What Happens In Vegas

Bill Barnwell on his year of living in Vegas:

I got in the elevator once at the parking level and when the elevator stopped at the street level, where the Aria entrance is, I was joined in the elevator by a chummy party of four: A man in a sweatsuit, a girl in a stunning dress, and two little people. On a Saturday night, I might not think anything of that, but this was a Tuesday afternoon at 2 p.m. or so. Were they about to go shoot porn? I sorta hope that they weren't, if only because coming up with an alternate explanation for what was happening actually requires more work. When the Occam's razor for a group of people coming together is porn, something truly astounding is afoot.
The other one wasn't quite as sinister. A few weeks after I wrote about my move to Vegas, I got an unaddressed envelope in my mailbox with a note inside. In a handwriting style that I can only compare to that of the anthrax note, I was offered the opportunity to bet on games with a nearby bookie without any vig on the bets. There were, however, two conditions: The bookie was allowed to move half of my bets by half a point in the direction of his choosing, and I was not allowed to bet against Notre Dame. Suffice to say that I didn't take him up on his offer, but I was wildly perplexed as to why I couldn't make any bets against the Fighting Irish. Was he a big fan of the school who didn't want to pay out when they lost? Did he have a big client who was already vehemently against Notre Dame? I still don't know what the case was.

That is pure awesomeness.