Last week on Downtown Oliver Brown we ended with:

We followed Jared into XS the sixty-thousand-foot twelve-million-dollar-club. I no longer had ten million in gambling debts on my mind. My girlfriend was back in Los Angeles studying for midterms at USC or something…I felt that exited feeling that you can only feel in anticipation of a goodtime in Vegas. Steve Wynn was indeed a wise man. It was good that I quit while I was ahead. And then came the crushing of arms around my neck and breasts against my chest.

“Oliver,” panted April The Stripper into my ear. Then here tongue was in my mouth, so I couldn’t possibly tell her about my girlfriend Nichole. “You came back for me! Who told you I was going to be at XS tonight? Oh it doesn’t matter just so that you’re here and we’re together.”

 This week:

 Now as I described in previous blogs, nobody kisses like April. In fact nobody does anything like April and I’ve done everything. Anyway, the kiss was a mixture of pleasure and pain due to the right-hook the former First Lady, Barbara Bush, had delivered to my jaw at the poker table—sore looser that old dame. Then much to Whiskey Peet, Stan Peters, Dave The Jew, and Fat Andy’s delight she delivered several more bone crushing hugs.

“I love this mare…” Whiskey Peet hoisted her off the ground and spun her around in a 360-degree circle. “It’s about time you come back and saddle her up for another ride. Especially since she bought you that nice house to live in with her!”

Now as you may recall April bought the incredible house with the money she had won gambling at Whiskey Peet’s private casino—mostly while Dave The Jew and I were driving around hallucinating from a strong dose of peyote (Lophophora williamsii). Then she caught me by surprise by taking me there and having sex with me on the floor—while the boys apparently, rather than excuse themselves, took iphone pics. This conceivably facilitated my breakup with Misha, but had faded from memory by the time I had met Nichole.

Nichole: “Hey I like the Annie Lennox look.”

“I just finished five rounds of chemotherapy.”

“Oh…”

This conversation took place over lunch, which ensued after my noticing an unusual saying printed on her t-shirt. She was beautiful like an angel.

So our group proceeded up the stairs to the landing that overlooked the truly spectacular club. There was something very 1980’s about XS—in an updated way that dazzled my 1980’s bone! The club, a circle with a dance floor that flowed out to a pool area used for topless bathing during the day, was pulsing with electronica and surprisingly well-dressed young ladies of every attractive shape and size. Of course April put them all to shame—still I could not help but to gaze and drool, a little.

Jared took us to the best booth; right on the dance floor, and April wasted no time in commencing with something similar to the lap dances that she’d given me the night that we met at Seamless.

“You want me to bring her over here,” said April, nodding toward the girl she caught me glancing at. “It’s okay as long as I’m involved.”

“Sure.” April walked off and the boys all looked over at me. I shrugged. “I have no idea what she’s up to.”

And then with April on one side and the blonde she introduced as Kristi on the other side we some how managed to engage in a three-way French kiss—this went on for several minutes until the moment Sandstorm started to play.

“I love this song!” shouted April, pulling me to my unsteady, drunk, coked out, blood boiling with lust, feet.

The great thing about dancing to a House classic like Sandstorm is that everyone can just kind of dance with everyone, so our whole group bounced around with one collective conscience. Halleluiah! By the time we settled back down to our booth the table was covered with bottles—my eyes focused on my little blue friend, Johnny Walker and the girls went right for the Cristal. By girls I mean April, Kristi and the ten others that had miraculously appeared with the bottles. Drinking, dancing, and more of the three-way French kiss kept the night humming along at a brisk pace. This may be churlish to say—the Go-Go dancers seemed under inspired in comparison to the girls at our table. I don’t know why this bothers me. Perhaps because they’re actually getting paid to do the exact same thing we were paying to do. Or in this case Steve Wynn was paying for us to do in order to keep us out of his very classy casino.

I don’t remember leaving the club or at what point April had procured a suite at Encore—weird given we usually have sex back at Whiskey Peet’s or our own house, but it was a beautiful room from what I could ascertain buried underneath two female bodies. It struck me as strange that two girls who did not know each other previously were able to trade off positions so seamlessly. But April had been the best dancer at Seamless, so it kind of makes sense.

I know. It seems strange to me as well that I could be in love with April, Kristi, and Nichole all at the same time. I think her name was Kristi. But as their bodies consumed my own I did still feel a profound love for Nichole. I decided as I bathed in that sweet mixture of body fluids, not my own at this point, that I would do the right thing when I returned to Los Angeles. I would live a double life. There was no other choice, I could not leave Nichole and since she would never go for a polygamist arrangement I would not be able to tell her about April and maybe Kristi.

Breakfast that afternoon was a frelich affair—I had to head back to LA.

“You are one dumb son-of-a-biiitch!” said Whiskey Peet. “Now you got yourself two little sex monkeys to play with and ur going back to the land of Fruity Pebbles! Shiiiit!” He turned to Stan Peters, Hollywood’s scummiest and most powerful producer. “Stan, I know ur not some liberal fagooot, talk some sense into Broke Back Boy, here!”

“I need him to finish a script—”

That would be my script about an author that moves Downtown to escape the pretentious idiots in Hollywood.

“You self-centered kuter f*cker…”

“I’ve got fifty million riding on this,” said Stan, immediately realizing that he had agreed to pay me based on a thirty million dollar budget. So according to the Writers Guild he now owed me another five hundred grand. “Shit!”

I shook my head. “And you wonder why I don’t put my heart into your projects you cheating bastard.”

“Don’t be so sensitive, I cheat everybody,” said Stan, in his heart believing that this made it all okay.

A few hours later we did not board Stan’s G5 as planned. No. The whole bunch of us could not fit so we took Whiskey Peet’s 747, which like his mansion is decorated with every kind of animal he’s ever killed, back to LA. I would have been stressed over April and Kristi accompanying me back to the same city that Nichole resided in, but as it turned out Kristi had not yet joined the Mile High Club, so April insisted on the three of us…Well you know. And all was forgotten.

Kristen, in public relations, could not believe such a matter could have fallen on her shoulders. Thousands of employees at the nicest resort casino in the world and it was her walking into the spa…to do the unthinkable.

            “Hi Danny, I need to speak to Mr. Wynn right away.”

            “He’s in the middle of a massage.”

            “It can’t wait, take me back there.”

            “Are you crazy?”

            “No, I just happened to stay late and be the only one in the office,” she said forcing a smile. “Lucky me,” she thought to herself.

            “This better be good,” said Steve Wynn, the legendary hotel and casino owner.

            “It’s all how you define good Mr. Wynn. If you mean good news…”

            “I mean good enough to interrupt my massage.”

            “Unfortunately, I’m afraid it’s exactly that kind of good.”

            “Don’t tell me…”

            “I’m sorry Mr. Wynn, but it seems as though Downtown Oliver Brown is in the hotel with his friends…”

            “Tell me he’s not with Dave The Jew and Stan Peters Hollywood’s scummiest and most powerful producer—again.”

            “They’re with him.”

            “And?”

            “Whiskey Peet and fat Andy are too.”

            Steve Wynn rolled off of the table wrapped in the 1,000-thread-count sheet. “First a global financial meltdown and now this. Can’t a billionaire get a break these days? Please tell me they haven’t made it to the tables yet…”

            “They’re playing a million hand…”

            “Great!”

            “I love this place!” I said, betting another million. Originally, as you might recall from earlier blogs, playing million dollar a hand poker had made me nervous, but after hanging around with Whiskey Peet, Dave The Jew, Fat Andy, and Stan Peters (Hollywood’s scummiest and most powerful producer) long enough I had somehow become acclimated to this totally irresponsible behavior – given that unlike my friends I have, at best, two cents to rub together and at the time of this story still owed about ten million give or take from my previous trip to Vegas.

            “My boy! My boy! Of course you love this place! You live in Laaas Angeleees with 34 million liberal fagooots! What’s with all the fruity butterflies? Shiiiit not one dead animal carcass on the walls to be found…We should have just played at my place!” He turned to Dave The Jew. “Did you check on the White Lightning before you left?”

            “Sure I did,” responded Dave, going all in.

            Now this was not exactly true, but when your best friend is one of the richest men in the world and more importantly never leaves home without a six-shooter strapped to each thigh you get a pass if you stretch a little. And in this case, the still located in a three thousand foot shed behind Whiskey Peet’s fifty-five thousand foot mansion happens to be an elaborate contraption. We had tested some of the clear liquid magic but the gauges were impossible to read—mostly because we didn’t have a mirror handy and the white powder we poured out onto the glass made a hell of a mess.

            Anyway, given I don’t know a thing about poker I’m not too sure how I won, but I did and just like that my ten million dollar debt was gone.

            “Son of a BITCHHH!,” exclaimed Whiskey Peet. “What type of lucky Jew are you?” He said to Dave The Jew.

            “Shit,” said Fat Andy.

            “How the f**k was I supposed to know Oliver was holding…” Dave The Jew was saying when Steve Wynn walked up.

            “Gentleman, gentleman, what type of language is that—especially in the presence of ladies?”

            And for the first time we all noticed that Barbara Bush, the former First Lady, and one of her hot granddaughters were sitting with us.

            “Don’t worry about it Steve, I’ve played with a-holes like these guys before. Let’s see if the pussy writer can put together another flush.”

            “Pussy? Bring it on Old Lady!” I said. And then with the luck of a drunk Irishman she caught me with a pretty good right to the jaw. Frankly, I probably would have caught a beating but for Steve getting in the middle. I know I’m a former Golden Gloves Champion but the White Lightning and Cocaine had rendered me into a gelatinous blob with legs and arms. And the old broad still has plenty of steam left.

            “Guys why play in my casino when you could be having a good time in our new club?”

            “CLUB?” we all said simultaneously.

            “Well shiiiiit! We can always gamble at my place! It’s not some little fagggot club?”

            “Sixty-thousand-square-feet, I spent twelve million dollars on it—I think you boys are going to like this place,” assured Steve Wynn.

            Keeping my eye on Barbara I asked, “What’s the new club called?”

            “It’s called XS,” Steve said gently guiding us as a group away from the table.

            “You better hall ass out of here,” shouted Barbara after me.

            I began to turn around, however Steve’s firm grasp kept me on the path to the mega-club located conveniently between the Wynn and Encore. “Here we are.” He motioned for one of the well-dressed VIP hosts to come running. “Jared…”

            “Yes, Mr. Wynn!”

            “This here is Los Angeles’s very own great writer, Downtown Oliver Brown.” He nodded at the boys. “And friends. I want you to give them the best table in the place and make sure they have a great time—until closing. I’ll be very upset if I hear that they’re not in the club the rest of the night having a great time…Do you understand?”

            “Yes Mr. Wynn!”

            Steve seemed…how should I put it?…Relieved, when he turned to us. “You’re in good hands guys. Drink and dance the night away—“

            We followed Jared into XS the sixty-thousand-foot twelve-million-dollar-club. I no longer had ten million in gambling debts on my mind. My girlfriend was back in Los Angeles studying for midterms at USC or something…I felt that exited feeling that you can only feel in anticipation of a goodtime in Vegas. Steve was indeed a wise man. It was good that I quit while I was ahead. And then came the crushing of arms around my neck and breasts against my chest.

            “Oliver,” panted April The Stripper into my ear. Then here tongue was in my mouth, so I couldn’t possibly tell her about my girlfriend Nichole. “You came back for me! Who told you I was going to be at XS tonight? Oh it doesn’t matter just so that you’re here and we’re together.”

To be continued:

            “Whooooo Shiiiiiiit!!! Look what the cat done dragged into Vegas!!!!” screamed the large, handsome, cowboy looking fellow that had come to greet us at the airport.

            I staggered off of Stan Peters’ Gulfstream V and watched as the cowboy fellow lifted Stan off of the floor in a hug that would have crushed a hearty Grizzly, no doubt. Hopefully you’ve read the last blog where the drinking binge that resulted in the flight to Las Vegas with Stan on his private jet began. Because Stan’s Gulfsream is well stocked with fine Scotch the drinking had continued unabated until the moment where our story continues:

            “James Whiskey Peet the third, I’d like you to meet the best and possibly most dysfunctional writer in Hollywood, Downtown Oliver Brown.”

            James Whiskey Peet the third, crushed my hand with a vice like grip. “Well any friend of Stan Peters the scummiest and most powerful producer in Hollywood is a friend of mine.”

 I pried my hand loose. “Are those real six shooters you’ve got strapped on there, James Whiskey Peet the third?” 

            He pulled the pearl handled, diamond studded, beautiful instruments of death with the skill of true shootest and fired off a couple shots each into the air. “Damn right they’re real—writer boy. And call me Whiskey Peet! Now enough of this shiiiiiit hop in the car and let’s go play some cards!” Then wrapping his arm around my shoulder. “Bet you don’t have any cars like this in that faggot, liberal city you just flew in from.”

            I took in Whiskey Peet’s Rolls Royce Phantom stretch limousine. It actually made Stan’s normal Rolls Royce Phantom look small. My eyes had some trouble focusing but eventually made their way down to the front of the car where they came to rest on an enormous set of what appeared to be solid silver steer horns.

            “This is a fine automobile Whiskey Peet. I take it that it’s equipped with a bar?”

            He slapped me on the back. “My boy! My boy! Get your ass in there and see for yourself.”

            Whiskey Peet shoved Stan and myself through the back door where we were greeted by a bunch of girls wearing nothing but chaps and cowgirl vests…And a guy named Dave.

            “Girls these are my boys from the coast!” The girls all said, “hi” on cue and made various comments about how cute we were. “And boys that’s my buddy Dave The Jew!”

            We shook hands with Dave The Jew and the car whisked us off to Seamless, which is apparently Dave The Jew’s favorite strip club. Now while I do not profess to be an expert on Vegas strip clubs I would usually have gone to Treasure for this type of harmless by Vegas standards fun. Seamless however, proved to be quite nice. I’m not exactly sure why with a car full of almost completely naked girls we went to a strip club, but then again I wasn’t exactly sure why I had agreed to fly to Vegas with Stan Peters only to find myself with a wild gun toting cowboy named Whiskey Peet.

            “I’m April. Who are you?” asked the beautiful girl that cuddled up to me at the bar at Seamless. It took a minute for me to realize that she didn’t have chaps on and thus wasn’t one of our posse.

            “I’m Downtown Oliver Brown, failed writer extraordinaire.”

            “I’ve read your blogs, they made me want to go to LA. Are you really Downtown Oliver Brown?”

            “It’s really me. I’m sure people come in here all of the time pretending to be broke, single, childless, critically acclaimed writer, but this time I’m here in the flesh.”

            She pressed her body into mine. “I’m here in the flesh too and I love guys with brains. Do you mind if I join you for a drink?”

            I rested my right hand on her derrière, which was nothing less than spectacular; I was particularly struck by the softness of her skin. “If you want to lap dance me you don’t have to go through the whole having a drink thing, I’m totally into you. I’ll give you all the money I can possibly borrow off of Stan The Scummy Producer and Whiskey Peet.”

            She kissed me on the cheek. “I want to have a drink with you…And you don’t have to pay me for dances…I’ve got money I’ll pay you.”

            “How much?” I asked.

            “Well I get twenty a dance, so I’ll pay you what everyone else pays me…It’s only fair.”

            As I sat there drinking with April I found myself not feeling so upset about not getting the inside look at LA Live that I had wanted. By the time she was pulling me back to the couches for the dancing part of the evening I couldn’t even remember why I lived in LA. Because this story is not written for an adult website I’ll skip the description of the dance April laid on me, but suffice it to say I was convinced by its conclusion that I could be happy the rest of my life with her.

            “No I can’t accept that,” I said pushing back the money April tried to hand me as I followed the Whiskey Peet express out the front doors into the giant Rolls Royce with silver steer horns.

            “A deals, a deal,” she said continuing to extend several hundred dollars in twenties my way.

            “My boy! My boy! A girl that wants to give you money is a keeper.” Then picking up April, who was still only dressed in a g-string and tiny bra, Whiskey Peet carried her off to the car. I’m guessing nobody bothered to question this unusual behavior because he still had his six shooters strapped to his thighs.

            Whiskey Peet’s house, all 50,000 feet of it, could best be described as western opulent. On the walls hung the handy work of three generations of Peet’s who had apparently never come across an animal that they didn’t want to shoot.

            “I call this Whiskey Peet’s at Whiskey Peet’s,” said Whiskey Peet to April and myself. I stared at the nicest casino I’d ever seen—that just happened to be in a private home that was larger than most hotels.

            “Very impressive,” I said to Whiskey Peet.

            “Let’s find a bedroom,” whispered April into my ear.

“I don’t always feel like going to the strip, too many foreigners and last time they complained about my guns—liberal fagoooots! I said I play a million dollars a hand boy and you don’t want me to have my guns…I’ll play in my own damn casino. I ain’t no public company, asset leveraged, new fangled casino owner. I own gold mines, silver mines, the largest cattle ranch in the country, and a million acres of land. I’m keeping my guns…Let’s play some poker boys!”

I cleared my throat. “I think a million dollar a hand poker sounds a little rich for my blood, Whiskey Peet.”

“Don’t give me that horse shiiiiiiit!!! I’ll stake you, my boy.”

“I also kind of wanted to a…” I nodded toward April.

“You can break that Equus caballus in later my boy…Hell I’ll stake her too…You know how to play poker little girl?”

April, having taken four years of Latin in college, was not thrilled about being referred to as a horse, and apparently had done pretty well in the World Series of Poker. “Well, I’ll give it a try Haus,” she said with a smile to Whiskey Peet.

Four hours later, the sun rising, Dave The Jew and I were bust, which meant I owed Whiskey Peet, Stan Peters, and April the stripper ten million dollars each. April on the other hand seemed to be up my ten million and another five.

I decided a trip to the spa would be a good idea, and after a great deal of convincing, Dave The Jew agreed to come with.

I called the Wynn, which is my spa of preference when I’m in Vegas.

“Hi this is the Spa at Encore. How can I help you?”

“Well I’ve been up all night drinking and gambling, I’m down thirty million that I don’t have and it looks like sex with April is out, at least until she’s done taking Whiskey Peet and Stan Peters to the cleaners. So, I was thinking a spa treatment might be called for…Oh, and I’m trying to call the Wynn.”

“Well Encore, is the new hotel at the Wynn and I highly recommend our new spa.”

“I usually go to the Wynn, but hey I’m always up to try something new. You’re sure it’s nice.”

“You’re going to love it…I’m sorry I didn’t ask your name?”

“Well there goes one of your diamond ratings,” I teased.

“Oh no, I’m so sorry, please don’t take away one of our diamonds—I’ll lose my job.”

“I was just kidding—relax. Besides my few million readers, no one cares what I think. Anyway, my name is Oliver Brown, but my friends all call me Downtown Oliver Brown.”

“Will you be coming by yourself Mr. Brown?’

“No, I talked Dave The Jew into coming with me. Make it a reservation for two.”

Where Dave The Jew got his hands on peyote, Lophophora williamsii if April is reading this, I don’t know, but I assure you it is much stronger than the shrooms I used to take in college, before I got kicked out.

The next thing I know I was being waved over by security at Encore. I was thinking that driving Whiskey Peets’ Palomino painted, convertible Lamborghini wasn’t such a good idea—as it attracted too much attention.

“Can I help you?” asked the Asian security guard in a decently fitted gray suit.

“We’re here for the spa,” I answered, ignoring the giant, fire breathing dragon that had appeared from nowhere in the driveway blowing flames out of its’ nostrils just missing the Lambo by a few feet.

“Do you have your employee I.D. with you?”

“No, but that’s because we’re not employees. I’m Downtown Oliver Brown—” And then there was a whole family of bunny rabbits frolicking on the hood of the car, which along with the fire breathing dragon I ignored. “And Dave here is a Jew—like your boss.”

“Well, Encore doesn’t open until Monday.” Twenty cars drove past us into the valet. “It’s just friends, family, and employees today.”

As I feared might happen the dragon began to snatch the bunny rabbits off of the hood of the car, and one by one he tossed them in the air, roasted them with fire, and ate them.

“I’m sorry Mr. Brown. Why don’t you come back on Monday…The doors open at 8:00 p.m.”

I drove off. The dragon roared, upset that the last bunny rabbit was escaping on the hood of Whiskey Peets’ Lamborghini.

“That’s a bummer,” I said to Dave The Jew.

“Yeah, I was enjoying the unicorn chasing the elf’s.”

To be continued: