THE VEGAS INCIDENT
 

                                                (1200words)
 

The flashing lights and electronic beeps of my chosen machine coaxed me to insert more coins. As I reached for a quarter I realized that I had emptied my plastic pail. Instead of signalling for change I gazed around the casino and noticed the real gamblers busy at blackjack and roulette.
 

            At one of the tables, a wannabe high roller in black Armani was boisterous as he rudely ordered the waitresses and puffed away on a cigar. He was familiar, a forgotten B-list actor or a long retired pro athlete. However, he retained enough of his celebrity to attract a crowd of about ten and the attention of two silicone-endowed blondes in tight dresses.
 

            A Keno salesperson’s voice jarred me from my daze. I shook my head.
 

            “Keno, sir?” the girl asked a man sitting to my right at the last slot machine in my row.
 

He ignored her and instead of plying his one armed-bandit, he stared straight at me. Sweat glistened on his forehead, a gold chain hung at his chest and an oversized floral print shirt could not hide his girth. I turned away, wondering what this guy’s problem was and why he was looking at me.
 

            The guy stood and marched in my direction. He was huge. The look in his eyes sent a shiver through me, so I slid off my stool and headed for an exit. Casinos don’t want you to leave—ever, and I couldn’t find a door.
 

            “Damn it, Brenda. Where are you?” My wife was never around when I needed her.
 

            I stopped, inhaled a long breath and then noticed a change person and asked her how to get the hell out of there. Following her directions, I made a left at the Oasis Bar and a right at the Pharaoh’s Buffet. I increased my speed until I was almost running. I came to an abrupt halt in front of a sound stage where several musicians were tuning their instruments. My heart began to race as I spun on my heal, turning 180 degrees. Still, I could find no exit.
 

            Gasping for breath, I became aware of an old lady watching me. She was less than five feet tall and at least eighty years old and she pulled a cylinder of oxygen in a tiny cart. She smiled, and pointed to a passageway marked restrooms that lead to an escape route. I crossed the floor for the doorway feeling ridiculous for panicking about some stranger who probably thought he recognized me from college.
 

            In the reflection of the polished brass doors I could see the guy gaining on me. I burst through the door and stumbled into the street and began to push through the throng of foot traffic.
 

            Soon the one hundred degree heat had me panting like a dog in the desert. I looked down Las Vegas Boulevard in each direction and saw only vast theme hotels and palm trees jutting toward the afternoon sky. I boarded an escalator raising people up to an overpass above the strip. I saw the guy wheezing and plodding his way along the moving stairs. My fast walk became a jog and when I glimpsed a burley weightlifter type I got an idea.
 

            “Hey, buddy,” I said. “That fat guy in the shirt said you look like a homo.”
 

            “Waz? I don’t know that dude. Screw off,” he said slurring. He was several drinks past intoxicated. I brushed past him. 
 

            I didn’t look back, but I knew that the floral guy was close. I wished that I could still run like I used to before…
 

            My imagination worked overtime as I remembered a story in the news where an assault had occurred in the middle of the afternoon inside a busy tavern and nobody came to help the victim.
 

            At street level I dashed into the lobby of my hotel and pushed through a group of Asian tourists. I moved for the elevators and jammed the up button, and then thirty seconds later smashed the knob again. Halfway to the eleventh floor I remembered that Brenda had my key.
 

            “S***!” I swore when I knocked on my room door and received no response. I would have to go to the front desk and get another key.
 

            The line up for check-in was twenty people deep and I found no sign of the guy in floral when I scanned the area. I sighed.
 

            My friends would call me a scared little girl if they knew how frightened I had just been. But none of them had experienced what I had only five months previous.
 

            One night at the bar with Brenda and another couple, a drunken teenager had made a rude comment about my wife. I didn’t think or hesitate, I just hit the kid in the face. That’s how dumb I used to be. When in doubt—knock ‘em out. Now I run from this obese slob.
 

            Later that night the teenager and three of his buddies jumped me in the parking lot. With Brenda shrieking in horror they beat and stomped me until they thought I was dead.
 

            Nine days later I woke in hospital, with a fractured skull, cracked ribs and my legs both broken in too many places.
 

            My fear had gotten the best of me and I had overreacted. Perhaps my doctor was correct; I needed some counselling for post-traumatic stress disorder. No way, I was fine.
 

            I heard angry cursing and looked over to see the guy in floral kick an ATM machine. I lowered my head and changed line up rows. He came straight to me, his hand out as if to shake mine. I bolted for the gaming area, stumbled, and fell over a suitcase. I leapt to my feet, ignoring the pain in my legs, and kept on moving.
 

            This was ridiculous, a thousand people and no one cares that this guy is chasing me. I clenched my fists so hard that my nails cut into my palms. Salty sweat stung my eyes. In my rush I knocked down a scantily clad cocktail waitress. I stopped at a cash booth gasping for breath.
 

            “Call security!” I screamed at the woman at the cash counter. She hardly stirred from counting twenty dollar bills.
 

            “Is there a problem, sir?” she said, sounding bored.
 

            I felt a heavy hand on the shoulder. I cringed. My heart pounded.
 

I could feel the boots and fists pummelling my body.
 

The pain.
 

The fear.
 

Brenda’s horrified eyes as she watched me diying.
 

I didn’t pause. I turned violently and kicked for his kneecap. My shoe met his crotch instead. I heard an eerie oomph when the air was forced from his lungs. His eyes bulged, and he staggered a step. I could smell his body odor. He dropped to his knees, moaning and clutching his groin. That’s when I unleashed my verbal attack.
 

            “What the f*** is your problem? Why the f*** are you following me?” I was right in his face, my spittle spraying his mug.
 

            “You—you’re John Myers,” he said groaning.
 

            “Uh, yeah.” He knows me?
 

            “You, um dated my sister—in high school.”
 

            “Your sister?”
 

            “Yeah, Maria Manzetti.”
 

            “Maria? You mean you’re little Joey?”
 

            “Yeah, I just wanted to say hi. I know I had you spooked so I followed…”
 

            “You scared the s*** out of me!” I turned from him feeling exhausted and drenched. I pushed my way through the growing crowd and found myself at the bar. Struggling to keep my composure, I crossed my arms, breathed slowly and closed my eyes.
 

            “Drink, buddy?” the barkeep asked.
 

            “No.” I whispered. “That’s what started all this.”
 

 

            By William R. Potter 
 

      Comments are greatly appreciated…thanks!