“I wish I could.”

“Sorry Mr. Hughes, I’ve gotten so used to you riding shotgun that sometimes I forget that you’re…well you know…”

“Dead,” he said finishing my thought as he often does. “Don’t feel bad, I had a good run…It’s amazing how this place keeps growing—slow down for a second.”

I tapped the breaks gently. Howard always asks me to slow down when we’re about to pass City Center—it seems to fascinate him for some reason, but he never says why. I was hoping that he might utter something on this occasion, but just as it seemed like it might happen—the phone rang.

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“What are you doing?” asked Isaac.

“Cruising the strip with Howard.”

“Listen I’ve been living in this town for a year and still haven’t made it to First Friday, you want to go?” he asked.

“Sure, I’ll pick you up in ten.” I hung up and turned to face the ghost of Howard Hughes. “Sorry Mr. Hughes…”

First Friday is a combo art walk and rave in the Downtown Art District of Las Vegas. And as a Los Angeles Downtownster I know something about art walks, as Downtown LA plays host to the biggest art walk in the country on the second Thursday of every month. When the weather is nice a good Downtown LA Art Walk can attract close to thirty thousand revelers. I had no such expectation of such an event in Las Vegas, but I had heard some good things about the up and coming art scene in Sin City so I was more than up for checking it out…And of course when dating a girl that suffers from Zombism there’s not a whole lot of places you can go out as a couple and fit in.

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I picked Isaac up at the swanky Panorama Towers and headed Downtown exiting Charleston and finding a nice dirt lot to park the SL 500 in, just on the other side of Main Street.

“Nice, I just had them shined,” said I, looking down at my dust covered Gucci loafers.

“Car washes and shoe shines don’t last in this town,” commented Isaac who was wearing tennis shoes—he’s thirty. “What the hell is that noise?” asked my freaked out friend at the slamming sound emanating from the trunk.

“Oh that. Better step back—I brought my girlfriend along.” I approached the back of the car with caution.

“You make your girlfriend ride in the trunk. You f*cking guys from Cali really know how to treat women.” His New York accent was heavier than usual as he leveled this damning, yet envious comment.

“Trust me this chick likes it…Now the choker chain, is taking her some getting used to…”

“Choker chain???”

But before I could elaborate for my confused friend the Zombie Chick was out of the trunk and the fight was on. She scratched and bit wildly at me as I defended and went for the chain. Alas, chain in hand I gave it a thunderous tug, which reeled her around so that her back was now exposed and then with full choke on we slammed against the trunk. With possibly the best zombie ass in the world bent over the trunk of my car, her Catholic, schoolgirl mini-skirt akimbo, and no underwear anywhere in sight I decided that First Friday could wait a few minutes—and took the zombie vagina ice plunge. (Refer to Vegas Grand Slam blog for more information regarding cold zombie vagina.)

“Should I leave while you finish raping your girlfriend?” asked Isaac.

“Don’t be silly…And technically it’s necrophilia not rape,” I answered, causing her to growl with pleasure and claw the paint off of my trunk. “Thank goodness I paid my insurance bill.” I laughed. “I’ll tell them I ran into a bear up in Yellow Stone.”

“That’s the zombie chick you f*cked in the bathroom while you were on a date with someone else at Mickie Finns?”

“This is a sexual assault asshole, not a deposition, shut the fu…”screamed my chick at my buddy.

I yanked the choker another notch. “What did I tell you about being rude to my friends!” Our bodies slammed together so hard that her knee broke my right tail light somehow.

And then came the final climax, which sent us both rolling down into the dirt, thankfully just as a Vegas Metro squad car cruised by—a few seconds earlier and I would of have had some explaining to do.

With Zombie Chick on a short leash the three of us ventured into First Friday…Art and bands everywhere and seriously thousands of people walking around—I was blown away.

“So where do you keep her when she’s not in the trunk?”

She spit on Isaac. I kicked her as hard as I could in the ass. She turned and smiled.

“Fat Andy’s house has a nice dark basement—I’ve been letting her stay there.”

“Thanks a lot for that f*cker,” snarled Zombie Chick.

I turned to Isaac. “Don’t get me wrong, it would be great if she could sleep in bed with me, rather than a dark, dank basement, but left to her own device she’d rip out my throat with her teeth while I’m sleeping.”

“Well you guys make a nice couple,” said Isaac, with more than a hint of sarcasm in his tone.

“Look it’s not perfect but…”

“He’s with me because he can’t get enough of my cold pussy.”

“Thank you sweetie. I was just about to say that.” I shrugged. “She is right. Once you’ve gone zombie it’s hard to go back. Other than the married midget I’m now forced to have an affair with as an antidote to those pesky little love bites.”

“I’m just into older chicks these days,” said Isaac, slowly adapting to our unusual dynamic as a couple.

“You know there is colder,” said Zombie Chick, snatching at an unattended child in a stroller—thus the short leash.

“Really.” She always knows just the right things to say to keep me interested.

“Yeah, not too far from here.”

So we spent another hour perusing the art scene, grabbed a quick bite to eat at Casa Don Juan’s, some of the best Mexican food in Las Vegas and moved on. I should add here that Isaac and I ate the restaurant food. And unfortunately Zombie Chick did manage to get her hands on someone’s lost Maltese. Of course I feel bad about this, but if I can keep my bitch on a leash—so can everyone else.

Now I’ve been to some wild warehouse parties before, actually they were my parties come to think of it…Anyway, this party was out of control even by my non existent standards. And the prospects for a vagina even colder than Zombie Chick’s were everywhere. I focused in on a brunette and made my way toward her, dragging along my date. But before I could get close enough to start chatting I felt the powerful grip on my shoulder of a blond fellow about twenty-eight—so handsome I might add that if I were a chick…

“A human with a zombie on a leash at my Coven—Interesting.”

I turned to Zombie Chick. “You brought me to a Vampire Coven?”

She began to laugh hysterically. “You’re so f*cked…”

I turned to the handsome Vampire Lord. “Sorry, but when she said there was something colder than her ice box, I must have started thinking with the wrong head.”

“So human of you,” he said with a sinister smile, similar to my own.

“Well we best be on our way,” I said, noticing that Isaac was sitting on a couch with four vampiresses that were looking at him like Thanksgiving dinner was served.

“I don’t think so.” His grip tightened on my shoulder. “I think we’re destined to be friends. I see you want to penetrate my sister, perhaps we can arrange a trade.”

I pulled out a bag of white powder from my pocket. “Maybe a little something like this?”

His blood red eyes almost popped out of his head. “You know how to make Blast?”

“I wrote the book, literally,” I answered, making a shameless reference to my bestselling Kindle ebook “Blast” available at the Amazon Kindle Store. There’s a link on the sidebar dear readers and this is how I pay for all of this craziness, so buy away! And if you can’t find the link just go to Amazon and search for me by name.

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“You’re Stan Lerner!” The whole party came to a dead stop as eight hundred or so vampires hung on their lord’s every word. “I knew you looked familiar. “Blast” is my favorite book of all time. And I’m nine-hundred-years-old!” He grabbed the bag of Blast out of my hand. “You know humans have invented some cool stuff over the years, but Blast, well it’s the coup de grace. You can have my sister and oh so much more.”

Zombie Chick growled and got another swift kick in the ass by both of us this time. We laughed.

I chatted up Berlin’s sister. That’s his name by the way. And she introduced me to her best vampiress friend who had a tongue at least two inches longer than Gene Simmons of the rock band Kiss fame.

“So it’s a vampire custom that whoever brings the “Blast” takes the first hit,” said Berlin the Vampire Lord.

I pulled out a hundred dollar bill. “Pass the mirror my boy.”

They all laughed. Berlin’s sister Sade whispered into my ear as she tugged at my pants. “That’s not the way we do Blast.”  And then with pants around my knees and several vampiresses holding me face down I came to understand that there’s no need for hundred dollar bills when there’s a vampiress with a tongue longer than those rectal thermometers we generation Xers all remember from childhood.

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Let me make this perfectly clear, I do not advocate the rectal use of Blast or any other drug…But WOW!!! BANG!!!KPOW!!! I’ve never been so high in my life. I think I actually scared a room full of vamps and even Zombie Chick was cowering under the coffee table—the top of which I broke just to get a grip on her hair. And so on…

As I chilled with Berlin on the couch, after an orgy of epoch proportions, I couldn’t help but to feel bad for my new pack of soulless friends—not because they’re one step above the devil on the damnation chain, but because they were forced to party in such a second class way in a city that has some of the best nightclubs in the world.

“You’re one crazy f*cking human,” said Berlin, giving my juggler some sex eyes.

“You’re not so bad yourself…You know after watching those crappy “Twilight” movies I was beginning to think vampires were a bunch of sexually repressed faggots, but you know how to party, my boy. And your sister…I’ll give you a pound of Blast a month to keep tapping that…”

Berlin extended his hand. “Deal!!!” He looked deep, deep, deep, into my eyes. “Okay, what else?”

“Bro, if you and the gang are going to start partying with the Stan, you’ve got to let me hook up the venue—I feel like I’m a teenager in this place. And even though I like sleeping with them, I don’t want to be them, if you know what I mean?”

His throat rumbled like a tiger on the loose at a Siegfried & Roy show back in the day. “I really like you…From now on you’re in charge of the drugs and the venue…”

“And DJ,” I added.

He patted me lovingly on the head then pointed at Isaac. “What about him?”

“He’s an executive at The Venetian…Tell the girls to unchain him…He knows all of the club owners in town…”

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            It was 2003 and I was strolling down Sunset Plaza to the famous Coffee Bean on Sunset—everyone frequented this particular Coffee Bean. Do not go looking for this establishment; like much of Hollywood’s luster—it is gone. So centered was my life around this place and the people that relaxed, schmoozed, and created there I had moved my office down the street. On this particular day it had been yet another argument with Steve over our upcoming DVD release of “Mike Fenton’s Actors Workshop”, a pretty damn good how to make it in Hollywood video.

            Accompanied by my once good friend Daryl Mack I lamented my partnership with Steve up to the moment we walked into the Bean—to find it vacant.

            “Where the hell is everyone?” I asked the girl behind the counter, then checked out the cute little blonde that had walked up at the same moment with the same bewildered look as I. She wore some tight little jeans and a matching jean cap pulled down almost to her eyes.

            “There was a power outage, we just opened a minute ago—literally,” said the girl behind the counter.

            “So, how you doing?” asked the little blonde amused at how overtly I was checking out her posterior.

            “Good,” I answered, pulling back into a more upright position in order to make eye contact. “How you doing?”

            She laughed.

            “Sorry about that. I’m not usually so obvious. Nice though…”

            “That’s a beautiful suite,” she said, letting me off the hook.

            Concluding she was nice and cute and familiar for some reason we all proceeded to order.

            “So what are you up to today?” I asked, genuinely interested.

            “I have to go to the studio,” she responded.

            Normally, I would have inquired further. But I’m bad with faces so I had no idea that I was speaking with Brittney Spears. And I was so aggravated with Steve that I couldn’t give what I wrongly assumed to be an aspiring actress the interest I normally would have.

            “But I have some time to hang out and have coffee if you want to sit for a while?”

            I smiled. “What a nice girl,” I thought to myself, starting to wonder why Daryl hadn’t ventured a single word since our having walked in. I had even ordered for him.

 April 17^th 2009

             I walked with my girlfriend, who is about the same age as Brittney was back when this story began, to Staples Center—Brittney Spears the girl from the Coffee Bean on Sunset was about to perform something called Circus….

            In case one is wondering, this adventure was not my idea. But I wish I could share with every reader the excitement of my very special companion. I also wish I could share with you the feeling of walking into an arena filled with twenty-five thousand young white girls, on average half your age. It’s not the bliss you might imagine. Especially when you see a father or two dropping off daughters and friends only a year or two younger than your date. Ugh! Did I mention that I had been suffering from the flu all week? And something close to no sleep the night previous? Sick and haggard add a few years to an already self-conscious event such as this.

            But to my pleasant surprise the surrounding youngsters seemed to care little about my date and myself. Rather, they focused on the spectacle taking place in the middle of the arena—a stage truly set up as if a circus was to take place. And yes a circus actually did. First let me say the Pussy Cat Dolls did a nice job of warming the crowd up.

            “I love the way they dance,” cooed my girl.

            “It’s stripper dancing, honey,” I replied knowing that she’d only been to one strip club and was too embarrassed to watch the goings on. She told me this. I’m not the one who took her.

            “Oh.”

            We left it at that.

            Then came the Circus. Most of the performance was right out of Cirque du Soleil with a few tricks from my own Las Vegas Spectacle “Night Tribe”. No. It doesn’t bother me; imitation is a sincere form of flattery. I will admit that it is strange to watch a show that’s your show, that’s not your show. It kind of made me want to be back in the business, just to show the imitators how it’s really done.

            After some of the Circus fun concluded Brittney came out to thunderous screams, and I mean thunderous, to lead the merry bunch. I don’t know how I remained conscious—suffering from brain fever at this point the noise made me see triple at times. And every time the Brittster pranced to our side of the stage this Volcanic like eruption was duplicated. I kept smiling being the sport that I am.

            What did I think? It’s a good show. And it’s a big production—if not so original. It is also a sexual odyssey. The whole show is sex. I’ll spare you the social commentary; I’m no virgin myself. But if I had daughters under 18-years-old I wouldn’t let them go. Call me old school but kids today are just bombarded with too much too young. Oops I said no social commentary.

            As for Brittney, she looked good. Her body was the tight little turn on it was back when I encountered her at the Coffee Bean, way back when. Her voice? I don’t think she was singing. And I don’t think anyone in the crowd cared. Brittney fans were there just to see her looking good and dancing around—which she did to the crowds delight. I will say this; she looked a bit over it all. She did all the moves, but she seemed to me, to be less than inspired. But hey, it’s a lot of work to do a big show like Circus every night—and given some of the personal challenges she’s had to face in the last few years nobody in their right mind could call Circus anything less than a big success.

 Back to 2003

             “I wish I could stay and hang out with you, but I’m having a big headache at the office.” The look on the cute, little blonde’s face made me hate myself for saying these words. “But I’m sure I’ll see you around.

            As I walked out the door with Daryl in tow I shook my head. “I have to get away from Steve. That was a really nice girl and I just blew her off because I’m in such a bad mood.”

            “That was Brittney Spears,” Daryl finally said, in a choked off voice.

            I looked up the little alleyway next to Tracy Ross to see a very large black man opening the door of a very black Mercedes S500 for the cute little blonde.

            The palm of my hand hit my forehead. “Damn, I thought she looked familiar. Why didn’t you say something?”

            “I’m star struck. I just froze. Sorry,” he said with a shrug. “I’m sure you’ll see her again.”

            And so I did…At the Circus! I wonder what would have happened if I had hung out and had coffee that day…Funny how life goes.