Alex Trebek, who once upon a time had been America's favorite game show host but had since transformed into the country's newest serial killer, had been haunting the Rio casino during the late-night filming of "Hit Me," an indie movie about a blackjack addict (Russian-born movie star Natalia Pertman) who goes broke, starts turning tricks for cash, gets slapped around by her pimp, and goes batshit loony. The director expected it to be the first film to be rated R for bitchslapping.
From what Trebek could tell, they were filming the part of the movie where she was losing all of her dough. Again and again, they filmed Pertman tapping the table to indicate a hit and then slumping in defeat as her chips and then her cards were scooped away by an indifferent blackjack dealer.
Trebek hadn't been spotted by law enforcement yet because he was using all of his skills in disguise. Today, he was dressed to look like this:
It was a look that he felt was a considerable upgrade on yesterday's, in which he had spent six hours at the Seinfeld progressive slots looking a bit more jolly.
Three days ago, when plainclothes police officers had appeared at the periphery of the filming, flashing their badges and asking questions, Trebek, taking no chances, had spun his wheelchair around and headed off toward the men's bathroom. He entered the john disguised as a middle-aged man suffering from polio and seven minutes later had exited the bathroom as an aging Romanian bronze medalist in the pole vault. He crossed the casino and stepped into another bathroom near the poker rooms, exiting four minutes later dressed as a fat bearded man in a little purple coat. Crossing his fingers, he stepped directly into the ladies' bathroom across from the men's, sighed with relief at finding it empty, and reappeared 40 seconds later dressed as Courtney Love. He signed two autographs before slipping behind some video poker machines and poking back out from behind them dressed in three shades of drab gray, looking like a government worker in a communist state. From there, he pretended to slip and fall near an unoccupied customer service station. When he stood, he was a statuesque redhead with a fantastic rack. He was so impressed with his breasts that he couldn't resist feeling himself up.
When he finished his self-massage, he looked up to see that the cops were gone.
Tonight, there were no such worries. He felt comfortable enough to wander around a bit. Slowly wandering was better for his finances, after all, than playing the slots, which turned out to be eating his cash at a faster rate than his ex-wife who, before he had snapped and killed two dozen people, had been receiving alimony to the tune of $25k per month. If he couldn't find a good time and place to kill Quincy Capers--and soon--he risked going broke.
After all, his expenses for disguises alone was costing him more than $4,000 each day.
And the high heels were killing his feet.
And the panties, despite being the largest size he could find, didn't have enough space for his crotch. His testicles were being slowly, yet inevitably, being pushed up toward his asshole. In the future, he'd just slice a hole and let himself freeball.
And what was he doing wearing panties anyway?
And when had he changed out of his tophat and tailcoat and dressed himself as a statuesque redhead again?
I'm a method actor, he concluded with pride. When he dressed as a woman, he became a woman . . . until he changed his costume to appear to be ex-WWF wrestler the Iron Sheik, at which point he became the Iron Sheik, inhabiting his character so completely that when a waitress rudely asked whether he had really meant to order a Shirley Temple, he had--without breaking character--knocked her off her feet and put her into the camel clutch until she had passed out.
That had been a foolish move, drawing security. Luckily, when they arrived, they came upon Trebek as a little old lady with Coke bottle eyeglasses, pointing toward the east exit and speaking in subdued horror about an attack by the Yakuza.
At times like this, walking was good. It allowed Trebek to practice walking in high heels. As he passed the bar, he stopped suddenly in his tracks. Jeopardy! was on TV. Was it a repeat?
"What's this?" he asked in a Southern lilt.
"You've never seen Jeopardy?" a fiftyish man scoffed, without looking at him.
Still dressed up as a voluptuous redhead, Trebek took the seat next to the man and practiced his feminine wiles. "Well of course I have," he said, "but not since, you know, the Trebek incident."
The man barked rough laughter. "Yeah, that guy really lost his shit. Anyway, Dennis Leary is the host now."
"Dennis Leary?"
"Yeah, big improvement too," the guy continued. "The ratings nearly doubled. It was hard to watch that show in the past without wanting to punch that Trebek in the face."
"In the face?" Trebek lilted. He felt dizzy.
"Yeah, what a fucking know it all. The worst was when he pretended to know all of the answers. Didn't he know that the whole world knew that he getting the answers from his computer screen? . . . You okay, lady?" the man asked, reaching out to steady the redhead sitting next to him. He gave a healthy glance to Trebek's tremendous rack, then added, "You a hooker?"
Am I a hooker? Trebek wondered. Despite being thrown off balance, he was still trying to maintain his method acting. Would a tall redhead with large breasts talking to a fiftyish man at 3 a.m. at a bar in the Rio be a hooker?
The inevitable answer: Yes.
Trebek gave a nod.
"Come with me," the man said. Trebek was still lightheaded from watching that failed comedian helming his show. He stepped into the elevator in a daze. Before he knew what was happening, he was exiting onto the sixth floor, and entering room 604. Once the door was closed, the fiftyish man put his hands on Trebek's shoulders and pushed him to his knees.
"Fifty bucks," Trebek lilted, reaching for the man's fly. Method acting! Trebek thought triumphantly. If only he were in the movies, he'd be receiving Oscar consideration.
"Great," the man replied. "You're cheaper than I thought."
From what Trebek could tell, they were filming the part of the movie where she was losing all of her dough. Again and again, they filmed Pertman tapping the table to indicate a hit and then slumping in defeat as her chips and then her cards were scooped away by an indifferent blackjack dealer.
Trebek hadn't been spotted by law enforcement yet because he was using all of his skills in disguise. Today, he was dressed to look like this:
| Trebek, gazing upon horizon |
It was a look that he felt was a considerable upgrade on yesterday's, in which he had spent six hours at the Seinfeld progressive slots looking a bit more jolly.
| Trebek, high on nitrous oxide, after trip to dentist. |
When he finished his self-massage, he looked up to see that the cops were gone.
Tonight, there were no such worries. He felt comfortable enough to wander around a bit. Slowly wandering was better for his finances, after all, than playing the slots, which turned out to be eating his cash at a faster rate than his ex-wife who, before he had snapped and killed two dozen people, had been receiving alimony to the tune of $25k per month. If he couldn't find a good time and place to kill Quincy Capers--and soon--he risked going broke.
After all, his expenses for disguises alone was costing him more than $4,000 each day.
And the high heels were killing his feet.
And the panties, despite being the largest size he could find, didn't have enough space for his crotch. His testicles were being slowly, yet inevitably, being pushed up toward his asshole. In the future, he'd just slice a hole and let himself freeball.
And what was he doing wearing panties anyway?
And when had he changed out of his tophat and tailcoat and dressed himself as a statuesque redhead again?
I'm a method actor, he concluded with pride. When he dressed as a woman, he became a woman . . . until he changed his costume to appear to be ex-WWF wrestler the Iron Sheik, at which point he became the Iron Sheik, inhabiting his character so completely that when a waitress rudely asked whether he had really meant to order a Shirley Temple, he had--without breaking character--knocked her off her feet and put her into the camel clutch until she had passed out.
That had been a foolish move, drawing security. Luckily, when they arrived, they came upon Trebek as a little old lady with Coke bottle eyeglasses, pointing toward the east exit and speaking in subdued horror about an attack by the Yakuza.
At times like this, walking was good. It allowed Trebek to practice walking in high heels. As he passed the bar, he stopped suddenly in his tracks. Jeopardy! was on TV. Was it a repeat?
"What's this?" he asked in a Southern lilt.
"You've never seen Jeopardy?" a fiftyish man scoffed, without looking at him.
Still dressed up as a voluptuous redhead, Trebek took the seat next to the man and practiced his feminine wiles. "Well of course I have," he said, "but not since, you know, the Trebek incident."
The man barked rough laughter. "Yeah, that guy really lost his shit. Anyway, Dennis Leary is the host now."
"Dennis Leary?"
"Yeah, big improvement too," the guy continued. "The ratings nearly doubled. It was hard to watch that show in the past without wanting to punch that Trebek in the face."
"In the face?" Trebek lilted. He felt dizzy.
"Yeah, what a fucking know it all. The worst was when he pretended to know all of the answers. Didn't he know that the whole world knew that he getting the answers from his computer screen? . . . You okay, lady?" the man asked, reaching out to steady the redhead sitting next to him. He gave a healthy glance to Trebek's tremendous rack, then added, "You a hooker?"
Am I a hooker? Trebek wondered. Despite being thrown off balance, he was still trying to maintain his method acting. Would a tall redhead with large breasts talking to a fiftyish man at 3 a.m. at a bar in the Rio be a hooker?
The inevitable answer: Yes.
Trebek gave a nod.
"Come with me," the man said. Trebek was still lightheaded from watching that failed comedian helming his show. He stepped into the elevator in a daze. Before he knew what was happening, he was exiting onto the sixth floor, and entering room 604. Once the door was closed, the fiftyish man put his hands on Trebek's shoulders and pushed him to his knees.
"Fifty bucks," Trebek lilted, reaching for the man's fly. Method acting! Trebek thought triumphantly. If only he were in the movies, he'd be receiving Oscar consideration.
"Great," the man replied. "You're cheaper than I thought."
"And the high heels were killing his feet."
ReplyDeletehee hee. Great stuff.