![]() ![]() ![]() The status quo is mocked and Federal Agents are hounded and harassed.īut most importantly, at least in my mind, alcohol is consumed. ![]() Exploits are exposed, global conglomerates are embarrassed. It has always been held in Las Vegas, the promised land of no last-call.ĭEFCON started 19 years ago as a small drinking fest in honor of a visiting Canadian hacker and has since grown into a huge drinking fest for visiting hackers from all over the world. We’re in town for DEFCON, the biggest and longest running hacker convention in the world. He managed to keep our speed as close to 100 as possible, slowing only in the more populous Mormon enclaves between Denver and Vegas. Liddy insisted we leave at Magic Hour, that razor-thin window in the early morning between partially sober and completely hungover. We’d left Denver 10 hours earlier and in haste. ![]() Nowadays it’s akin to arguing with a teenaged McDonald’s cashier who had dozed through most of his intense two hours of training. You no longer feel as if you are dealing with a slick mobster with a fine sense of largess. Since the corporations wrested control of Vegas from the Mob in the 1980s, the drinker’s paradise has undergone a plethora of ugly changes. In New Vegas, they cage the liquor and smirk at cold hard cash. The old truths were obviously no longer true. I’d had to employ a crude form of social hackery to get my hands on a simple bottle of liquor. I snatch everything up, hand over the opener and say, “Thank you for your cooperation, everyone. She pushes the vodka, water and cigarettes toward me. “Nice and easy,” I say, handing her the cash. Apparently she knows the secret code that allows the store to accept cash from customers. The female clerk moves towards the register. Don’t be a hero.” Both of the clerks and the rest of the customers look confused. “I’m going to hand you this money, you’re going to give me the goods and my change, and we’ll all walk out of here happy. I aim it at the clerk and announce in my best command voice, “Nobody move! This is a purchase! Just do what I say and nobody gets hurt.” The clerk’s eyes widen. I lunge at a display of souvenirs and grab a church key emblazoned with a palm tree. First caged liquor and now they can’t take cash without a manager’s magical incantation? A righteous fury flashes through me, shooting outward from my stomach to my extremities. The growing line of customers glares at me like this is somehow my fault. Liddy seems slightly concerned about my coming reaction and is probably trying to decide whether to stay and watch or exit before he becomes an accomplice. Snowchyld looks mildly amused, Timmay’s characteristic situational Zen remains intact. “I can’t accept cash without the manager code.” “That’ll be $47.93.” I hand him three twenties. My clerk rings up the liquor, some smokes and bottled water. The Clerk with the Key eventually gets a break in her line and paroles a liter of the mid-shelf triple-distilled vodka. The first 12 hours in Vegas is always a hustle, a rush, you stampede around like spooked cattle, startled by the jangle of bells and alarms that signal free money is being shoved into the arms of some lucky fucker who most assuredly is not you. We’ve only been in Vegas for 45 minutes, which explains why we’re in a hurry. Locking a few bottles of it up isn’t going to do anyone, least of not me, a damned bit of good. As far as I can tell, liquor is in charge of the goddamn place. They’ve got it locked up like it’s going to get out onto the casino floor and do something awful. The hotel’s convenience kiosk has two clerks serving a surging tide of casino-goers with gum, souvenirs, smokes and liquor and the other clerk is the one with the keys to the liquor cabinet. The left one regards a magazine rack across the room. The clerk stares back impassively with his right eye. Is there a darker, more gut-wrenching allegory than an empty flask in Vegas? Forget that What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas claptrap, the city’s most primary and inviolable rule is There shall be booze, and plenty of it, readily available at all goddamn times. I take out my flask and show him how empty it is. “I’m sorry, sir,” says the walleyed clerk, “I don’t have the keys to that. ![]()
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