Taking the Deuce

I stroll from the Las Vegas Hostel on the sketchy end of Fremont Avenue to Heart Attack Burger, fresh from a week researching UFOs and early 20th century silver mining towns. I hop on the Deuce, which wends its way with painful deliberation past neon graveyards and chapels of broken dreams, toward the Shiny Corporate Strip. The passengers are the usual mixture of well-scrubbed tourists and locals, in varying states of sunburnt decay. I get out at Caesars, walking to an intersection I know very well from my daily walks from the Rio past midnight, as an unsung blogger. The climax of the 2014 WSOP Main Event awaits.