by Bill Boggs
“Hey, Ike,” Bud says. “Thanks, this will be fun, and…”
“You no sell me beast for last fight, so I rent for now,” Money says.
“Yeah, thanks, I love these passes, and…” Bud stops. He’s staring at the three women tattooed on Money’s sweating chest.
“Money, I’m sorry, and correct me if I’m wrong here,” Bud says, “but is that a Ruth Bader Ginsberg, Sandra Day O’Connor, and Sonia Sotomayor tattoo?”
“Bullshit bad tattoo from fucked-up, bow-tie-wearin’, cracka law student who work part time at Flying Ink tattoo shop at Dallas airport. And it all be ’cause Money love Motown music.”
“Me too,” Bud says.
“Money love Motown so much, he have brilliant idea to put big Supremes tattoo cover left pec to remind him you can’t hurry love, to give him more pleasure time when he playin’ with Money’s Butter Girls.”
“Well, yes,” Bud says, “that makes perfect sense. But—”
“Money tell cracker boy, ‘Tattoo me The Supremes,’ and dumb kid ask, ‘Which ones?’ Money say, ‘The three fuckin’ chicks, you dumb bastard!’”
“Oh, and—” Bud says.
“Two hours later while Money jet still on runway burnin’ valuable high-octane fuel, Money get off table and see three wrinkled old babes in robes starin’ at him over top of his nipple! Cost Money two inches off his money pile to get assault charges dropped.”
“Wow,” Bud says. “You gonna leave it there?”
“After fight, Money adding big Aretha Franklin head to top of three bodies, so then just look like it be Aretha wearin’ extra-wide church robe.”
A tall guy, who’s got that peas-and-gardenias Money cologne smell and a big “2” tattooed on his forehead, comes racin’ up and says, “James Two need rehearse now with little crane holding drone with dog in. Then, when dog ready, James Six fly drone up in air with dog and land in ring.”
I have to give the Money Piles people credit, or maybe it’s the laxative people; they had it set up great. All I have to do is get in this box about twice as big as me, sides fly up, and inside I hear Bud’s voice comin’ over a little Bose speaker commandin’ me: “Still Spike, still.”
The plan is, as I’m flyin’ around, I just gotta be steady and wait for the next step.
Then: “Ready, Spike; count five, four, three, two, one, flaps.”
The flaps go down, so I grab the giant cat toy filled with meat juices and start chompin’ away on it. Drone lowers me into the boxing ring. I leap out and run around. Bud’s in the practice ring flashin’ me directions. After two times I got it down.
I’m having a big drink of water, ’cause I’m feelin’ more heat in Vegas than I ever felt before, when this squat, muscular guy with seven gold chains around his neck and a big “6” tattooed on his forehead comes over to Bud.
“James Six ready to fly dog in Max-Ex Laxative Drone. First we weigh dog after James Four put on costume.”
“Costume? What costume?” Bud asks.
A bleached-blond with a “4” tattooed on his forehead, who looks like he should be working in a Linens ’n Things in Palm Beach, prances over. He fits me with a red cape covered with pictures of Max-Ex Laxative bottles with “Explosive Relief” in bright blue letters in the center. James Four puts a big gold-colored cardboard Money Piles logo around my neck and says, “He’s divine, just divine.”
“Just shut the fuck up, Four,” Six says. “Let’s weigh ’im.”
I weigh in at sixty-two pounds, which is heavy for me. Maybe I’m bloated from the flight?
I’m in the box, and up I go bein’ carried by the drone. I’m seeing my great-grandfather Brick in the Glider Squadron and I’m thinkin’, “I’m carrying on a great family tradition of bravery in the sky,” except I throw up. Why? Try hovering sixty feet off the ground, jammed in a giant flying laxative bottle box that’s covered with pictures of people holding plungers and smiling like they just took the biggest dump of their lives.
We run through it ten times, and finally Bud says, “He’s had enough.”
A guy named Tony who’s standin’ with the Jameses says, “Anyone want go to The Grotto? I hear they got a bunch of extra girls in working as mer’mams ’cause of fight weekend.”
Bud doesn’t have to worry about a bathing suit ’cause the Triple Dollar Sign Money Piles All-Access 3-D Hologram Boxing Glove Total Access Pass lets him have a free wardrobe anytime he walks into a store.
Tony, Bud, and me climb into a big white limo that Bud says looks like a pimpmobile and probably is. The James driving has a big “5+” on the back of his neck. “Tattoo be there so Money Piles know who James I be when Money Piles in back seat. All he do is look at my neck and he know.”
“What’s the plus sign for?” Bud asks.
“Call me Five Plus,” he says, “’cause Five Plus drive, plus Five Plus do extra. Five Plus handle Money’s dogs—Money have lotta dogs—and two big parrots. I train parrots to say, ‘I got money piles; do you?’ That’s how I get to be the only James who a James Plus.”
Bud launches into telling Five Plus about a parrot he knows named Henry. I’m staring out the window at the wonders of the Vegas Strip, but it’s hurtin’ my neck straining to see the tops of big hotels. One flashing sign says “Urinetown”—a welcoming note for any dog on a Vegas visit.
Tony’s the manager of a fighter named Gail “One Climax” Greeley, who’s a big deal in female mixed martial arts. Bud’s not a big fan of those fights, so I’m wonderin’ what he’s gonna say to Tony, but in Bud’s usual way, he’s right up front about it.
“It’s sometimes hard for me to watch MMA,” he says. “You know, the head kicks, and then hitting repeatedly when the woman’s down.”
“Really? But with the women, I think it’s kind of sexy, actually very sexy. And, hey, the girls want to do it, and, ah, they make big money, they train like mad, and they got a lot of guys who want to meet them,” Tony says.
Bud nods his “Just not my scene, pal” nod.
Waiting for us at the VIP entrance at The Grotto Have It Your Way Topless Pool, guaranteed fifty percent natural breasts, fifty percent enhanced breasts, is a woman dressed in an electric blue, skintight jumpsuit who Bud says is of “gargantuan proportions.”
“Greetings, gentlemen, I’m Mindy Mounds, The Grotto resort director. Hello, Tony, Bud, and this must be Spike The Wonder Dog. What a charming, virile animal. Come with me; I always like to tell our VIP guests a little about our concept.”
We go into her office, which is a lot like Lombardo’s office except no Judge Judy on the monitors, just live shots of topless women swimming around and floating men leering at them.
“First, I want to state that this is a wholly female-owned and operated enterprise. Our motto is ‘Make money to infinity from toxic masculinity.’ Right now, you’ll have to pardon our construction. We’re expanding to become the world’s first gentlemen’s water park, with, of course, fine dining and the highly anticipated Cialis Smoothie Bar.
“Our architectural firm is Brian, Gumble, and Pompus, designers of the Sand Universe Park in Dubai, but their influences here are the grotto at Hugh Hefner’s mansion, Sea World, and a club in New York called Plato’s Retreat, which sadly closed because of a herpes epidemic many years ago.
“We’re excited about our first additions—this is the mock-up for the Hooker Encounter Lake, and the BGB logo there is for Bitches Got Back, which is our Large-Rears-Only Wading Pool. TMZ is calling it a ‘posterior petting zoo.’”
I’m really not following this, and personally would like to go for a swim right now with or without hookers in a lake. Tony’s looking at the pictures on the walls and seems kind of annoyed. Bud gives me a “How sleazy is this?” glance, but I can tell he’s still gonna try to be polite and ask questions.
“Well,” he says, “these women, they must all have to swim pretty well and fit, ah, certain anatomical requirements. How do you find them?”
“Brilliant question,
Bud, and yes, it’s a challenge,” Mindy Mounds explains. “Many of our best swimmers were once of the unusually flat-chested Olympic competitor variety, who’ve been retrofitted with a minimum E-cup enhancement. They have the option to go much larger, of course, and each cup size fortunately increases their buoyancy, so many can float and read a hardback book at the same time.”
Tony’s squirmin’ around in his chair makin’ little grunts; I’m settlin’ in for a nap ’cause I feel like Bud’s on a track where he’s gonna interview Mindy Mounds like she’s a Peabody Award–winning medical correspondent.
“And the Hooker Encounter,” he asks, “these women also swim?”
“Oh yes, and they must swim very well; just think of a more intimate version of the Dolphin Encounter in Atlantis, except with a different species of warm-blooded mammal. We have, shall we say, ladies of the night secretly training to become ladies of the lake right now at the Swimming Hall of Fame in Fort Lauderdale under the direction of a man who claims to be a former coach of Michael Phelps.”
I get the feeling Bud’s heard enough. He stands up.
“Oh, well, OK, well, gentlemen,” Mindy Mounds says, “let’s go outside…. Oh, but first, your mandatory donation of five dollars. And, oh yes, we have the thousand-dollar Tie a Pink Ribbon Round the Old Oak Tree special today.”
“What might that be?” Bud asks.
“You get to tie a pink ribbon around your private part…with a guaranteed hands-free ribbon removal by one of our mer’mams in your own surveillance-camera-free cabana.”
“I’m outta here!” Tony blurts, jumping out of his chair. “This is all about the objectification and exploitation of women. I can’t stand it.”
Mindy calls after him, “But these girls want to do this, and they train very hard and they make good money.”
We finally go in the pool, which has glass walls and a glass bottom and guys underneath armed with something like laser pistols. I’m standin’ in the shallow end, and Bud’s keeping one eye on me and one eye on about forty topless women, but after about ten minutes we have to get out of the pool, ’cause they’re starting the laser competition.
“This is everything you’ve ever wanted in a topless laser tag game,” Mindy boasts. “First man to identify and laser tag all twenty of the nonenhanced-breasts mer’mams wins an oak tree pink ribbon. Enjoy,” she says, walking away.
“All right, I’ve had enough of this. I’m starting to feel dirty in clean water,” Bud tells me. “Let’s get back to the hotel and go for a real swim, Spike.”
Next day we run through the drone thing again. All’s great; Bud’s comin’ in loud and clear over the little speaker, and I’m OK looking down from sixty feet up—no more of that dizziness that made me throw up.
Bud wants to take a stroll on the Strip, which is gonna be hot as hell, but he’s got this special water bottle for me with a nipple that’s way longer than any I spotted at The Grotto topless pool. I’m just hopin’ that somewhere on the way I’ll find a patch of earth to—as humans say—“do my business,” because they set up a fake plastic-grass rug in our hotel room that smells like coal fumes and nail polish remover. Attention, party planners: Just ’cause something looks like grass doesn’t mean dogs can hardly wait to finish dinner to take a dump on it.
My keen nose is not a benefit on the Strip, ’cause I smell the BO pouring off everybody. They claim, “It’s a dry heat, so you don’t sweat.” OK, so you just stink. You been to Vegas? You smell when you’re there; take it from a dog.
Over by the Bellagio fountains Bud spots a TV crew shooting something, so we use our Triple Dollar Sign Money Piles All-Access 3-D Hologram Boxing Glove Total Access Pass to get up front and watch. Turns out we’re next to a reporter named Richard Johnson who was on the plane and is coverin’ some gossip angles of the big fight.
“They’re shooting The Former Housewives of the Vegas Strip,” he tells us. “Marianne and Maria were both married to Tony, and they’re fighting with him over who gets to live in their double-wide trailer, but they can’t get their lines right. This is like their seventh take; Maria’s about to explode.”
“Seventh take?” Bud says. “Isn’t this supposed to be a reality show?”
“Yeah,” Johnson says. “It is, don’t you just yearn for the pre-Kardashian era of TV?”
We see these two women in skintight dresses. They look like they’re goin’ to the inauguration of a Mafia boss. The sun’s beating down, but they’re wearin’ mink stoles in the 105-degree heat.
“Cut,” the director says. “Maria, again, you’ve got to pull Tony’s sleeve while you call him a skinny, greasy Wop sleazeball. You need to rip that sleeve off so we see he’s changed the tattoo on his arm from Maria to Marianne.”
“Wait a minute,” Maria screams, suddenly pointing at me. “Get that goddamn dog outta here; he’s so ugly, he’s throwin’ me off.”
“Ah, sorry, Maria,” the security guard says sternly, “that dog has a Triple Dollar Sign Money Piles All-Access 3-D Hologram Boxing Glove Total Access Pass. He doesn’t have to move.”
Realizin’ that I’m igniting controversy, and hating mink stoles like I do, I start snarling at Maria, who throws a water bottle at me that bounces off my head. She yells, “I don’t care if he’s got Money Piles’ boxing glove shoved up his ass. Get that fuckin’ dog off my set!”
“We’re outta here, Richard,” Bud says. “See you at the fight. Come on, Spike.”
As Bud is yankin’ at me to leave, I’m lookin’ at Maria thinkin’, “The day will come, Maria. The day will come.”
We’re back in our hotel suite that night. Bud’s soaking in one of our three hot tubs, and I’m relaxin’, lickin’ my feet, tryin’ to sooth the burn from hot pavement. He gets a call from Mindy Mounds.
“Bud, how are you?”
“Fine, Mindy. What’s going on over there at the Jurassic jiggle world?”
“Well, that’s why I called. We’re having our all-nude sensory deprivation total darkness swimming party tonight, ten-to-one ratio women to men, never know what you might grab.”
“I have enough problems grabbing things when my senses aren’t deprived, Mindy, but thanks anyway,” Bud says. “I think we’re in for the night.”
“Sure,” she says, “but if you’re in the mood, bring your pass and come over the morning after the fight for our Wake and Bake Breakfast.”
“What’s that?”
“All the marijuana pancakes you can eat,” Mindy says.
“I’m hungry already, thanks. See you at the fight.”
Another call, this time Richard Johnson.
“Bud, got anything for me that Money’s doing or saying that I can put in the column?”
“Well, he’s been spouting poetry today, like, ‘They be no defeat, because of da feet,’ bragging about his defensive skills. He’s saying that over and over.”
“That’s good,” Richard says. “Thanks. Hey, you going to the Dead Celebrities party at the Bellagio? It’s the hottest ticket in town, but you can get in easily with that pass.”
“What is it?”
“A company in Silicon Valley’s perfected interactive holograms of dead celebrities, and you’re supposed to be able to talk to them like they’re alive right in front of you. They got Sinatra, Elvis, Marilyn, Reagan, Robin Williams, major names. This is the premiere before they launch as a major Vegas attraction. They hired Larry King to host it, ’cause he looks sorta dead.”
“You know, I missed seeing Siegfried and Roy’s Secret Garden, so this’ll have to do. Plus, I’d like to talk to Reagan and Frank for sure. See you there, thanks.”
There’s a huge crowd at the door, so Bud hikes me on his shoulder. Our pass gets us around hundreds of people tryin’ to get in. Very orderly inside; waiters walking around with champagne, and there are different rooms and stages and sections for the hologram stars.
Showing us around is a little guy named Jules with bright white teeth. He’s wearin’ a shiny gray suit
and a polyester thing on his head that looks like he took advantage of the recent Rug Event of the Year Sale at the Hair Club for Men.
“I can guide you around a little bit,” Jules announces. “You get ultra-VIP treatment with the Triple Dollar Sign Money Piles All-Access 3-D Hologram Boxing Glove Total Access Pass.”
“Terrific,” Bud says. “I’d like to talk to President Reagan.”
Ronald Reagan is next to a cardboard model of Nancy Reagan, and smiling and waving. I’m lookin’ at Nancy’s shoes figurin’ she’s wearin’ Manolos, and I notice that she’s got kinda thick ankles that seem to go all the way up to her knees.
Bud says, “Mister President, I’ve always admired your Berlin Wall speech.”
“I once climbed a wall in an RKO movie,” Reagan says. “And I hurt my knee.”
“Did you write that yourself?” Bud asks. “The wall speech?”
“Heh, well…er…you know, yes, I once climbed a wall in an RKO movie,” Reagan says. “And boy, did the Gipper hurt the old knee.”
Bud looks at Jules. “Is the hologram stuck?”
Jules whispers, “No, no, the team’s not crazy about Reagan, so they programmed him in the early Alzheimer’s phase. I know it’s mean, but he’s getting the biggest laughs in the show, and he likes it.”
“OK, goodbye, Mister President,” Bud says.
“Say hello to Margaret Thatcher here,” Reagan says, pointing to Nancy.
Jules ushers us into the “Elvis Weight Gain Experience.” We watch Elvis starting to sing “Hound Dog” at 160 pounds and ending up at 240 pounds when the song’s over.
“A couple of the exhibits aren’t complete,” Jules explains. He takes us to “They Died in the Closet,” where Liberace and Roy Cohn are just kind of looking at each other not knowing what to say.
“And this will soon be a spectacular music show—Plane Crash Stars—but right now we only have Glenn Miller, Ricky Nelson, and Patsy Cline, and they can’t get a song working right.”
Jules stops and points. “That’s going to be our biggest hit: “The Rat Pack Dinner Party.” You’ve got Frank, Sammy Davis, Dean Martin, Joey Bishop, with Marilyn Monroe as special guest, and see President Kennedy with her? He snuck out of “The Dead Kennedys Compound” to sit with Marilyn. The pissed-off guy serving them is Joe DiMaggio. The producers think he was a prick for punching out Marilyn after that blowing-up skirt shot in the movie, so they made him the waiter.”
