#wheel!

[medinaquirin]

Feel like crap.  Wonder what it is today?

*spins wheel with segments marked Depression, Anxiety, Hormonal Fluctuation, Emotional Trauma, Crippling Loneliness, and The World Is A Dumpster Fire*

[stormypip7]

wheel!

[hardanchorbeliever]

[skrunkly-squits]

“WHEEL!”

[snoozingbear]

i hate driving so much just the thought of it makes me nauseous people should never have made cars go so fast

[thisblogisboundforglory-blog]

#18 - Yes. Ellen Degeneres. Sorry.

"Wheel! Of! Fortune!"

Las Vegas slot machines are now, of course, computer games. They do more than clink and clank and thunk. They still jingle, although no coins ever come out. But they talk to you, coax you closer as you walk by, insult you in the voice of Homer Simpson, entice you in the trustworthy tones of Ellen Degeneres. Many of them mimic popular TV game shows, and so regularly burst into song or familiar catchphrases every six minutes and thirty-two seconds. Not that any casino employees are counting, mind you. Nope -- not like they parse their whole working day by the six minute, thirty-two second interval programmed into the fairly common and freakish fucking cuckoo-clock of a game.

"Wheel! Of! Fortune!"

He watches her slide into the café, one hand in the pocket of her cutoffs and balled into a fist, clearly hanging on for dear life to the collection of bills she's got in there. Probably hard-won. Certainly just enough to cover the cost of a meal.

There are cheaper meals in Las Vegas. But there are damned few places left that will serve them to an unaccompanied underage female in cutoff shorts. Not that the El Cortez is low-rent. Just the opposite. Recent years have seen it become the unreconstructed gambling hall of choice for the young and ironically hirsute.

Tisha sees what the old man sees, and smiles.

Suddenly, the café's greeter stops leading the young woman to the back of the restaurant, notices an empty table next to the odd couple up front, and seats her there.

"Mitak'oyasin," Coyote says, when the greeter has gone.

The girl lifts her eyes from the menu without moving her head. Peers at the posh lady and the bony old guy. She steadfastly refuses to let her eyebrows reveal emotion.

"Uh, hi," she answers, struggling to put together the odd syllables she just heard. If the cowboy is trying to talk Tonto, he's getting it wrong. It was Tarzan who confused the objective and subjective. Tonto didn't bother with personal pronouns at all. But the pretty lady and the old guy are both staring at her, now, and it is important not to piss anyone else off tonight. So, "Hello, uh, Taquaseen? Me Tay."

"Pardon me?" Tisha asks.

"Um, sorry," Tay says, and turns her attention back to the menu.

"Wheel! Of! Fortune!"

After a few moments of thought, Tisha says, "Oh, I see. Me Taquaseen. Me Tay. Me Tisha." She points to each of them in turn as she speaks. "All T-words!" Tisha says, "What are the chances of that?" Her lacquered fingernails click on Formica as she slaps the tabletop.

"I am not a T-word," Coyote growls.

"Trouble."

"Well."

"Troubadour? Truant? Trick--"

"Tree-mendous. And not just in the hat department."

Tisha makes a flicking gesture at him.

Tay did not notice the Lady's fingertips dip into the water glass, yet drops fly at the old man just the same. 

The Lady says, "And this creepy old coot is staring at you because a little while ago, he watched you thwart an attacker out on the LINQ. Don't panic," Tisha adds in a whisper, when every muscle in Tay's body tenses for flight, "You were assaulted. It will show on camera, if anyone comes looking for you. But you don't want anyone to come looking for you. There would be – complications, yes?"

"Wheel! Of! Fortune!"

"Who are you?" Tay asks.

"I am a friend of the Mission up the street, although I am astonishingly fickle in my spiritual practice." Flash of sparkling white teeth. "Have you heard of the Mission? Know it by reputation? Yes, I can see that you do. I was wondering if you'd be interested in sheltering there for the night. There will be others. Reasonably safe. No obligation."

"The Jesus Joint?"

"No joints," Tisha smiles again. "Some zig-zags."

But she's almost drowned out by her companion's bark of laughter. Or howl of laughter. No, to be honest, it is a yip. Tisha is almost drowned out by Coyote's yip of laughter. "Jesus Joint." He nods his head in approval. "That's it. That's the one. Holy rollers! Good one." He holds out his hand, palm up. There's a crumpled piece of paper there. Tay's face is just recognizable among the irregular folds. "Took this from the disrespectful one’s big dumb friend," he says.

She snatches the thing away from him. He lets her do it.

"Probably slow them down," he says.

"Slow who down?"

Tisha pitches her voice low, under the ambient jingle and jangle of spectral jackpots, so only the girl might hear. "He died, running after you," she says. "Suicide by Ferris wheel. So I think you don't want to go home tonight, even if you have a safe place to go. And I think you should join us for dinner," and here, the silk ribbons of her speech tie themselves into knots, "You like prime rib?"

[imma-littledaisy]