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Vegas, baby. Here we come.

My first real trip. My first time west of the Mississippi—
well, technically not true. I think my mom took me to St. Louis once when I was a kid,
but this… this was different.

This was freedom.

The bags were packed, the nerves tucked somewhere deep under the excitement.
The weed was in my bag, the ecstasy was with Andy (which I’d never tried—until this trip),
Ryan had his grab-bag of pills and a touch of snow white for the late nights,
and Greene, of course, was protecting the mushrooms like a newborn.

Four young men.
Five days in Vegas.
The kind of setup that starts every great bro film—
before it all spins out of control.

The plane lifts, and for the first time, I see the desert from above.
Those mountains stretch out like some kind of painted hallucination—
the sun spilling gold, pink, and blue across the horizon.
It’s surreal.
I’ve never seen light like that.

My face is pressed to the window like a kid scanning the sky for Santa.
And then the voice crackles overhead:

“This is your captain speaking. We’ll be starting our descent into Las Vegas. Please stay buckled and prepare for landing.”

Holy shit.
This is it.
I’m going to Vegas.

A flood of emotion hits all at once—
Will I have enough money?
I don’t even know how to gamble.
I’ve never been this far.
Will I be okay?

The wheels hit the tarmac with a scream,
metal on metal, my stomach flips.
I grip the armrest.
Roller-coaster vibes.
I’ve never liked heights.
Every engine roar feels like we’re about to crash.

When the plane finally stops, I look around.
Ryan’s half-awake,
Andy’s up front, too far to put visuals on
and Greene—
Greene’s wired, vibrating,
like a thoroughbred waiting for the gate to burst open.

Then it hits me—
the lights.
Even in the daylight, they burn bright.
Vegas doesn’t sleep, it just hums.

Our car service pulls up to the MGM,
and as I step out, I look up, dizzy from it all.

This is it.
The Mecca.
Where Mike Tyson fought.
Where stars perform on the nightly.
Where glamour and grime share the same bed.

The suite is ridiculous—three bedrooms, high ceilings,
the kind of room you could live in forever and never leave.
We dump our bags, clean up,
and like good tourists, hit the Strip.

One side to the other.
Every casino.
Every flashing sign.
Every hustler and dreamer chasing their piece of neon salvation. Naively taking handouts from strangers — because that’s the polite thing to do. Each one with a new girl you can buy for the night. With a handful of flyers, I continue to wander ahead.

Time doesn’t exist here.
The sun’s long gone by the time we stumble back to the room.
Ryan’s rolling a blunt, Greene’s pouring vodka over lemons,
and I’m dragging ass, trying to keep up.

Ryan chops up a line.
I stare at it.
Unsure.
But when you’re a Southern boy raised to never turn down hospitality—
you say yes.

A little toot.
First time.
Feels like caffeine on fire.
Brain buzzing, eyes wide.

A blunt.
A drink.
And now I’m ready. Even as I know inside I am not ready, I stumble out.

Head cloudy, unsure feelings fluttered my whole body.

We head downstairs to meet Regal—our hometown boy turned Vegas transplant.
He’s been working at a fine-dining spot for a few months,
the kind of place that have waiters who look like they model on the side.

Regal’s a beast. Short, stocky, all confidence.
Him and Greene together?
Trouble.
Testosterone in stereo.

The elevator doors open and the sound hits—
the slot machines, the shouting, the clinking, the jackpot sirens.
The whole casino breathes like a living thing.

“Kentucky!”

I hear it before I see him.
Regal, grinning from across the room, waving us over.

By the time we make it to the restaurant—STK—
the cocaine is humming in my chest.
Everything feels electric.
Every step a beat.
Every glance a frame of film.

It’s dim.
It’s loud.
A DJ spinning slow house under the hum of conversation.
Everything looks expensive.
Everything feels like performance.

And that’s what Vegas is, right?
A stage.
Every table its own little show.
Every player pretending to be something they’re not.
And I loved it.

Not because I thought it mattered—
but because I’d never seen this world before.
And part of me wanted to believe I could fit in it.

We hit the bathroom between courses,
each of us disappearing and reappearing lighter, faster,
like our bodies were made of neon and air.

Back at the table—steaks, shrimp, wine, vodka,
mac and cheese so good I can still taste it years later—
thick, gooey, sinful.

Ryan leans in.
“You want a little capper?”

I glance at the others—grins all around.
I shrug.
“Sure.”

Vegas, baby.

And that’s when the real ride begins.