I opened the sun roof and watched a helicopter hovering over the Strip, looking for a landing zone in a battle of light. It veered, slowed, floated down onto the top of the Mirage. Somebody in the jungle had said that choppers were The Angels of Death, but I said it was too close to call. More like schizophrenia, the mechanical equivalent of a decidedly split personality. Inside one, you were either having a great time, flying the Grand Canyon or Denali or some great wonder of the world, or you were seriously fucked up, plucked out of some hell hole, broken and split up and desperate. Dropping into the gambling Mecca for the time of your life, or the jaws of life were popping your car like a can and packing you off to trauma care. Somewhere nearby, your soul was making decisions. Live or die, win or lose, hold or stay. I drove on, the sunroof open, neon reflecting on the metal top framing my head.

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