"What about this, is this," Peter hiccuped, nearly vomiting on the man standing in front of him, "is this your card?"
"No," the man said flatly, getting impatient with whatever the obviously inebriated street performer was up to.
"Oh shit," Peter rummaged through the deck, frantically flipping through the cards, dropping several, until he finally shouted in frustration and throws the deck at the store window behind him. The small crowd gasped at his outburst, but they soon cheered and clapped as they tossed money into his guitar case. The man's card had stuck to the window pane when the deck had collided with it. A fairly complicated bit of performance, and frankly Peter was surprised he was able to pull the trick off based on how smashed he was at the moment, but it kept the booze money flowing.
"Thanks, yeah, thanks," he nodded to the people still hanging around waiting for him to do something else. "I'm done now, piss off. Go to a casino or buffet or whatever you do in Vegas when you have money to blow," Peter waved his hands at the lingerers, snapping up his guitar case and heading across the street to the seedy hotel room he had been calling home.
Peter had ended up in Las Vegas about a month ago with no money and barely more than the clothes on his back. He had always been a wanderer, some unknown force compelling him to pick up and go on a moment's notice. It made things easy in the long run. He didn't have to remember people's names or get a job. He just moved on.
He made his way up the cement stairs, only stumbling a few times and approached the door to his room. Peter tossed the case on the floor and started counting through the tips. $64 and some change, not bad. He shoved the wad of bills into his jean pocket and put his long coat on, and started humming "Piece of my Heart." Time for a burger and booze run. He waved to Maria, the sweet, little, middle-aged maid that straightened his room every night and stumbled down the stairs.
Burgers and booze turned into binge drinking, bar fights and passing out in the gutter. Peter felt people poking at him and rolling him onto the sidewalk, but was far too gone to wake. He fell far into his dreams. He was young, playing outdoors past sunlight and starting to wonder why his mother had not called him indoors. A crash inside the house startled him and he fearfully approached the back door.
"Mum?" He squeaked. He slid the door open with a trembling hand and silently stepped inside. Peter walked into the room, the telly was on, but his parents were not in the room. He caught a whiff of something burning and headed to the kitchen. The stove was indeed making a charred mess of something in a pan and Peter dashed over to turn it off. Something underfoot caused him to slip and fall hard onto the kitchen floor. What was it? Had his mother spilled something? He brought his hand up to grab the dish towel from the oven's handle and saw the red. He then saw his mother, laying face down.
"Mum?"
"No I'm not your mum, you drunk piece of shit," said a gruff male voice. Peter's eyes fluttered opened as two pairs of hands stood him up. Red and blue police lights made him squeeze his eyes tight. The LVPD were there to escort him to the drunk tank, his home away from home.
"Fuuck. Oh -" Peter vomited and blacked out once again.
The next morning, Peter felt like he had been hit by a parade of semi trucks. He had made some money playing pool last night and ponied it up to pay his fines. A quick stop at the convenience store for smokes, a few bottles of water, and aspirin then back to the street. He usually grabbed a pastry at the shop, but they were a bit picked over today and only had a disgusting pear tart thing. He still felt extremely queasy, so breakfast was probably not a fantastic idea anyhow.
He performed quite well that day and made a nice wad of cash. Later that evening while going through his spoils, he even found a business card from a man who ran a stage at a small casino. It wasn't the first one he had received, he was always just too drunk or passed out to remember to show up the appointments he made. Still, there was always a chance he might get his big break. Peter called the number and set up a lunch meeting, then set out for burgers and booze.
Still recovering and feeling somewhat clear headed, Peter only partook in the burgers. He had been thinking about a new trick and thought he would take advantage of his current state to work on it once he returned to his room. Peter went over the workings of the illusion over and over in his head as he walked back to his door. He slid the key into the lock and turned, but suddenly found himself turning the key back and locking the door. He felt it, like an ice cube sliding down his spine. He took a step back and pulled a sharp, wooden stake from his trench coat's breast pocket.
"Fuck, oh fuck," Peter clenched the stake tight. He willed his legs to move, to step forward but they were frozen. His heart began to beat faster and his breathing became ragged. He spun around, dropping the stake and having every intention to run for his life, but something sparked within him. A fire of hatred and revenge. It had to be him, the bastard that had killed his parents. Peter reached down and picked up the stake, readying himself for what he will be facing. He stood slowly and set his foot forward to take his first step toward his doom when something slammed him in the chest, nearly knocking him over.
"What the fuck? Oh fuck!" Peter looked down at the severed head of the nice, little hotel maid. "Jesus Fucking Christ!," he looked at his front which was drenched in her still warm blood. His hands were red, just like they had been when he had found his mother. So much red. Peter started to run, nearly falling down the cement stairs. He ran and ran and he didn't stop until the sun came up.