down! I’m just saying: be better behaved. That’s some friend you got there. That’s all I’m saying.”
Well, at least now we could sit in silence, waiting for Asim to finish his call. Peter got up after two or three minutes and began to do laps in the pool, not bothering to take off those gold chains.
Ten minutes later Asim joined us. Mohammed had positioned himself near the patio doors, and briefly whispered something to Asim, who immediately looked worried. He hid that with a smile when Peter swam to the edge of the pool and asked:
“Well?”
“Mister Green, if you can get us the show I described next week, I can guarantee three point five million,” said Asim.
“Oh. Do I have final say in EVERYTHING?”
“Yes. As long as you keep to the description I gave.”
“Three nights, at least seven hundred and fifty seats, thirty man band, nice set, VIP tables, some celebs and Arturo’s sister does a couple of songs?”
“Yes. Ten songs.”
“Ten songs. Am I responsible for filling those seats?”
“Uhm ... Well ... we may need to advertise a little. That’s part of the budget.”
“Uh-huh. Well, at least he’s an A-lister. Or a B plus. And how do I know my bills get paid? I ain’t sending a collection agency to Yemen or wherever you’re from.”
“I can get the money to you by noon tomorrow. Just give your account details,” said Asim, swallowing the insult of being called a Yemenite. “Arturo will pay his share, too.”
“I ain’t worried about Arturo. Okay ... Well, it’s a good thing I’m bored, because I’m basically making no money here. One more thing: your man here?”
Peter pointed at me whilst treading water.
“He behaves. No booze. No coke. No chicks. And he does what I say. You vouch for that?”
“I do,” said Asim. Peter stopped treading water and briefly dipped his head below the surface. When he reappeared he said:
“Okay then. Let’s put on a motherfucking SHOW!”
Asim was elated during the ride home. He told me how he had to twist Omar’s arm to foot the bill. Three million was nothing to a Saudi prince and it could just be considered the cost of doing business. The cartel was, after all, willing to exchange the gold for the going rate. There would be no expenses there. Of course, Omar didn’t like me, and he certainly didn’t think I’d be able to pass myself off as Martin King and put on a show. But Omar trusted Asim and he was pleasantly surprised we’d been able to put a deal together at all. And so he agreed to foot the bill. And that’s how Mr. Peter Green got to be in charge.
My second weird meeting was with Arturo, and it was a lot shorter but also a lot scarier. Arturo ‘asked’ to see me the day after our meeting with Peter Green. I was summoned to Asim’s room, who was then ordered to get out. He did so under very little protest, claiming he needed to spend some time with Alexandra anyway. Arturo then basically read me the riot act, even though I had done nothing to warrant it. I was warned that I was to stay away from alcohol and narcotics, and had to be in bed every night by eleven at the latest. Yes, I was given a bedtime by a Mexican cartel associate!
“I don’t know what you and Peter are up to with Asim and I don’t care, but I want a show and I want it to be fantastic. If it isn’t, there will be consequences. They will hurt. Is this clear?”
“I have every intention of putting on a good show, but...” I began.
“GREAT show!”
“A great show. But I can’t do that alone. I can only perform. Peter needs to be able to do his thing, and we still need a venue. But why on Earth would I NOT do my very best?”
“I have read up about you, King,” grunted Arturo. “You have affairs. You threaten people you work with. You steal attention, like with that parachute jump. You pick fights with directors and producers. And it seems you also have a problem with Mexicans, don’t you? It seems you don’t like us very much, according to ... uhm ... Miguel?”
“The Sun,” said one of his henchmen.
“Ah. That.”
“YES. That. So all in all, King, I am not one hundred percent certain you will do as I want. So I am telling you now that unless I see a great show and my sister is happy about her part in it, your future does not look bright. Your family may be all the way back in London, but that means nothing to us. Is this clear? Just say ‘yes’.”
“Yes. But it’s MY career too, you kn...”
I should perhaps have left it at ‘yes’. Arturo’s goons lunged at me and began to drag me to the balcony, but Arturo told them to stop. He spoke Spanish, but I understood that dangling me from a balcony in broad daylight while Asim was only next door was perhaps a bit too much. And so I was pinned down on the large dinner table in Asim’s suite. I gave myself reasonable odds against these two, but there was nothing to be gained by picking a fight and so I swallowed my pride. Arturo leaned over me and produced a narrow flick-knife.
“Stick out your tongue,” he ordered.
“Fuck you, bean eater. And your sister.”
I swear to God I didn’t intend to say it. It just came out of my mouth. And I regretted it, because my arm was twisted around my back. My bad arm, the one that was never quite the same after Samantha broke it with a piece of rebar. I screamed my head off.
“Stick. Out. Your. Tongue.”
“AAAAAAAAAAH!!!!”
Well, my mouth was open anyway, so he stuck in his fat, calloused fingers and seemed to want to pull out my tongue. Now I didn’t believe for a second that he’d actually cut it out, as I would very obviously need it to sing, but I was scared and angry and I don’t like men touching me, much less on the inside of my mouth, so I bucked like a freshly castrated bull and managed to free my left arm, the one they weren’t hurting. I grabbed a heavy clay fruit bowl and swung it behind me, hitting Miguel square in the face. The bowl didn’t seem to mind, but Miguel did. Arturo backed off and at that point Asim’s guards were there. Bashan was pointing a gun at Arturo’s head and Mohammed seemed to enjoy kicking the living shit out of the remaining Mexican, the one who didn’t just have his nose broken. And he was very, very adept at that, which surprised me. To be honest I used to think very little of Saudi soldiers and policemen. Everything is about nepotism in that country and they’re all looking for shortcuts, so I didn’t think they’d have all that much training, but Mohammed effortlessly deflected an attack and with a well-aimed kick removed a knife from his target’s hand. I had wrestled myself free so vigorously that I’d actually fallen on the floor. Asim rushed in too and what followed was a lot of angry palaver between Arturo and him. I have to credit Asim for taking my side without any question. He ordered me out of the room and I went down the corridor to stall any hotel security that might show up.
Ten minutes later Bashan came looking for me. One of the Mexicans was holding a blood-stained towel to his face and Asim and Arturo seemed to be best friends again.
“Are you okay?” asked Asim.
“Yes. Thanks to your guards. Thank you, gentlemen.”
Muhammed nodded. I think he had enjoyed flexing his muscles. Being a bodyguard is one of the worst jobs in the world, if you ask me.
“Martin, I think I owe you an apology,” said Arturo, grinning. “We didn’t expect you to be so ... feisty. I think we have made our point. It would be beneficial for all of us if we just forgot about what happened here.”
I shrugged.
“That is up to His Royal Highness.”
“Martin, I believe you have singing lessons in fifteen minutes?” asked Asim, relieved.
“Yes, Your Royal Highness.”
“Then please, get changed and go there.”
“Get changed, Sir?”
It turned out there was blood all over my back. I had to toss that shirt. Good thing I hadn’t been wearing one of my suits!
Wednesday, September 16th
Asim woke me up, which was odd.
“Good morning, Carstairs! It’s eight o’clock. I have tea for you.”
“You’re bringing ME tea now? That’s new,” I said, sitting up. Why was he here?
“Yes. This is a great suite, by the way. Much bigger than ours!”
“Ah ... yes ... that’s...”
“Quite an upgrade for you!”
“What?”
Peter came in as well.
“Good morning, sunshine! Asim, have you had breakfast? Martin, I’ve given you an extra hour but it’s time to hit the pool.”
“Why are there two people in my bedroom?”
“Peter invited me,” said Asim. “To have breakfast in his suite.”
“Ah, yes. His suite...”
Peter opened my curtain.
“Yes. Since you and I are roomies for this week. Unless you want to go back to that tiny room you were in before?”
“Oh. Ah. No. No, this is nicer.”
“Good! The shower is behind THAT door, you’ll find everything you need. I had the staff unpack for you, hope you don’t mind. Come on, you have a full day ahead of you.”
Yes, this was now Peter’s suite. If you’re confused about that, just let it go. I got dressed, or rather dressed enough to make it to the pool, did my laps for forty-five minutes and started another day of exercise, rehearsals and fittings. Meanwhile, Asim and Arturo were making all sorts of arrangements to swap gold for banknotes, including various checks and counterchecks to make sure both the gold and the money were genuine. I felt I should be a part of that, but for one thing I didn’t have time and for another they both seemed to feel I wasn’t needed in the slightest.
Instead of a fitting I had a different appointment this afternoon: I was taken to the Monterey, the venue Peter had booked. He felt it would help me to get a sense of the place and I agreed. It was in the old part of Vegas, by which I mean the part near Fremont street. That’s where that 1,500 foot overhead video screen is, but Vegas has more oversized weirdness. At one end of Fremont street is ‘the worlds largest slotmachine’, Slotzilla, which is actually the starting point for the zipline that runs along Fremont street. The D, a casino in the area, has a 100 foot bar which is touted as the longest bar in Nevada. There’s also an 85 foot tall pint glass (basically just a round billboard, nothing special really), the world’s largest working fire hydrant and the world’s largest fire breathing praying mantis. Oh and Vegas Vic, of course: the largest mechanical neon sign. It depicts a cowboy who beckons you to visit a tacky gift shop on Fremont. It’s forty feet tall and broken: the arm no longer moves. And then there’s the largest Coke bottle, the largest chocolate fountain and the largest Hooters restaurant.
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