JOHN L. SMITH
Las Vegas Review Journal

Satan might rule the netherworld, but cash is king in Las Vegas

It was the sixth day of the sixth month of the sixth year in the new
millennium, and Satan came to Las Vegas.

With his hair slicked back and his shirt unbuttoned, a slightly
sulfurous cologne filling the air around him, he tried to mix into the
enormous crowd of tourists who had converged on the Strip from all over
the world.
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"What more fitting place than this for the Antichrist to appear?" he
thought. "What better place to reveal my power to the world?"

He'd heard plenty about Las Vegas, who hadn't? Some people had assumed
he'd conjured the darkly magical city right from the scorching Mojave
sand, but Del Webb and Benny Siegel had beaten him to it. He saw
Vegas-themed shows on satellite television (There's still no basic cable
in Hell.) and, of course, had enjoyed the convention and visitors
authority's catchy "What Happens Here, Stays Here" marketing campaign.
As the big day approached, the Prince of Darkness decided to make his
reappearance on the Strip. He even worked on his tan for the occasion.

"If it's good enough for Stephen King, it's good enough for me," he
said, entering the first of several mega-resorts. "Now this is truly a
den of iniquity. Here I will have my finest hour."

But in less than an hour, he found himself busting out at the blackjack
table and rolling snake eyes at the craps table. In no time, he'd lost a
sizable chunk of his bankroll.

"But I am the Prince of Darkness," he shouted.

"I don't care if you're the Sultan of Brunei," the dealer replied. "You
keep hitting 19, you'll be working as a busboy. And, by the way, what's
that smell?"

"It's my cologne," the Devil said. "Like it?"

"And I thought second-hand smoke would kill me," the dealer said.
"Remember, the Devil may be the Devil, but the House odds rule."

Undaunted, Satan tried the second elephantine casino. It was more of the
same.

He lost more money at the gambling tables, was made to feel like a rube
at the Big Six wheel, and wound up over-eating at the Big Mouth Buffet.
Hellacious appetite or not, gorging yourself on a thousand shrimp and
eating too much baron of beef will get you every time.

As the Antichrist/Satan/Devil moped down the sidewalk, he glanced up to
see his spitting image staring back at him from a gigantic billboard.

"Good heavens," he mumbled, "I look like Wayne Newton."

Now he was really depressed. At the third pleasure palace, he drank so
much at the martini-themed ultra lounge that he lost even more money at
the tables.

Inside the lounge, the go-go dancers were luscious. He tipped like a
Class-A fool and tried to entice them into his company.

The waitresses shook their assets and smiled, called him sugar and honey
and "Mr. Newton" and laughed as they served him another overpriced
bottle of top-shelf booze.

At the mega-mall with the faux Mediterranean sky, he bought the finest
wardrobe imaginable but had to return almost everything because the
prices were so extraordinary. He finally settled for a "Damian went to
Las Vegas, and all I got was this lousy T-shirt" souvenir and kept on
moving.

By the end of the day, he'd blown his entire bankroll by gambling
poorly. He was nauseated from over-eating, had a skull-rattling hangover
from too much booze. He'd purchased clothes he couldn't afford, and he
had been out-hustled by the cocktail waitresses.

"I don't believe it," the Devil said. "Greed, gluttony, envy, lust, Las
Vegas does the seven deadly sins better than I do. And to top it all
off, I look just like the Midnight Idol."

Clinically depressed, he turned to leave the final casino but remembered
he had no money -- not even enough for bus fare.

So he went to the casino cage and asked for a marker.

The credit clerk asked for his host's name, a slot club card and a
driver's license.

But other than that slightly concealed 666 mark, he had no
identification on him.

"Pleased to meet you," Satan said to the credit clerk. "Won't you guess
my name?"

The clerk shook his head.

"Yeah, yeah: six, six, six," he said. "You're the fourth Satan to come
in here and try to pull that on me today."

With that, the cashier called security.

Satan, penniless and wondering where he'd gone wrong, was escorted from
the premises.