Frolicking the Strip WIth Darren Helm, Day 2

Dear Diary,

This must be what bottoming out feels like.

Yesterday, even after that jailsexing I took at the craps tables, life wasn't so bad. I had the glow of a man who'd just saved the plane-full of Detroiters, the cadre of Swedish blonds and the walk of a man with town of danger and possibilities laid out before him. Vegas. It was fresh and it was beautiful. I even got to catch some of the Czech/Slovak game last night and I'll be damned if Jager doesn't look like he's towing a boat anchor around out there. Put that man out of his misery!

Today...today is an entirely different story.

Things started off nicely enough. I got up this morning and burned through my week-off training regimen:

• Towed a monster truck tire up the side of the Luxor;
• Worked on my balance by standing on a pillar next to pool at Caesar's while they took down the Roman warrior statues for their daily cleanings;
• Shuttled guests to/from the airport on my custom pedicab at highway-safe speeds...barefoot; and
• Ran a cool-down 3 miler with the mayor to discuss the city's stimulus funding situation.

...then, after a Phelps-like 75,000 calorie breakfast, I decided it was time to make back some of that cash I donated to the Hard Rock last night. This time, I figure no more craps. Let's hit the poker tables. They say you play the man, not the cards, and I'll be damned if some bean counting stiff with a low hat is going to work me mano-a-mano.

So I sidle up to the table and for the first hour, it's going smoothly. I'm not setting the place on fire, but I'm holding my own, making a little headway, getting to know the players and setting my plan of attack.

And then it happens. Lebda...stone cold frolicking drunk crawls into the poker room spilling his vodka/cranberry all over the place. He's smoking a Virginia Slim and there's a 55 year old leather bag named Suzette next to him looking very, very unhappy.

"Helmer...Helmer, you gotta help me out. I'm in a pickle and I need some cash. $50K. ...and soon."

He proceeds to tell me that he racked up a tab over at the Crazy Horse II and Suzette was here to collect on behalf of the girls.

At this point, the entire poker room is staring at him and waiting for me to make my next move. Nobody's touched their cards in about 5 minutes. I try to reason with Lebs that he'll be fine, that he ought to call up his parents and ask some of the Notre Dame groupies to pool cash, but he tells me they already had to play that card 9 months ago when he lost his ass on an arm wrestling match against an 8th grader and had to take out a second mortgage.

Ever the humanitarian, I set to work trying to somehow turn my modest winnings into a small fortune. Before long I'm up to $25K, but Suzette is looking antsy and threatening to call in some muscle if we don't come up with the cash ASAP.

Last ditch time.

Next hand I get DEEP into a $15K round with Yakitoro, the Japanese billionaire who's been hawking me all afternoon. I'm only $10K short at this point of pulling in the full fifty Lebs needs to get that surly skank off his back...and like clockwork, Yakitoro slides ten grand worth of chips into the center. I've got a bullshit pair of 6's, King high, but figure this is my chance. Maybe he's bluffing.

So I put it out there. I look straight at Yakitoro and tell him that while I can't come up with another $10K, if I lost that hand I'd go all Indecent Proposal and make love to his woman for one full night.

It's worth mentioning here that Yakitoro isn't into the standard Vegas tail. His wife is no prize. 6'3" and at least 300 lbs, she looks like some cross between a young Rosie O'Donnel and an old Riddick Bowe. ...but I have to do something.

You can see where this is going.

Yakitoro, knowing my reputation as a stallion and seeing the glint in his woman's eyes, shakes his head, flips over his cards. Full house. Game over.

Fcking Lebda. I'm gonna kill that guy.