Joseph Farley

Hard Candy

After the 200 dollars
had been used up
in his arms,
and after she had
rinsed off, wiped him
clean, helped him
put his clothes
back on, asked
for a bigger tip,
she guided him
by the hand
to the door,
paused at the bar,
scooped up a fistful
of hard candy,
shoved it into
his hand, filled
his pockets to overflowing.

“You come back,”
she said. “You ask
for Mimi.”

He left laden
with treasure,
too much for him,
enough to share
with his children
when they ran out
to greet him,
enough for
the neighbors’ kids,
enough to fill
a dish for guests.
All day suckers
that lingered
on his tongue:
mint, orange, lime.

He went back.
He asked for Mimi.

Daniel S. Irwin

The Reason I Do The Shit I Do

The real reason I do the shit I do
Don’t have nothin’ to do with reason.
I ain’t no Albert fuckin’ Einstein.
The political science geek swore
That Karl and Gracho were not brothers.
He’s just another puckin’ liar like
That Nazi cop with radar up his ass.
My bad, I might have made a good Nazi.
Maybe not….
I ain’t much into blind obedience
And racial purity is just hype bullshit
Proven by the variety of pussy I’ve enjoyed.
Some of the free thinkin’est people
Are those dedicated winos hangin’ out
Down behind the train station.
When they get juiced up,
They spout words of wisdom
Mumbled from toothless mouths
Talkin’ in riddles like ancient oracles.
“Father bless,” I say to the
Sanctified priest.
“Fuck off,” his reply.

Damion Hamilton

All the Asses

On my feed
Tits and ass
Bored and hurting
Scrolling through my phone
On Saturday

Wishing time would slow
Against the coming
Of next week
So I think of tits and asses
And they come
Through my phone
All the tits and ass
Of Instagram

Brown tits, white tits,
Yellow tits, green tits
All the tits and asses
Skinny asses, fat asses
Firm asses, soft asses
Ass that make a man
Be like woah

I remember way back when
Asses weren’t so popular
Now so many women
Show them off for the camera
At home and out in public
Even at the gym
Lifting weights in pursuit
Of better asses

So many asses
With attached smiling faces
This must be what I want
Cos it’s all that’s in my feed
My excitement grows
And grows with each new pic

One ass
Two ass
100 asses
1,000 asses

All the Asses

And all the breasts as well
Big breasts, small breasts
Firm breasts, soft breasts
Heavy breasts on older women
I remember one with breasts
Down to her knees

Two breasts
Four breasts
400 breasts
4,000 breasts

All those goddamn titties
All those pairs of breasts
And that’s on top of
All the asses

Did I forget the legs
So many varied legs
Thin legs, thick legs
Long legs, short legs
Black legs, white legs
All those different legs
Like woah

Hank Kirton

Cults that Kill

Tina Feeny (16) was keenly interested in ritualistic killings. She studied them like a grim scholar but regarded them as entertainment, an interesting hobby. That’s all. People in her family felt that she was clearly troubled and obsessed. Her interest in such unhealthy things made her parents nervous. They forced her to take down (and destroy) her stirring poster of naked Squeaky Fromme and Sandra Good. They thought it was pornographic in more ways than one. She loved that poster. It was sexy as hell. They let her keep her charcoal portrait of Richard Ramirez because they had no idea who he was. She told them he was a stand-up comedian. She wouldn’t be able to fool her folks forever.

They didn’t like it but they let her keep her true crime books, Cults that Kill, The Children of Jonestown, Helter Skelter, etc. because they were books and they wanted to encourage reading. They let her keep La-bas, and de Sade and The Torture Garden too. They were somewhat progressive that way.

They placed her in therapy against her will. Tina hated her therapist, a smug, self-satisfied man named Eugene Plax (52). His office was small. She noticed a poster of Sigmund Freud eating a banana. There were other things in his office too. Diplomas and whatnot. He asked her why she was interested in such morbid things.

“Why are people interested in collecting stamps?”

“Are you comparing postage stamps to ritual murder?”

“Yes. Yes I am. They’re both harmless hobbies that most people can’t understand the appeal of.”

“M-hm.”

“Ha! I knew you’d say that.”

“So, you see ritual killings as harmless?”

“Not the murders themselves. The information is the harmless part. I’m just the third party, learning stuff secondhand.”

“M-hm. And what goes on in these ritual killings that you find so interesting and worthy of study?”

“The human sacrifices, the blood play, the charisma of the leaders. The devotion of the followers. You know, the usual stuff. Symbolism. Belief systems. Violence. The pomp and circumstance. Candles. The question should be why aren’t you interested in this stuff.”

“Me?”

“Yeah. You’re interested in psychological stuff. You’d think things like this would be right up your alley.”

“M-hm. And do you want to join a cult?”

“I want to start one.”

Raised eyebrows.

“You wanna be my first member, doc? I’ll tell you what to do.”

“Well,” glancing at his watch. “I’m afraid our time is up.”

“M-hm.”

She could think circles around this guy.

***

From: Everything Dissolves

Donna Dallas

Death Collective

Line my coffin with
the butter-yellow Austrians
from our beach cottage
bedroom with
that cathedral ceiling we loved
to stare up into
forever
Pull some Venetian prisms
off the hundred year old
chandelier that flickered sun-holes
onto us from the window and make
earrings out of them for me please
You can lay me into a mahogany casket
with my black Chanel
the one we bought
on Place Vendome
in the midst of a rain so heavy
it was God upon us
Slip my Louboutins on feet
hard as stone
bend the toes so my arch is angled to the shape
of that divine heel
don’t put a ton of makeup on me
I don’t want to look garish
at the wake and scare away
the handful of viewers goggling
over my long and broken body
Burn me after
light me up
howl at the fire
I smolder and catapult up the shaft
in a whirlwind of smoke and ash
Finger through the soot
to find a nail
or a piece of a tooth
perhaps a bit of hair
save it
love it
it was me you bastard

 

Originally published in Literary Orphans

Judge Santiago Burdon

Do You Believe in Magic

A psychic had been considering renting the storefront next to the bar I owned at the time. She came in and asked my opinion as a business owner about foot traffic in the area, specifically whether I thought it was a good idea to rent and if she would be successful. She wasn’t sure if it would be a wise investment.

“I’m somewhat puzzled by your question,” I answered with a surprised tone in my voice. “Being a psychic, isn’t that something you should know already, having the ability to see the future?”

She just looked at me with a loathing expression, threw her hands up, and with a disgusted tone called me a smart ass and turned to walk away.

The space remained vacant for three months and was eventually rented by an extremely pleasant guy named Marvin from Boston. He opened a magic shop next door and claimed to be related to Harry Houdini. He became a regular at the bar and drank Sam Adams with a shot of Old Grandad. He was a gifted story teller, always entertaining customers with humorous tales of his career as a magician in his younger days.

Occasionally he’d do magic tricks for patrons, although almost exclusively for good-looking women.

I realized an opportunity to book his act in the bar. I asked “Mystic Marvin Master of Illusion” if by chance he’d be interested in performing once a week with payment to be negotiated.

The bar had a small stage and I let a local musician host an Open Mic on Wednesday and Sunday evenings. On Friday and Saturday nights, comedians performed, hosted by a local radio personality and city councilman. He didn’t possess much charisma and lacked audience appeal, however. Neither he nor the comedians he booked were very funny most of the time and didn’t draw much of a crowd as promised either.

Mystic Marvin was excited at the opportunity to perform his magic. We arranged his first performance for the upcoming Friday night at nine o’clock, as an opening act before the so-called comedians.

The word spread quickly around the pueblo and I did a small bit of advertising, putting posters outside the bar and passing out  flyers to everyone that entered.

My novia (girlfriend) at the time was a gorgeous young woman whom I was fortunate to be able to afford. She was a vixen in bed with a voracious sexual appetite. I found it necessary to increase my testosterone dosage to keep up with her. She was also a thief and pathological liar, minor character flaws I chose to overlook in light of her other qualities.

Marvin and Veronica seemed to get on well together, despite the language barrier. She spoke little to no English and Marvin was one of those “I know enough Spanish to get by” type of people. Which I’ve discovered usually translates into, “I don’t know shit.”

He asked if it would be possible to have Veronica act as his assistant for the magic performance. There wasn’t any reason that I could think of not to grant his request. Veronica appeared thrilled at the prospect of being onstage without having to take her clothes off. Besides, our relationship had been been on the wane as of late, and I’d been trying to come up with some way to terminate our arrangement. I was pleased she would be occupied and not always hanging around, constantly getting in my way. She was suppose to be working as a waitress at the bar but never quite caught on to exactly what the job entailed.

They took their gig very seriously, practicing twice a day and sometimes into the early morning hours at the magic shop. After five days, Veronica came to me and asked me to purchase a costume for her to wear for the performance. The sequined costume she wanted cost one hundred and twenty- five dollars.

“Are you serious? I’m not laying out that kind of cash for a costume. That should be Marvin’s expense. You tell him what I said.”

“You are so mean to me. You never want me to look nice because you’re jealous other men look at me.”

“First of all I am not the jealous type. If it were so, I would’ve kicked your ass out of here long ago. I’m well aware of your flirtatious nature. Secondly, this was Magic Marvin’s idea to have you perform as his assistant. This falls under the responsibility of the talent. Don’t make it my problem.”

Marvin walks in at the height of our heated discussion, standing behind Veronica with an apologetic look on is face. Having finished my oration, I turned to walk behind the bar when Marvin decided to add his commentary.

“I know you think there’s something going on between Veronica and me. You have a right to feel that way. I know I’ve been monopolizing a lot of her time.”

“Marvin, that’s not at all what our conversation was about. If there’s something going on between you two, well that’s something I haven’t considered and honestly don’t give a shit.”

I knew he was banging her and it honestly didn’t upset me. I’d been getting more sleep at night anyway.

“The disagreement was over her wanting me to pay for a costume for your performance,” I continued. “And I believe this is an expense you should be responsible for, not me. I find it interesting, however, you assumed our disagreement was about me being suspicious of you two.”

“She’d mentioned that you were jealous she was spending so much time with me. That’s why I thought that’s what you were arguing about. Anyway, I bought that costume for our show yesterday. She tried it on and modeled it for the customers. You were gone, went to pay some bills I was told. Strange that she would ask you for money when she knew it was already paid for…”

I look around the bar, check the kitchen, bathroom, and office, and Veronica is nowhere to be found. I call out for her but she still doesn’t appear. Then I’m told by one of the customers she’d left shortly after Marvin’s arrival.

“It’s not strange at all, Marvin. As a matter of fact, it’s her modus operandi. She’s a con artist and a pathological liar. Don’t try to make sense of it, that’s just the way she is. Are you ready for tomorrow night? There should be a good-sized crowd from what I’ve heard.”

“Yes, I’m good to go. My act will last about forty five minutes to an hour, is that okay?”

“Just fine. I’ll see you tomorrow night, then. You go on at nine, so be sure to get here around eight thirty or so to get set up.”

“You bet, Santiago. I’m going to try to find Veronica noq. She may be upset. See ya tomorrow.”

“She’s most likely at the bar in the casino. Catch you later.”

Can you believe that insensitive snake, trying to shake me down for money, knowing it was already paid for. She thinks I’m a dipshit gringo and it’s my first experience dealing with women and their underhanded ways. After all I’ve done for and tolerated from that stripper prostitute. But, her dishonesty goes with the territory.

The night of their performance, the bar was jam packed with standing room only. I was a bit upset with myself that I  hadn’t thought to charge a few bucks a head. I did up the prices on drinks, however.

Mystic Marvin and the Lovely Veronica put on an entertaining and professional show. Got more laughs than the comedians ever did, that’s for sure. They even included an audience participation segment, which received thundering applause as well.

After a few weeks, the crowd dissipated and his act became less amazing. Although he did perform one of the most mystifying magic tricks I’d ever witnessed. It was a disappearing act that ended with both him and Veronica vanishing completely. The next morning, I noticed the magic shop empty, and Veronica’s clothes had disappeared from my apartment along with some cash as well. She’d left no note goodbye.

I was actually quite elated there hadn’t been some long, drawn-out break up. As a replacement, I hired Melissa, a gorgeous and personable young woman that same afternoon.

That night at the bar, I bought a couple of rounds in tribute to my newly single status. The comedians even seemed funny to me, although I’d heard the same jokes for months.

I bumped into Marvin about eight months later, on a short vacation I took with Melissa to the beach in Guanacasta. He was sitting alone at the bar, looking unhappy, overweight, and disheveled. When he recognized me, his expression revealed both fear and surprise. I waited for him to initiate conversation, which he did with uncertain confidence.

“Hello Santiago, it’s Marvin. How ya doing? It’s been a while…”

“Doing just dandy, Marv. Man, you look like you’ve been tortured by Jehovah’s Witnesses who beat your ass with Bibles. Are you still with Veronica? You two left together, so I was told.”

“Yeah, well, that’s right. I should apologize for how I acted, after you giving me an opportunity to perform at your bar.”

“Okay, go ahead.”

“Go ahead what?

“Apologize for being a backstabbing prick.”

“I’m truly very sorry,” he whimpered.

“I really don’t fucking care.”

“She blindsided me, Santiago. I got all caught up in her web of deception and couldn’t get out.”

He just went on and on, his voice cracking as he spoke.

“I thought she loved me. I did everything for her, and she pulled the rug right out from under me. Took off with some surfer bum, but not before cleaning out my bank accounts and stealing anything of value I had. Even took my little dog, Abracadabra, too…”

I  wanted to say how sorry I was, but I wasn’t.

“Well, you know what they say.”

“No, what do they say?”

“Love is great until the magic wears off. See ya around, maybe.”

Never saw the guy again. Soon afterwards I began learning a few card tricks of my own.  Eventually, I graduated up to some elementary sleight of hand tricks as well. Though I never did develop a quality trick, always screwed it up somehow.

“Do you believe in magic. In a young girls heart…”

—Lovin’ Spoonful

Tim Frank

The Allegra Product

Jen dialled the Allegra Homeware helpline, left her mobile on the granite kitchen counter top, put it on loud speaker and opened her briefcase – unsheathing a pack of midrange Allegra cutlery. She held up the stainless-steel dinner knives close to Fiona, a two-and-a-half-year-old toddler, who was minding her own business, perched in her highchair, tackling a cheese string. Her mother, Christine, was slightly less casual as she was tied up and trapped in the cupboard under the stairs, snot and tears soiling her blouse. She called out to Jen, “You can’t get away with this, my husband will be back at six.”

“That’s all I’ll need to change your lives. Now please be quiet, I’m only keeping your gag off so your squeals don’t scare Fiona, but I won’t hesitate to use it if you misbehave.”

Christine blubbered some more as an operator came on the line and in an inane sing song voice, said, “Allegra Homeware helpline, how can I help you?”

“I’d like to speak to Alan Blackburn please,” said Jen, in an equally asinine voice.

“Who?”

“You know exactly who. I’m Jen Martins – I’ve contacted him on every media platform and we go way back. Now, put me through to your boss or I’ll slice up my friend’s baby I’ve kidnapped. I think I’ll use an Allegra Gourmet steak knife, then I’ll feed her to the foxes. Ok?”

After a beat, the operator said in a sober voice, “Please hold.”

Muzak played.

Jen scooped out the existing cutlery from its drawer and carefully replaced it with Allegra custom made products – shining the odd spoon with a cloth.

“You see Fiona, isn’t that better?”

Then Jen gathered Fiona up in her arms and said, “Now shall we transform mummy and daddy’s bedroom? You lead the way.”

Fiona stroked her pudgy fingers across Jen’s face with a playful smile.

“I could just eat you up,” Jen said as they passed the cupboard under the stairs. Christine became aware of Jen and her daughter’s proximity, she did all she could to repress her need to shriek Fiona’s name.

“Listen, Jen, listen,” said Christine peeking through the slats of the cupboard door. “We’ve been friends for years and I don’t know what went wrong but just because we fell out, don’t take that out on a defenceless little child.”

“I’ll tell you what went wrong, you think you’re better than me because I’m a top Allegra sales person.”

“No, Jen it’s because you’re obsessed. It’s all you talk about, Allegra this, Allegra that – constantly – and it’s just unbearable.”

“You know what’s unbearable? Being dirt poor when all your friends are holidaying in the Algarve, driving SUVs and scoffing smoked salmon. My crime is that I tried to better myself and what do I get? Everyone turning against me. Now I have a couple of hours to metamorphose your bedroom. Trust me, when I’m done you and your husband will thank me.”

Jen locked the master bedroom door behind her and propped Fiona up against a plump pillow next to a pile of Allegra bedroom products Jen had collected from the boot of her car. She swayed to the muzak that played on loop from the phone, clicking her fingers. She swapped the blinds, exchanged the rugs and replaced the nick nacks, peppered across the chest of drawers.

“Miss Martins?” said a voice, filled with terror. Fiona had snatched the phone and was chewing on it – covering it with drool.

“Ah, Alan,” said Jen, “finally. You owe me money; I’ve been working my butt off and all I get from you and your company is false promises.”

“Miss Martins, you know that’s not true, we released you from our contract months ago because you were untrustworthy and, frankly, deranged. Please tell me you were joking about the baby?”

“Alan, you said we were a team.”

Jen felt lightheaded so she lay down on the king-size bed next to Fiona. She stared at the painting of Baron Rothschild opposite and it began to speak. “Jennifer,” it purred, “you’re the finest saleswoman in all of North East Finchley and some sections of Barnet too.”

A shriek emanated from downstairs as Christine’s husband had returned and released his wife. “There’s blood, there’s blood on the carpet,” Christine cried. “My baby!”

Christine grabbed her husband by the hand and followed the trail of blood that led to their bedroom. The couple could hear Jen talking to herself. There was no sound from the child. Christine’s husband struggled to knock the door down with his shoulder.

Jen trembled and then her body lifted off the bed as she levitated a yard in the air.

Fiona squeaked, “You’ve convinced me, I want a month’s supply of exfoliating facial wet wipes, please.”

Jen’s head lolled back and she gave a dreamy smile.

Christine’s husband knocked the door down and the couple dashed over to Fiona who was drenched in globs of blood. However, they found no cuts or bruises on her body. Then they noticed the room. Their usual decor had gone and what replaced it was horrifying. There was blood on the Allegra curtains, blood on the Allegra tasselled Persian rug, blood on the Allegra tap fittings, blood on the Allegra his and her towel set, blood on the Allegra lamp shades, and blood squirting from Jen’s wrists who had collapsed in the centre of the bed. Pools of blood had collected in the folds of the duvet where Jen happily slipped out of consciousness and into a better world. Everything would be Allegra there. She would be its shining light.

John D Robinson

Tangled

Shapes blended,
bodies wrapped
and tangled like
barbed-wire,
time had
temporarily
stopped in the
sparse cheap
rented room,
the invisible
calendar shredded
and strewn
across the floor
like the
abandoned clothes
of lovers:
evening would
envelope them
and morning
would release
them into a
world unaware
and uncaring
of their fading
silhouettes.

Michael D. Amitin

Viva Las Vegas

John Charles Frémont (January 21, 1813 – July 13, 1890), was an American military officer, explorer, the first candidate of the Republican Party for the office of President of the United States, and the first candidate to run on a platform in opposition to slavery. During the 1840s, that era’s penny press accorded Frémont the sobriquet “The Great Pathfinder.”

It was June of 1843, Frémont’s second topographical expedition mapped the Oregon Trail, traveled to Fort Vancouver, then turned south through Oregon and Western Nevada. By January 1844, the expedition was comprised of twenty-seven men, including Kit Carson and Thomas “Broken Hand” Fitzpatrick, sixty-seven horses and mules, and a bronze mountain howitzer.

Low on provisions, Frémont decided to cross the 10,000 ft. Sierra Nevadas to Sutter’s Fort in California. It was midwinter, and the mountains were covered in deep snow. The Washoe Indians he met told him that he’d never be able to cross.

Fremont’s expedition eventually lead him southeast where on May 13, 1844, he set up camp in Las Vegas Springs, a destination that would later come to bear a landmark Hotel bearing his name.

Built in the Vegas building boom of the 1950’s, the Fremont Hotel and Casino in Downtown Vegas opened on May 18, 1956 as the tallest building in the state of Nevada. Fremont Street became the main thoroughfare through the heart of casino-lined Glitter Gulch.

Today, the Fremont remains one of the stalwarts of old Vegas… and the stuff of great legend – the house that gave rise to the likes of the inimitable Newton Brothers, Wayne and Jimmy, and gave a start to many others.

Local lore says this about the venerated establishment: “The Fremont will probably be around until Vegas gets sucked into the pits of hell.” Danka Schoen, and we love you Jersey.

A cool autumn night in 1983, the Fremont in the spirit of exploration befitting its namesake, played host to another groundbreaking act – an expedition of another variety – one likely to have made the wheels of the Great Pathfinder’s covered wagon spin into dead man’s ditch.

The American Urological Association was holding its annual meeting at the Fremont. Word of a major breakthrough in urological research had those gathered in attendance chattering. Dr. Giles Brindley, a British physiologist was slated to present his ‘significant’ findings to the association.

Brindley, a pencil-necked graying man of fifty-seven, was an old hand at such meetings, having presented numerous papers at scientific conferences. He had a reputation in Europe for original research, especially in bioengineering. In 1964, for example, Brindley had devised the world’s first visual prosthesis and had implanted three pairs of electronic eyes in humans before terminating the work when the costs did not justify the results. Once, to explore the effects of centrifugal force on a rabbit’s ability to land on its feet, Brindley dropped a rabbit from the roof to the floor of a car while making a sharp turn while the car was going eighty miles an hour.

After incurring the wrath of hell from PETA, Brindley sequestered himself for years taking solace with a “Logical Bassoon” he’d invented, an electronically controlled version of the bassoon.

Anchors Away

Prior to the 1980’s, it was thought that erectile dysfunction – the inability to achieve an erection – was primarily mental. That concept was about to be doused with saltpeter at the conference in Vegas.

A buzz filled the small theater inside the Fremont, as a veritable who’s-who of urologists took their seats and the lights dimmed. A short squatty, balding man with bushy sideburns pluming out beneath a circus purple velvet hat made his way on stage. With the voice of a eunuch, he chimed through the theater: “Ladies and gentlemen, distinguised colleagues, guests.”

Backstage, the bespectacled Brindley hurriedly injected his penis with the drug phentolamine. Following the injection, Dr. Brindley gracefully appeared on stage and quickly dropped his pants to display one of the first drug-induced erections to the incredulous audience. It was a whopper.

The audience – consisting primarily of physicians who spent much of their professional lives performing examinations of the sort that tend to jade ones response to male genitalia, – audibly gasped.

“[Brindley] dropped his pants before the audience…

…a very respectable erection”

Prof. Alvaro Morales, Queen’s University, Kingston, Ontario.

“I had been wondering why Brindley came out wearing sweatpants,” said Dr. Arnold Melman, Chief of Urology at New York’s Albert Einstein College of Medicine. “Suddenly I knew. It was a big penis, and he just walked around the stage, showing it off.”

Brindley, a former athlete, proving he was not using a silicone prosthesis, descended from the stage to the audience, inviting them to inspect his erect penis.

Brindley waddled from the stage down the stairs making his way through a stunned audience, his trousers at his knees, and his experiment at eye level, to “confirm the degree of tumescence.” Four or five of the women in attendance screamed, Professor Brindley pulled up his pants, and, returning to the stage, concluded his lecture.

Dr. Irwin Goldstein, a Boston University urologist who had a cherry seat for Dr. Brindley’s presentation described it as such, “He walked down the aisle and let us touch it. People couldn’t believe it wasn’t an implant.”

Ms. Irene Schlepsky of Buffalo, NY who apparently had a previous intimate encounter with Brindley, later said this: “It was the frankenstein of genetalia… inanimate tissue returning to life. Ms. Schlepsky a college philosophy profesor who had come to Vegas on a Knights of Columbus junket, accepted the invite from Brindley once it was apparent her junket would coincide with his revelatory unveiling. Unfortunately, the spry brunette looker never recovered from the events of that night. After prolonged therapy she gave up her calling as an educator and entered the Cloister of Passionist Nuns at Whitesville, Kentucky.

Another of the women in attendance, Mrs. Lovie Pumps, reported the epiphany to her husband – venture capitalist Hector Pumps, a gentle man of sixty-five who by now had long since said kaddish for his shriveling schemekle – could hardly believe it. “A miracle, Lovey!” He could hardly count the hours until a recesitation of the finest order might restore he and his wife’s mordant bump and grind.

Later when Brindley’s revelation was put in a capsule dubbed the “little blue pill” and unleashed to the world at large, Hector Pumps used his international connections to market the drug in such disparate loin-aching places as Instanbul and Moscow. A statue was erected in Pump’s honor in the hub of Istanbul’s red light district.

The Lobby

As the meeting was breaking up, Urologists filed across the lobby in a stony silent wake, before taking tables at “Pat’s On Your Back Lounge.” Jiggling their martini tumblers and listening to graying rockers who look ridiclous, the group was left to ponder what they’d just witnessed.

The reason why an injection of phentolamine gave Brindley an erection was especially interesting in 1983 because no one had really thought about it before.

Howard Hughes not withstanding (who decades earlier had sported a hearty and frequent habit of shooting narcotics into his wealthy johnson), the mid-1980’s ushered in a new era where it became commonplace for men with erectile dysfunction to inject smooth-muscle-relaxing drugs as a treatment for the problem. Phentolamine was soon at the fingertips of untold scores of measly lovers, as within a decade, it morphed into the “little blue pill” we’ve come to know as Viagra.

Timeline 1983

# Cabbage Patch Dolls hit the market.

# “Just Say No” is the new tool to combat growing drug use in the US.

# Camcorders are introduced.

(Everything in life is timing)

Popular Music of 1983

1. “Down Under” Men at Work

2. “Baby, Come to Me” Patti Austin & James Ingram

3. “Come on Eileen” Dexys Midnight Runners

4. “Beat It” Michael Jackson

5. “Let’s Dance” David Bowie

Wayne, Jimmy… eat your heart out. You may have had countless adoring sea hags trekking from Atlantic City to Vegas, but you never caused a commotion like this.

As the bartenders hollered last call, the martini tumblers dry as a desert well, the urologists exited the Fremont, passing hookers, pimps, winos, crack hawkers, tank top rockers scavenging the boulevard. The great pathfinder, John C. Fremont looked down from his luxury suite in the great reward flashing a hearty Vegas smile.

In the wake of the presentation, the Fremont became a destination for film directors. Scenes from the movie Swingers were filmed inside the hotel. The casino also appeared in Honey, I Blew Up the Kid.