Photo by Evan Hancock on Unsplash
It was just after dawn when they arrived at Whiskey Pete’s Vintage Casino. Marvin dropped Jones off in the parking lot, promising to return later that evening. Jones stood in the parking lot and admired the facade bathed in rosy morning light. The architects had done a good job of evoking the character of the old Vegas strip. In many places, the architects had salvaged the doors, windows, columns and neon signs directly from the city’s demolition sites. The components spanned dozens of architectural styles and faux time periods. Assembled, they formed an unexpectedly pleasing juxtaposition. For the first time, Jones found himself wishing that his cell phone had a camera.
As the sun rose further, heat began to flood into the valley. Already he was becoming more aware of the pavement beginning to bake under his feet. Sweat trickled down the back of his neck. It was time to go inside. Jones approached the entrance, trying to avoid the gaze of a tall, thin man holding a clicker. As Jones slid past, the man sidestepped between Jones and the front door. He held out a tablet.
“I’d like to gamble,” Jones explained.
“Absolutely,” the man replied. His red-rimmed eyes traveled the length of Jones' sweat-stained pants. “We simply need your informed consent.” He thrust the tablet at Jones. Jones took it and glanced at the screen. He started to draw his signature, but the man grabbed the tablet back.
“Your informed consent, please. We need to make sure you understand the terms and conditions clearly before you enter.”
Jones took the tablet with resignation. The attendant watched as he scrolled through page after page of legalese. One sentence, bolded and italicized, caught his eye.
“When it says, I give Whiskey Pete’s Vintage Casino exclusive right to trade in my behavioral derivatives on the secondary markets, what does that mean?”
The door attendant grinned. “Yes, exactly. What it means is that, you will be gambling, and you give Whiskey Pete’s unrestricted rights to package and sell those gambles on the secondary market.”
Jones considered this. “What’s in it for me?”
“Every casino guest will, as qualified in the terms and conditions, receive a complimentary ticket to the buffet.”
Jones signed the tablet, and handed it back. “Wait,” he said, and the attendant froze. “I don’t have any money,” Jones admitted. “Is that going to be a problem?”
The attendant shook his head and dug into his pocket. “Complimentary tokens,” he said, dropping them in Jones’ palm. “May the force be with you!”
“You too,” said Jones, pocketing the tokens. The attendant stepped aside. Jones crossed the threshold into Whiskey Pete's.
The casino felt like another world from the dull, dusty parking lot baking in the sun. The room was lush and humid. Peacocks strolled between embankments of slot machines and potted palms. Robotic vacuums that gathered up pellets and feathers in their wake. Gamblers crowded the room. People clustered around craps tables, and nestled into plush upholstered bowls in front of the slots. The screens flickered and whirred, their absurd two-dimensional motifs bombarding anyone who strolled by. Signs pointed to card tables somewhere in the back. There were video cameras, motion capture devices, rolling videobots and microphones everywhere.
Jones found an open seat next to a woman in a pink skirt suit. Her jacket features a bold all-over palm leaf print. She was barefoot. Jones liked her immediately. He kicked off his own shoes, immediately regretted it, and tried to get some advice.
“You don’t want to do slots,” the woman groaned at him. “I’ve been down for days.”
“How down?” asked Jones. The woman blinked, and he backtracked. “Is that not a polite question?”
“It’s fine,” she said. “I’m a smidge down. Hoping to get a smidge up by afternoon. Then I can leave and maybe afford a sandwich before I hit the road."
“Have you heard that the autonomous car network is down?" Jones asked.
"No, hadn't heard that," she said, now distracted. The screen in front of her blooped and dinged. A series of dancing toasters paraded across the screen. She groaned. “Doesn’t matter anyway, I’m toast." She fed another token into the machine.
On Jones’ right, a man was stretching his shoulders. He wore a Stevie Nicks t-shirt and his hair was in a long braid. He appeared to be in his seventies. Jones tried to catch his eye, but the man was deep in his machine fog. A golden egg appears on his screen. The man tapped on it ten times, counting under his breath. The machine groaned and sputtered as its simulated the quick, auspicious birth of a tiny dragon. The dragon flapped its wings around the screen. "Hot dog," he exclaimed. “Ticket to the buffet!"
Jones turned back to the palm leaf woman. “How can I get one of those tickets?” She didn’t look at him as she tapped away.
“If you’re hungry, don’t bother with the slots,” she said. “He’s been working on that for a few days. Cards are risky but they’re the quickest way.” Jones watched as her pupils opened and closed along with the rhythm of the room’s flashing neon lights. After another moment, she’d forgotten about him. He got up and made his way further into riotous din of machines.