Flies in the Ointment

I should have known that “Corn Pop” story was bullshit.

Shame on me for having hope, right? A man who made his living in a city built on the grift, who’s done more than his fair share of grifting himself, should have never expected anything from a middle of the road pol whose greatest qualification for the Oval Office was if you squinted he looked like Old Man Captain America from “Avengers Endgame”. What a mark I was for having faith that Biden would do right by Las Vegas and cancel Executive Directive 51.

Instead he let the order stand, and by doing so he’s abandoning the city to a bolder breed of thug; whether they wear a suit like Conrad Dukes or the skins of his enemies like Corey Bull.

Which means we got to save ourselves.


I got my start in the livery business, but once that took off I did diversify. I’ve owned a car wash, two laundromats, a Bennigan’s franchise (met Wife 2 there), a nudie bar (Wives 3 and 4) and a towing company. Those are all gone now; either failing outright or sold in order to keep AAApex afloat, but I still have the gym.

South Commerce Street Fitness is a renovated warehouse located in the city’s Gateway District. As an investment it’s always been a loser, especially now during the pandemic, but I’ve kept it open because a membership is one of the cheaper benefits I can give my employees and also it’s where I ran my wrestling promotion back in the day.

Now, it’s where I train. Right now I’m doing cardio, specifically jumping rope , trying to ignore the dull stab of pain that shoots through my knee every time my feet hit the parquet.

Little sumbitch Julian Mercury really did a number on it, and I’m still recovering. That bastard knows how to scrap, and I was lucky to beat him.

‘Course, I made my own luck that night; courtesy of complimentary Bottle Service delivered to the side of Julie Murk’s head. If I was a sporting fellow I’d feel guilty about the circumstances of that win, but fact is the dude started shit by raking my eyes. No way I’m going to take the high road if the people I’m facing won’t. Winning’s too important, and the fact is I’m waaaaaayyyyyy over my head here. The rest of Black Pyramid Wrestling is made up of people who hurt each other for a living, and according to the oddsmakers they’re all really good at it.

Meanwhile, I run a shuttle service for bachelorette parties.

No way I’ll even try to make a statement about my honor or my toughness in this tournament. I’m in it because one million dollars will cover the gap between AAApex’s operating costs and my Payroll Protection Program loans. That’s all. It’s what keeps my mind off the throbbing in my torn meniscus, and what gives me the rationale for making the extremely stupid and possibly suicidal decision to share the ring with Lord Humongous 2.0 tomorrow night.

“Just… walk away,” my Pollack ass! Not before I stomp a mudhole in you first, Corey Bull!

Note: this is what real professional athletes call ‘visualization’. I learned it from my personal trainer Larry, who right now is approaching me quite irate. I cease the skip jumping, pop out my earbuds, and await the news that’s got him all hot and bothered,

“Protestors outside the gym!” he announces in exasperation.

“They’re back?”

We had issues with anti-maskers last week. I settled it by refunding their membership dues.

Larry shakes his head, “They’ve got masks. They’re protesting you personally.”

“Do they look Korean? It could be my in-laws.”

Soon to Be Ex-Wife Number Four’s pissed I started playing hardball about the divorce. I took her family off the cellphone plan and cancelled their car insurance and she’s been sending me nasty messages on Facebook since. Nothing actionable though; she’s too smart for that.

“They’re not your in-laws, Max.”

I curse and throw down my rope and hobble to the stairs. Larry follows, filling me in. They’re some group called the ‘Fly Guise’ (wordplay!): young kids, most of them, UNLV students who didn’t or couldn’t leave the city after the lockdown and now demonstrate against it. Nothing too outrageous; they wouldn’t dare. Chief Marsh might be soft-hearted but those Jabberwock goons Do Not Play.

I make it to the bottom of the stairwell and peer through the one-way glass of the door. There’s maybe twenty of them. They’re close to the door, but not blocking it, and they’ve allowed enough room to allow people to pass through them, though it would be a tight fit. They’ve got signs slagging me, Dukes, Black Pyramid, Biden, Trump; all the usual suspects (sans myself on account of me being a sweetheart).

I study one of the placards. It’s got a caricature of me in a Court Jester outfit that’s too small so my gut’s hanging out.

“Hurtful, just hurtful,” I mutter before pushing open the doors and confronting the mob.

“How can I help you?” I ask in my best ‘the customer is always right’ voice. I’m a tough sumbitch when I need to be, but there are times when you got to be nice to get what you want, or at least to keep what you have.

Easier to catch more Flies with honey than vinegar, if you weeeeeeeeelll.

At the very least by being non-confrontational I’ve confused them a bit; put them back on their heels enough so that they parlay amongst themselves. A couple have phones out to record our confrontation (or for the moment the lack of one), but I catch a few more quickly texting. To someone higher up the food chain maybe?

One of the Fly Guise (who happens to be a girl) speaks up, “Why are you taking part in the tournament. Don’t you realize what it is?”

“Why don’t you tell me what you think it is?” is my reply.

“A distraction! Bread and circuses to keep people off guard while Ramses bleeds this city dry.”

“Your city, Max!” another voice chimes in from the back of the scrum.

And goddammit they’re right. Of course. I’m smart enough to spot a con when I see one. Thing is, I’m also smart enough to know sometimes you got to either play along with the con until you can turn the tables or see the thing the whole way through and hope what it costs you isn’t as much as what it would be if you try to buck up, and I ain’t to the point where I know which choice is the right one. I can’t say that though, not while the kids are filming. So instead I use the opportunity to hype up my next match. It keeps the bosses happy and right now that’s what I need them to be.

“You’re fucking right this is my city, kiddo. And what I don’t have any use for is some dumbass wanna be dick-tater trying to knock down what I’ve help build! That’s right, I’m talking ‘bout Corey Bull! He might hail from Las Vegas but he is not what it’s about! This city is built on an idea that’s eternal! It’s an oasis, a respite, from what happens out in the rest of the world. But now that we’re cut off Bull wants to turn Las Vegas into his own little empire. As if that’s sustainable! Soon as Sleepy Joe finds his balls and lifts the quarantine, how long is Bull’s act going to last? You think the 101st Airborne’s going to have any trouble putting down his pack of mutts? And while I don’t have the tanks and the guns and the bombs to put a stop to that glandular freak’s power play, you can damn well bet I’ll embarrass him in the tournament. Look upon my works, ye mighty, and get ready to tap the fuck out! Wednesday night the Bastard Warlord’s goin’ meet his Daddy, and his name is Tuxedo Max!”

The Fly Guise don’t respond. They just stare at me through those thick plastic sunglasses, their expressions hidden behind their lime-green gaiters and bandanas. I don’t need to see their faces to know what they’re thinking right now: they think this crazy old man is full of shit.

Wish I could argue the point. I am beating Corey Bull though. I got to figure out some way to put that monster down, for me and mine.

The city’s going to have to fend for itself.