What happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas.

I couldn’t resist. The Fates happened to spin the Nexus Sports crew a few glistening green threads last weekend and I’ve had some aces up my sleeve ever since. But unless I bow like a pagan to the poker gods, whom do I really thank for all of the images implanted in my retinas? I guess I’m going to have to return the favor, and bend my knee at the feet of Trinity.

It was the look on the cabby’s face when we popped into his ride that said it all.

“She was practically jacking me off under the table,” Pavy exclaimed as he clambered into the passenger seat. Pavy didn’t roll the dice much, but that cute clean-shaven face of his happened to attract enough strippers at the Spearmint Rhino that they might cast him in the next lineup of misogynistic Axe commercials.

I missed the debauchery in search of other pursuits.

“So, what’s your major?”

“Poker,” I stammered. This was fucking bat country; could I trust her broken wings to fly? But as I arrived at the moment, I realized I might as well have been right. The nug of truth stemmed from the fact that I would probably be paying Trinity thanks to the blue whale this morning that kept throwing Benjamins into the pot on queen/9 suited – all I had to do was wait, then throw up the rock when Henry came along for the ride.

“Fuck you!” he yelled.

“Pay me,” I said as the dealer pushed me the pile.

Trinity yawned through the spearmint haze and interrupted my recollection with a seat on my lap. Then she asked me why the hell I was wearing a Reese’s Peanut Butter Cup T-shirt. What else would I ask her?

“I eat ’em around the edges first,” she replied. “My name’s Trinity.”

After a heated Quentin Tarantino debate, she teased with the age question.

“Are you calling me an older woman?”

No fault to her, I was a noob in there and she knew it.

“So, what’s your fix?”

I was a fawn in front of xenon lights. Um… weed? No. Music? Maybe – I lit a cigarette. Peanut butter? Yeah, I love peanut butter.

“I love peanut butter!”

I’ll admit, I didn’t see her next response coming.

“No. I don’t smoke weed. I think it’s disgusting.”

Heartbroken, I took a drag from my cigarette as Chris tipped her and pointed in my direction.

Hours later we stumbled outside to a Nevada sun careening into the distant desert, some of our crew hiding the antiquated revelry with a home-game poker face, others clearly displaying a nut flush to the approaching taxi.

“She was practically jacking me off under the table,” Pavy exclaimed as he clambered into the passenger seat.

Sorry Pavy, I couldn’t fold the better hand to a kid I taught to play the game.

“Trinity told me some guy dropped her 50 for doing her thing in a shot glass so that the dude could down it back as she watched,” I laughed.

For the next 20 seconds, not a word was said. The cabby ran a stop sign, then accelerated over the speed limit, gripping us to the sticky leather seats.

“Fools get off to that?” Chris asked.

Apparently not this cabby, I figured. Shit, at least the fare would be cheaper. But the cabby didn’t share my optimism on the drop-off. He beat me on the barter, straight up, but I paid that man his money – I was too busy tripping off what I discovered in my front pocket.

I dropped to a knee in the middle of Luxor’s front walkway. There, between my thumb and forefinger, rested a triad of mangled portions of a Bubba Kush spliff.

Trinity’s work. Naw, my stupidity. I had left the spliff in there during every lap dance. She may not be a fan of weed, but as far as I could tell the Bubba sure was fond of her. It wasn’t piss in a shot glass, but I burned it down for Trinity’s pink gown. She showed me the humor in it all.