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will ever satisfy.
    A permanent boner is a blessing and a curse.
    So here he was, watching a twenty-two-year-old blond girl from Irving, Texas, dance around him like she was a harem girl and he was the Grand Poohbah.
    â€œWhat’s that in your pants, baby?”
    â€œWhat do you think it is?”
    â€œOooh, it looks like an anaconda.”
    The lap dancer moved his walker, custom made by a retired bicycle racer, a few feet away so she could get down to business. She sat in his lap, thrusting against his thighs, finding his inflated cock and running her ass against its ridge.
    â€œCan you feel it?”
    â€œOh, yeah, baby, I can feel it.”
    Jack leaned forward, almost getting his eye poked out by one of her stiff little nipples protruding through the fishnet. He put his face down by her thrusting belly and inhaled deeply.
    â€œI love the smell of that.”
    The music changed and with it the dancer’s rhythms. She got serious. She crawled close to him, right on top of him, and began to pump her crotch pneumatically against his lap as she swished her hair around in a circle and pressed her breasts an inch from his face.
    â€œAre you gonna get your nut for me?”
    Jack didn’t respond; he was at a loss for words.
    Her soft hair whipped across his face as her body ground against his inflated cock until he thought the air bags might pop. A spasm slowly worked its way up his spine and throughthe right half of his body. His face contorted and he let out a little grunt. The dancer stood up.
    â€œThat fun?”
    Jack nodded. He realized she was speaking to him as if he were hard of hearing. Sometimes people did that: assuming that if you needed a walker you were deaf or retarded. Normally it made him angry, but he was still a little stoned from the pheromone tsunami that had just washed over him, so he let it slide.
    She picked up his walker and brought it next to his chair. “I hope I see you again, real soon.”
    Jack looked at her, finally croaking out a sound. “You betcha.”
    She stood there, expectant, as he fished around in his pants pocket and pulled out his now soggy money clip. Jack peeled three hundred-dollar bills out of the clip and handed her the clammy currency. She took the money gingerly, holding the bills by a corner.
    â€œThanks, Mr. Lucey.”
    â€œThank
you,
Brenda.”
    â€œBarbara.”
    â€œThank you, Barbara.”
    He watched her walk out of the room, flapping the bills in the breeze to dry them.
    ...
    The doorman, an ex-UNLV lineman named Baxter, big and brawny with a shaggy mullet and matching mustache, held the door open as Jack lurched his walker, his body slowly trailing in painful little half steps, out into the parking lot. Jacklooked down and saw a sticky, wet smudge slowly seeping through his pants leg. He turned and smiled at Baxter.
    â€œBeautiful night.”
    â€œYou have a good one, Mr. Lucey.”
    â€œThank you, Baxter.”
    Jack hobbled toward his specially built van. In the distance he could see the sun going down behind the strip, the neon lights and big-screen billboards of the casinos coming to life. He inhaled deeply, the dry air tinged with the scent of burning meat from a nearby steakhouse. He loved Las Vegas. It was paradise.

Three
    Francis cracked the neck on the tiny bottle of scotch. He watched as the amber liquid coated the ice cubes and slowly rose up the angled sides of the little plastic cup. Fucking terrorists. They’d succeeded, hadn’t they? Changed his life forever with their mayhem.
    Whatever inspiration their God-demented brains gleaned from the Koran had served them well. All that time on their knees, foreheads planted in the dirt, bowing to the east. All that Allah, Allah, Allah had really paid off. They took on the evil, bloated, and gluttonous West. They gave their lives to it, which, discounting the virgins and rivers of wine in everlasting Heaven, was the ultimate sacrifice.