Escape from Las Vegas

Vegas neon seared his dilated retinas.

Colors splashed his brain turning tourists into lizards.

The heat was hot on his trail.

He had been awake for 2 days fueled by acid, amphetamine, coffee, cigarettes, and an overactive imagination. He realized it was time to go south.

Associate, Dick Wheeler, warned him that the gravy days were over. If he didn’t leave on his own accord he would be leaving in a Clark County coroner’s body bag.

They had ways of making accidents happen to people. Max had seen it first hand.

There was James “Birdie” Wallace, Tony “The Ant” Spilotro, and even Frank “Lefty” Rosenthal’s El Dorado exploded as he turned the key to his ignition.

Lefty was lucky to be alive.

So was Max.

No one had to tell him twice.

Indictments were being handed down and entries made into the Vegas Black Book.

Attorney, and future Las Vegas mayor, Oscar Goodman said: “The only way to beat the Black Book is to drop dead before the hearing.”

Max, armed only with an ounce of Peruvian flake, liquid LSD, half pack of Luckies, and a quart of Wild Turkey, pointed his Ford Pinto southbound.

Cocaine eyes darted from rear view mirror to highway horizon back to rear view mirror.

Next stop: Tijuana.

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