Sherpa Scary #1: Dead on Arrival

Sherpa Scary made it three-fifths of the way to Lost Wages before dying. Which pissed off his mother, Barbara, because she had to haul all that weight into town and get him into a suite at the Luxor.

Barbara always hated it when Sherpa called it “Lost Wages,” because it was like he knew exactly what was coming and went there anyway, happily. Plus, it was so fucking lame, like the tired hooker of a phrase “What happens in Vegas. . “ Jesus, she couldn’t even get it out without gagging.

Sherpa, or rather, Sherpa’s form, jellied around in the passenger seat of the 1998 Tercel, like he was in a really deep sleep. He smelled pretty rank. But it wasn’t decomposition. It was just Sherpa. All the bacteria that helps disassemble the human body back to its basic components  had barely started to work their magic. Sherpa’s most currently noticeable smell came from the Arby’s roast beef sandwiches he’d slathered with diced garlic, the kind you can get at Costco in jars that should be reserved for WIC peanut butter. Big, bulky. Like Sherpa.

But the nacho “cheese” and garlic roast beef sandwiches were a welcome relief from Sherpa’s between-meals odor. He was greasy and old, like a skillet in a bachelor pad. Actually, exactly like Sherpa’s skillet in his bachelor pad.
He had wanted to go the the Mad Greek in Baker, but he was dead before the World’s Largest Thermometer poked into view, and Barbara had a feeling it might happen, so she wanted to get him fed before he went. She loved him. She was, despite everything, his mom.
Barbara steered into Luxor’s self-parking, found a spot, and opened the door. Another cliche came unbidden and then gleefully suffocated her. It’s a dry heat.

She looked over a Sherpa, shook her head, then reached over and closed his eyes. Just napping.
The insides of her baggy shorts stuck together and climbed up her thighs. Her bra bit and she felt the urge to give up, to just waddle into the air-conditioned casino and then out onto the streets of Las Vegas and disappear, leaving Sherpa to his fate. He wouldn’t know the difference. Probably. Maybe.
“Kids die in hot cars,” warned a poster near the elevator door.
Rumblings and voices boiled through the concrete parking garage: music for the wait.

Ding. Barbara smelled soap. She saw a family of bags corralled around a clutch of white legs, pale and thick. Barbara let her eyes flick up. Awkwardly disinterested. Good. She stepped just across the threshold, noted that “C” level was punched, then stared at the elevator wall.