“Well, mibbe for you, but av gotta keep on movin’.”

The hitchhiker won’t have any of this.

“Ha. Y’think y’know a casino that pays out better odds than-ere?” His voice takes on the shrill of an old Forty-Niner. “Not a chance. Now h’wat’s yer game?” He gives the driver a haunting stare, one that is insusceptible to the grip of reason.

“I don’t think ah…”

“I said, what’s, h’yer, game?” It’s clear that the hitchhiker is not fooling around. The driver reminds himself of his plan to try to augment his savings with a few lucky throws. He figures it might as well be in this phosphorescent circus as any other.

“Arright. Lemme pull around.”

True to the neon eclecticism of the town, and this casino in particular, there are strange, ringleader-attired bellhops to see the two into the lobby. Their outfits clash as much in color –aqua, palm tree green, and a very dehydrated urine-gold- as they do with the supposed theme of this casino-hotel disaster.

“Weeeeeelcome, se-ahs,” one of the attendants affects in a poorly placed, mock English accent. From the insistent look on his face -a desert-bumpkin’s poor effort at Anglo-perfected pomp- he does not intend satire. In his hand, where a whip would somewhat complete the attempt at circus performer, is the traditional British riding crop. It is teal. His matching hat is a bizarre amalgam of riding gear, pith helmet, and Queen’s guard issue. The overall effect is jarring.

The lobby is a mess of the same colors, except they come in a dizzyingly patterned carpet and flow down the walls in a waterfall of drapery. Guarding the twin stairs leading up to the main room are two giant lions, paws outstretched over whoever decides to venture into the cavernous hall. A real waterfall pours its way into a Roman fountain in between the two staircases. From on high, a mirrored ceiling reflects the collision of fabrics, colors, and the tops of people’s heads.