Lara Beaton wrote in message news:7onvi9$dd9$1@nnrp1.deja.com... : In article <7onrs1$3i3u$1@newssvr04-int.news.prodigy.com>, : "Drew Gillmore" wrote: : : > I _never_ got carded. I walked around the whole weekend : > with my ID in my pocket next to my room key. : > : > Which is probably why I never got carded. Of course, had I left : > it in my room for one venture I'd have found myself with someone else's : > stolen whore in the middle of an alley where a drug deal was being made : > and the LV SWAT team decending. : > : : Forgive me if I seem dense, but what good would having your ID do you in : that particular situation? Absolutely nothing, except that the whole situation could be avoided by simply having it. It's the way things go. It would have probably gone something like this: Late at night, a group of us decide to walk over a couple blocks to a different Casino, cause, you know, the ones across the street from the Nugget just weren't putting out. I go along, and asking directions we're told that it's not a good idea just to walk _straight_ there as the intervening area is not a pleasant neighborhood to be in after dark and in fact should be Avoided At All Costs. We decide that they're full of it and make it through the midst of the DMZ umolested and without cause for concern. We find the Casino in question and a two dollar table, no problem. Everyone sits down and I assume my place at the last spot before the dealer. Due to the geneically engineered olifactory system of the prototype dealer that gives her the ability to actually *smell* when an ID is present, she turns straight towards me and in icy blue deadpan asks for my ID. "Uh...crap. I left it in my room." "Sorry, sir, you can't play." Meanwhile, Trina, Cassandra and Scotton put together their milk money and get a two dollar chip to bet. They get dealt Blackjack twice in a row, and decide to celebrate with some ice cream. It's Customer Appreciation Night, and everyone starts winning big so I decide to run back to the room for my ID. Hell, it's only a couple of blocks. I head out of the Casino and straight back the way we came. turning a corner, I come across the last stages of a Pimp Territory hostile take-over, on the one side the Flaring Silver Hat with Feathers and his Hot Mommas who have just gained another product through ill-gotten devices, and on the other, the Leather Vinyl Suit and his Punk Ass Hoes, who are pretty upset at the loss of their star money-maker. A shoot out ensues. I dive into an alley and into a dumpster, where after having a bullet ricochet off her head and getting knocked unconsious, the merchandise in questionable ownership is dumped prudently. Desiring suddenly to be anywhere else, I begin to climb slowly out of the dumpster, and notice four shady people at the other end of the alley, with two brief cases and a lot of whispered "Hey man, you got the stuff?" Deciding it would probably be best if I duck it out until either the drug deal is done or the Pimp Fight is over, I crouch back into the dumpster and begin trying to find my Happy Place. After a few minutes, I peak up to see the cops pulling into the alley on the other side of the Insomniac Businessmen. The four guys run towards my dumpster as I quickly duck back down, only to find myself showered with cocaine and hundred dollar bills a few moments later. About this time, I hear a chopper, tires squeeling, see a lot of lights dancing around the alleyway above me and hear the distinct cry of the Las Vegas PD in their natural habitat. The next thing I know, the girl is awake and screaming "Help! Kidnap! I'm only 17! RAAAAPE!" and I quickly find myself on the ground outside the dumpster with some large guy's knee in the small of my back next to Guido the Powder Provider and Hasbro the Pimp, with several shotguns pointed at the region where Winger is currently being played on vinyl record, skipping back to the "She's only seventeeeeeeen!" part over and over again. "You got any ID on you, boy?" The guy surreptisiously fondling my bum asks. I start to cry. See? It's all relatively simple. : Unless it was to facilitate identifying the body. Hey. I'm from Texas. That's what my belt buckle is for. -- Drew Gillmore http://www.spacebrain.com/sketch Key Features: Drew's Reality, Mini-FAQ, Board Certified Advice Column.