( And It Shows I Can Feel The Passion ) - Blog Posts

inhaling  what's  left  of  the  burger  half,  wally  cleans  what  little  bits  of  ketchup  and  mustard  are  still  clinging  to  his  fingers.  it  wouldn't  be  lying  to  say  he  felt  a  hundred——no  a  million  times  better  already.  it'll  give  him  more  than  enough  juice  if  he  needs  it,  although  he  isn't  expecting  much.  las  vegas  ...  surely  it's  not  a  place  with  anything  to  worry  about?  it  wasn't  a  mission——as  others  insists.  enjoy  yourself,  they  told  him.  at  a  point  it  started  feeling  like  they  were  just  trying  to  get  rid  of  him,  which,  y'know,  fair  enough.

"tourist-y  stuff——no,  wait——stuff  locals  like——uh  ...  any  chance  we  can  do  both?"  it's  the  first  time  he's  stepping  foot  into  vegas;  he's  been  through  her  more  than  few  times  but  he  meant  that  literally.  it's  a  blur  on  his  travels  to  other  places  and  he  barely  remembers  a  thing  each  time.  to  put  it  simply:  it's  his  first  time  ever  spending  more  than  thirty  seconds  in  the  city  of  sin.  bit  odd  that  it  never  popped  up  during  his  time  with  the  team.  you'd  think  it  would've  been  the  first  place  to  stir  up  all  sorts  of  trouble  for  them  to  be  sent  to  deal  with.

"oh,  and  by  we,  i  mean  me.  i  mean,  i  can't  expect  you  to  follow  me  around  all  day  and  help  me  out  ...  right?  not  that  i'd  turn  down  a  certified  guide."  it's  a  bit  of  a  leading  question,  he'll  admit.  not  his  finest  attempt  to  thread  the  needle  of  a  delicate  topic,  but  he's  doing  his  best.  "but,  y'know,  if that is   something  you  DID  want  to  do  i  can  cover  today's  expenses  for  us."  all  hail  the  batman  appointed  credit  card.  "whaddaya  say?  wanna  be  my  partner  in  crime?"

Damn. He must have been really hungry.

Mark comes close to feeling bad about having made his acceptance into a bit, but it's hard to linger on those kinds of guilty feelings when the guy's sticking around for a chat after scarfing down his leftovers. He's probably not all that torn up over the specifics of getting them.

"Well," he starts, still sporting a bright grin, "you're in luck! No-one in the world's better at this whole tourist thing than I am."

Expertise just comes with the package of being on the move so often; Mark is a tourist everywhere, taking in everything he can everywhere he stops. A local might know a thing or two about some niche, out-of-the-way place for good food or a good time, but Mark's always been good about sniffing out things or places that are entertaining.

He rests his arm on the back of his chair, then leans his head into his waiting palm, attempting to give his food thief some sort of scrutiny—like he's trying to judge exactly what sort of avenue to take this. "So what, you lookin' for some typical tourist-y stuff? Or are you one 'a those people who wants to pretend they know how to blend in with the locals? Plenty 'a shit to do either way. You like shows? Lotsa shows. There's a rollercoaster in a casino. Isn't that the sickest fuckin' thing you've ever heard of in your life? Who does that? It's probably a death trap but that's a sick way to go out. My sister made me ride it."