The Bart Braverman 5000

"The mass of the rich and the poor are differentiated by their incomes and nothing else, and the average millionaire is only the average dishwasher dressed in a new suit."

― Down and Out in Paris and London

Beneath the monumental tires of the gigantic limo, the husky, brown scorpion ― sunning itself adjacent The Palms Hotel ― popped like kerneled corn on a cherry-red skillet. The Bart Braverman 5000 was a leviathan, capable of crushing God!

Responsible for a new zip code, this mobile monolith was a city on wheels. A ciudad within a ciudad, the Bart Braverman floated fluidly through backstreets comprising the scoliosis-ridden spine of Sin City.

The moving monster was a portable pump pad ― one deranged dude's dream. Clueless caballeros parted with a week's worth of what slavery — i.e. "employment" — provided, in order to obtain the prurient pleasures occurring for free within the Bart Braverman 5000.

Blowjobs, handjobs and good old-fashioned, puritanical butt lickin' were staples on the regularly rotating menu inside this stretch limo.

The above became reality, all thanks to one resourceful bastard's campaign to circumvent vagrancy.

" 'I'm livin' in a shower, now.'

'A shower?'

'Yeah, it's nice. Real glass sliding doors.' "

― Hot Water Music

Lorenzo was on a crusade. Within this prison disguised as a free society, staving off vagabondage had become a full time gig. Stories of years spent in cardboard condos were common. Everybody had a tortured tale to tell, when it came to food stamps, homeless shelters, and welfare.

"Hunger reduces one to an utterly spineless, brainless condition, more like the after-effects of influenza than anything else. It is as though one had been turned into a jellyfish, or as though all one's blood had been pumped out and lukewarm water substituted."

― Down and Out in Paris and London

Having been in Vegas eight months, Lorenzo had discovered no success in securing subjugation; i.e. "work." Thus, he was unable to pay rent. As such, he'd been denied from leasing an apartment.

"You can't live off your soul. You can't pay the rent with your soul. Try it sometime."

― Hot Water Music

Arriving in Sin City, Lorenzo's previous vehicle ― composed of so many parts, it was no longer the car that rolled off the assembly line ― refused to be.

Eager to survive, the resolute man manipulated a string of penny slots at Boulder Station, and created a $1,000 buffer between him and a concrete mattress. Enthusiastic to sidestep meals served piping tepid in the soup kitchen, he'd spent his booty on a rigorously abused stretch limo with 473,000 merciless miles under its hood.

"You discover that a man who has gone even a week on bread and margarine is not a man any longer, only a belly with a few accessory organs."

― Down and Out in Paris and London

This extended vehicle would serve as Lorenzo's temporary home. Rent had been reduced to enough chump change to keep the gas gauge from dipping below the empty line.

Fuck shellin' out shekels for a storage shed. The guts of the Bart Braverman slept eight. In addition, the limo easily accommodated Lorenzo's possessions.

Still, there was the dilemma of personal hygiene. Things became stifling en El Corazon del Vegas. Perpetually baking in desert heat, the interior of a limousine will rapidly become a TV dinner on tires, and reek like a locker room.

So, the question arose as to where one without a shower could bathe. Once again, need resulted in lucid analysis of the situation.

Nursing the vestiges of an Old Fashioned — a paying customer left on the bar top of a rum-riddled gin joint — "Larry" masticated the libation's Maraschino cherry, and tart orange rind, for nutrition's sake. Starin' at a TV above him, he watched some injury lawyer drop to calloused knees, and inhale a heinously engorged cock.

Grimacing, Lorenzo visually harpooned the unwashed ass crack peeking beneath the lacquered-on miniskirt of a Samoan cocktail waitress stumbling by.

"Are you keepin' your six-pack in your fridge, or under your shirt, these days?" the television shrieked. "Do your stockings run more than you?"

Swallowing a load that would cause a semi to jackknife, the attorney's attempts to destroy his own species concluded, as a shameless spot for a local gym replaced his pathetic plea for cash.

"Do you find more rolls around your waist than atop the dinner table?"

"That's it!" Lorenzo quietly concluded. "A $40 gym membership. No contracts; just month-to-month. I shower at the club, and sleep in the Bart Braverman. I'm literally payin' $40 for rent! People paid way more than that 70 years ago!"

A plan as solid as stool produced on a diet of jalapeños, hot sauce, and ice cream. That said, innumerable people had taken to purchasing gym memberships, showering at their local fitness club, and sleepin' in their cars.

And so, the Bart Braverman 5000 was after-birthed into this mental ward of our Universe. Dorsal fin just below the radar, this formidable fuck facility on Firestones flew through forgotten arteries of Sin City. Capturin' crotch along the way, Lorenzo had himself a swing club on wheels.

And then, one day, the sonar ping that was The Bart Braverman simply vanished one letter from Harmony and Paradise ― a block off Harmon and Paradise. Amid the "Fruit Loop" ― where men dress like women, and women keep assembly lines producing strap-on dildos — the Bart Braverman 5000 evaporated into the ether.

Was it possible to "86" an entire limo ― drivin' it 80 miles east on the Blue Diamond, and interring it six feet into the Earth's crust? This is Vegas. If somebody can construct entire bars from solid ice, in 110 degree heat, they can easily bury a stretch vehicle.

The Bart Braverman became the stuff of ghost ships on the Salton Sea, La Llarona in the arroyos of New Mexico, and George Bush's heart ― nothing more than legend.

Akin to spectral schooners and ethereal women, an apparition resembling the storied limo is periodically encountered, to this day. The same can't be said, however, for the 43rd president's ticker.

— authored by Hugh Mungus