Vulgarus (Las Vegas)
Copyright(c) 2024-2026
by t.e.Lazarz
All rights reserved.

Due to the violent content and vulgar prose of this novel, the author assumes no responsibility for any deviant, antisocial, or self-destructive behavior on the part of the reader. No phrases, concepts, thematic materials or characterizations found in this composition may be reproduced, published or transmitted in any form or by any means electronic or mechanical, including digital copy, digital recording, social media or information storage and retrieval system without the contractual permission of the author. Any semblance of characters in this story to persons living or dead is coincidental.

1.

A Tuesday
8:57 P.M.
The Eiffel Tower
Las Vegas, Nevada

Five hundred forty-one feet above Las Vegas Boulevard, a never-to-be wannabe struggled with her social regrets. Her cadaverous body was covered with black and pastel tattoos, her arms and legs inundated with needle marks, her veins saturated with cheap wine and stolen prescription meds. At that hour, the only tourists who would be frequenting the mock Eiffel Tower would be lovers-young and old, gay and straight, legal or illicit-and a few undesirables as unwanted and desperate as herself. No one noticed at the restaurant level when the elevator doors slid shut but she had not exited. No one thought to call hotel security when, at the upper observation deck, she gained access to the maintenance platforms that would take her to the very top. An unlocked service door offered her her best opportunity. She clambered out onto the first landing but found the safety railing too tall to climb above. She kicked her heels away and crawled up the still-warm ladder that would take her to the platform just above the hot halogens. As if she were the leading lady arriving late for her debut, she put herself directly into the blinding lights illuminating her swan-song drama, to become the movie star she had always wanted to be.
  She peered out at the multi-colored light of bustling Sin City, and it made her dizzy. The heat of that August night was creating a shimmering effect across the entire Las Vegas Valley. She dared herself to look down on The Strip, where the tourists looked like so many insects going about their nocturnal business. She breathed a sigh of relief that she had made it that far, then concluded that carrying out her plan from that side of the Eiffel would not be very prudent. But what difference would that make, just as long as the people down below were properly entertained?
  Digging around in her huge handbag she had balanced over her shoulder, she retrieved her smartphone to wait for the call she had been expecting all day. Disappointed that there were no text messages from any of her so-called friends, her social regrets became even more pressing. She wondered if anyone would ever miss her and that was the moment her smartphone jingled the pop tune "Rehab" by Amy Winehouse. It was her favorite song of desperation. She let the device play the tune until the song was finished, and then she was finally ready.
  "Hello."
  "Julie?" a male voice said.
  "James?"
  "Where are you, Julie? I can't see you."
  "I'm up here," she said.
  "Where, Julie? Where up there?"
  "I'm looking down on the Strip."
  "No, Julie. That's not what we agreed upon, Julie. Do you remember what we agreed upon?"
  "Oh yes. I remember now. I'm supposed to be looking down on the pool," she said.
  "Go around to the other side, Julie. People down here want to see you," the male voice said.
  "Okay, James, but please. Don't hang up," she said.
  "I won't hang up, Julie. I know how much you need me. Just do what is best. Go around to the other side."
  "Okay, James. I'll go right now," she said.
  With her cell phone in one hand and the safety railing in the other, with her back against the warm metal she shuffled around the imitation Eiffel in her stocking feet to get to the other side. Far below, the Paris Las Vegas hotel pool appeared to be a phosphorescent emerald jewel, but from up there it looked more like a shallow water puddle.
  She again looked out at the crescent moon and the twinkling stars. Big Jupiter was just then rising over the Mojave Desert. She experienced a brief moment of vertigo and just barely caught herself from falling too accidentally. Thinking that would be most unfortunate, she grabbed hold of the safety railing to regain her balance; however, with her other hand--the one that was still clutching the smartphone--she never lost control.
  "That's better, Julie. That's much, much better," the male voice said.
  "Can you see me, James?"
  "Oh, yes. I can see you clearly now," he said.
  "But where are you, James?"
  "I'm down here at the pool. I'm waving at you from one of the cabanas. Can you see?"
  "Oh, yes. There you are. I see you now," she said.
  "You're wearing that party dress. Aren't you, Julie?"
  "You noticed. I like looking my best when I go out," she said.
  "And you look lovely in that dress. You always did look lovely. It is best to dress well when making an impression."
  "That's what I want to do," she said.
  "And so have you told them? Have you texted your friends your message?"
  "Oh yes. I have. Every word," she said.
  "And when did you send that message?"
  "A little while ago on my way from L.A.," she said.
  "Why don't you read me that message? I would be curious to hear what you told your friends," he said.
  "Okay. But promise you won't laugh?"
  "I promise, Julie. I would never laugh at you. That would break my promise to you. And that would ruin our very special relationship," he said.
  She let go of the railing just long enough to manipulate her smartphone. She thought it would be most unfortunate if she were to drop it as it would surely shatter on the side of the pool. From her text account, she selected the one message that she had spent many hours and many tears composing until she got it just right. As the cheap wine and prescription meds were just then taking full effect, she focused her eyes on the words as best as she could.
  "'To you who dissed me and rejected me, I have something to tell you. It is the way I am feeling right now. In this my final moments, after reading my text I hope you are feel what I am feeling. As I get myself ready, I say to you, you are a heartless human being.'"
  "Oh, that's good, Julie. That's really good. Did you compose that text yourself?"
  "I did. Every word of it," she said.
  "When they read those words, the pain those people caused you shall be on their conscience for a long, long time, Julie"
  "I sent it to everyone I know," she said.
  "And isn't it terrible how the world can be? Life and love can be so unfair. You were correct in telling those people that if they do not feel what you are feeling right now, they are less than heartless. Don't you just want to get even with them?"
  "That's why I wrote it that way," she said.
  "All right, Julie, I'm going to let you go now, but we'll all be down here waiting. Just keep thinking that there are many people in this world who are just like you--you have a lot of company as we all feel rejection when nobody wants us, but you are brave enough to do something about it...," and with that, her cell phone connection went dead.
  Five hundred forty-one feet below at the Paris Las Vegas pool, a young man was lounging out front of one of the cabanas. He was sipping a Mai Tai enjoying the evening and the party atmosphere of the enlivened hotel guests. He held his smartphone out in front of him to video record the playfulness of the fun-loving people, then slowly panned upward toward the top of the Eiffel Tower. He zoomed in on the tiny speck that was well illuminated in the halogens. The once-lovely young woman had crawled out over the safety railing; holding on with one hand behind her. With her the other hand she firmly clutched her precious smartphone.
  In a moment of rare clarity, she hoped someone would her text but there was no one. The display of her smartphone was as devoid as her self-preservation. With heightened anxiety, she looked out at the High Roller Ferris wheel while the Great Sphere of Las Vegas whirled its magnificent phantasmagoria. As the lights of Sin City melded into a moist potpourri, she realized what she was about to do would cause some people to never live their lives the same way again. Perhaps once in a while she might come up in their idle conversations. But in time, she knew she would be forgotten. Having come all the way to Las Vegas, she had not been able to locate an old friend who might save her. Now, there was nothing left to consider.
  In a half somersault she dropped but slammed unexpectedly onto the inclined roof of the observation deck. Tourists inside looked up through the glass ceiling wondering what it was that just passed, but it had already gone. Bouncing outward, her legs flailed, her arms whipped as she slowly tumbled and began to lose consciousness. It would take approximately 4.8 seconds for a 115-pound object to complete the 541-foot fall, but to the girl, the last glimpse of her social regrets, it seemed like an eternity. Too many young people like her, had taken the same plunge.
  Down below, the young man zoomed his smartphone to capture every spin and contortion. The unwitting hotel guests merrily partied, totally oblivious to what was to come. By mere inches, she somehow avoided the restaurant level where people were sitting at their reservations enjoying their shrimp cocktails and filet mignons.
  Something zipped past them, but it was too fleeting to interpret, and so they went back to their entrees not giving it another thought. The young man continued his video recording just as some of the hotel patrons happened to look up. When it all became too apparent, they screamed and scattered as the tumbling girl bounced off a steel girder.
  The young man captured the hideous incident but was unfazed. She ricocheted then slammed hard onto concrete pool. He unemotionally video recorded this while capturing the reaction of the people who were in background. Without interruption, he got up from his lounging and started moving towards the far side of the pool.
  Without looking up or disruption his production, he raised his hand and gestured towards the Le Cafe du Parc bistro. A hotel porter standing at the entrance acknowledged by holding the cafe door open. A stunning, six-foot-tall Asian girl emerged and began a casual saunter towards the center stage of the drama. No one noticed her because everyone was too busy panicking.
  She was attired in the skimpiest of hot-pink bikinis. The young man recorded her as she came closer. The Asian girl stood over the sprawled-out body as the deceased was limply hanging over the edge of the pool. And that was when the Asian girl put her hands to her head and looked directly into the young man's smartphone, her reaction totally unconvincing. If she was acting, her acting was incredibly poor.
  Her timing was unbelievably bad. She tried to make it look like she was shocked, but who could tell, as everyone was shocked. It was exactly the sort of choreographed reaction the young man was apparently hoping for. Tourists outside the hotel pool began to gather to take in what they thought was the production of a reality show. They put on half-amused, half-concerned expressions then quickly straightened up when they noticed the young man recording them as well.
  The Las Vegas Metropolitan police arrived and everyone got ingenuously noble. The cops asked many questions and got as many answers as there were people present at the pool. When the authorities were satisfied that there had been no foul play but just another suicide in Sin City, they called for the Clark County Coroner and the crowd went back to their speculations and cocktails.
  But before the medical examiner arrived and the merrymakers could disperse, the young man went back to his freelance video recording. He zoomed in on the broken hand of the deceased and remarkably, like everyone, she was still clutching her cell phone. She refused to let go in death.
  And the crowd began to text their friends by way of their favorite social media. And the young man recorded them to complete his reality TV show. And the Asian girl who was attired in that hot-pink bikini was as oblivious as an eighteen-year-old kid. She looked well-rehearsed as she struck the pose.

2.

A few blocks from where all the maniacal media frenzy was taking place, aspiring psychologist Monica Beerman was hard at it, working the overtime, burning the late-night oil, humping to please. At that hour, she was sequestered in her '60s-styled office space doing one of her self-imposed, mental-masturbation assignments, desperately trying to make a critical morning deadline. Consuming too much java, she was as jumpy as a desert jackrabbit, but she figured her strong black coffee was better than the usual, self-destructive alternative. Out on West Flamingo Avenue, two Metro police cruisers flashed by followed a few moments later by the Clark County Coroner--Monica not all that surprised. Considering the nocturnal emissions of Sin City, she had always thought of Las Vegas, Nevada as a great big nuthouse. A few hours earlier on the five o'clock news, she had witnessed a drug-crazed man throwing furniture out a twentieth-story window of Caesars Palace.
  As a well-educated but not quite certified therapist-analyst, Monica had whittled out a pretty good niche business with the local law enforcement. She filled out their spreadsheets, spell-checked their crime reports and pretty much undertook any task that the municipalities were either too busy or too lazy to do themselves. But Monica was not one to complain, as she was only too happy to get the business.   Keeping bread and butter on the table was indeed a priority. She would task herself with anything psychological so she could get certified. On one occasion, the chief of police had given her an assignment where she very accurately analyzed a diabolical personality, her criminal profile so original it made it down to Hollywood to become one of the most gruesome movies ever to receive an R rating. But Monica received no recognition as the material was owned by the city. That was Monica Beerman, doormat extraordinaire.
  Serial rapists, obsessive-compulsive stalkers, sadomasochist murderers and her favorite weirdo the Mister Potato Head Masher were always in plentiful supply. Every municipality has them, every neighborhood breeds them; barring pop celebrities and corrupt politicians, everyone wants them off their streets. With crystal-ball accuracy, Monica had the innate ability to anticipate the moves of some of the most psychopathic monstrosities ever to have flopped out of the womb. Some of those freaks were so dangerous, if they found out she was the one who had fingered them, they would have her pretty little head cut off.
  But working conditions like that never did frighten Monica Beerman--single, sassy, a genuine dyed-in-the-wool Swedish blonde from Chippewa, Minnesota. Ever since her college days when she graduated almost but not quite at the top of her class, those sorts of human anomalies had always turned her on. But for now, locked away in her musty office space, like a good conscientious public servant, she hammered away on her forever-rebooting laptop. She checked and rechecked her work for accuracy, but mostly to avoid that bottle that was rolling around in her top desk drawer.
  Then, just as she was finishing her paper-pushing for the evening, her cell phone chimed the pop tune "Girls Just Wanna Have Fun" by Cyndi Lauper. Sure to be bad news, she had been avoiding her voicemail though she left it unmuted to create the impression no one was home. The management of her office space had been looking for her, as the rent had not yet been paid. It was just another reason for Monica to make that critical morning deadline.
  "You have reached the offices of Monica Beerman, Psychological Services, L.L.C. I can't take your call right now, but if you'll leave a message and not be rude about it, I will get back to you as soon as possible. Thank you for your continuing patronage."
  Beeep!
  "Monica. Pick up," an obnoxious male said, and of course she ignored the bum. "Monica, baby. I know you're there. Pick up. I promise you. You won't regret it."
  "I'll bet I won't," she said, snapping up her cell phone, wanting to throw the damn thing across the room. "Jerry? For the last time. No! I don't want to go out with you. I don't even want to be seen with you."
  "No, Monica, listen. Did you see it? Did you watch the ten o'clock news?" the guy asked.
  "Jerry? I never watch the ten o'clock news. And if I did watch the ten o'clock news, I wouldn't watch you," she said.
  "No, Monica. You gotta see this video. I mean it's gone totally, totally viral."
  "What is it this time, Jerry? Something truly newsworthy, like horny, humping gerbils parading down Las Vegas Boulevard?" she asked.
  "No, Monica, there was this guy. I don't know who he was. He came in here with this video he just got through shooting at the Paris Las Vegas pool. He caught this entire suicide on his smartphone."
  "He did what?" she asked.
  "Yeah. But here's the crazy part. How did he know to be there? What told him she was going to jump? Did he know ahead of time or did he just get lucky? It's like the guy has a nose for the outrageous. You know? Like reality TV?"
  "What makes you say that?" she asked.
  "Because when he videoed the incident, you couldn't tell if it was real or make believe. I mean, some of the people that were there were acting really fake."
  "Well, if it was Reality TV, maybe they were," she said.
  "I don't know, Monica. It sure looked real to me. When she jumped from the very top of the Paris Las Vegas Eiffel, it was amazing how he followed her all the way down, and you should have seen her spatter."
  "Oh, Jerry, shut up," Monica said. "So who was she, Jerry? One of your girlfriends trying to get away from you?"
  "It was some screwed-up babe, and I mean she must have been really screwed up. And what's really crazy about it, is she was still holding her cell phone when she hit the pool."
  "Good God," Monica said.
  "She never let go of the thing, Monica. And the last scene in the video was of her clutching that cell phone like it was the only friend she had in the whole world. And what made it even more bizarre was that everyone else was doing the same-clutching their cell phones."
  "Well, that is what people do these days. Make love to their technology," Monica said.
  "I don't know. Maybe he was just some amateur who was in the right place at the right time. Or maybe he's on to something really big. But this video looks real, Monica, and I mean more than really real. With all the techno-gizmo stuff they can do these days, maybe it was a hoax. Maybe the whole thing was scripted and made up," he said.
  "But Channel Nine aired it anyway. Didn't they, Jerry? Regardless if it was true or not," Monica said.
  "Well, that is what we do down here. Report the news just the way we see it."
  "Yeah. Just the way you see it. Sounds like Channel Nine has got you well trained," Monica said.
  "You oughta see our station manager right now. He's dancing around outside my cubicle like a wild Indian. You oughta see our Nielsen ratings. They're going right through the ceiling and I'm talking about really viral. We've got people calling in from all over the valley. They wanna see more of this kind of stuff."
  "--Sounds like a real moneymaker," she said.
  "I mean, this is the kind of stuff people really go for, Monica--fact, fiction, fantasy--when it comes to their news. It really doesn't seem to matter anymore. It's all about entertainment with lots and lots of hype and sensationalism. I figured you'd want to get in on the action, you being a shrink and all."
  "Yeah, Jerry, me being a shrink and all," she said.
  "I mean, isn't this the kind of stuff you go for? Where all this media madness is taking us? The last time I saw you, you were at a grocery store chewing out some woman because her kid was all screwed up from his video games."
  "Right, Jerry. That's what I was doing. So where is this video now?" Monica asked.
  "Where else? In our archives so our competitors can't get their hands on it. Channel Nine can't let them beat us to the punch."
  "No, dimwit. Where is this guy gonna put the dumb thing so everyone can watch it until their brains turn to peanut butter?" Monica asked.
  "Well, let me see. When he left here he said he was going to put it up on YouTube. Yeah. That's it. YouTube."
  "YouTube. Great. When, Jerry?"
  "I guess as soon as he gets to wherever he lives. It's probably up there right now, high in the virtual sky."
  "Jerry? You are indeed an insufferable an idiot," Monica said.
  "So what do you say, Monica? With you being a Sigmund Freud type and me soon to be the recipient of an Edward R. Murrow Award..."
  "--Wake up, Jerry, you're having a wet dream."
  "...What do you say we put our heads together and figure this whole media thing out?"
  "You, and me?"
  "The one and only, Jerry Seltzer, news anchor extraordinaire."
  "Good night, Jerry. Pleasant dreams, Jerry. Don't slip in it when you've finished with yourself," she said. She slammed her cell phone down, and when she did, that bottle of tequila rolled around in her desk.
  Quieter now, secure in the thought she would never dare give in to the ignorance of social media, Monica decided to give her professionalism a much-needed rest. While waiting for her spreadsheet to print on her ancient Daisy-wheel printer, she got up and poured herself another cup of strong, black joe hoping it would keep the tequila demons away. But one of those demons was hiding in her top desk drawer, and so she thought, what the heck.
  She plopped back down in front of her laptop. Her insatiable curiosity overwhelmed her as to what people were consuming for their news and entertainment, these days. She placed her hands on the keyboard and played it like a piano. Browsing to the YouTube website, she typed in a phrase like recent suicide on the Las Vegas Strip, and there it was, the suspect video, apparently growing in popularity judging by all the hits it was taking.
  She watched a young woman teetering at the top of the Eiffel Tower on the brink of a complete emotional breakdown. The girl looked up. The girl looked out. She spread her arms like a martyr, and the video zoomed in on her. Just before the girl took the plunge, Monica caught a glimpse of her terrorized face and swore she recognized her. Leaning in to get a better look, Monica watched as the girl did her introductory somersault.
  She dropped.
  The girl slammed hard on the glass roof of the observation deck just below her. The video was utterly, hideously silent making it even more dramatic, drawing Monica further in. The scene too graphic to put into words, the tequila demons began to take hold of her crumbling discipline. She licked her lips; saturating her discomfort with alcohol had always been a psychological conundrum for Monica. It was a bad habit she had developed all the way back to her college day. She bravely fought those demons, but often lost that war.
  Bouncing, tumbling, contorting--the girl's end was easily anticipated. The video played through three times. The first two times it stopped short causing Monica to crack open her desk drawer. She pulled out that lurking demon and dumped a healthy shot of Cuervo into her coffee. She never took her eyes off the drama as she watched the horror unfold.
  She took a few sips. The video ran in real-time, but again the climax was evaded. Monica concluded that the videographer must have planned it that way. An afficionado of media, she understood that he was using techniques necessary to build a spectacular ending. Whoever he was, he seemed to understand as much about media as her.
  The purpose of the first time was to grab the viewer's attention. This was to create anticipation for a repeat performance. The second time allowed the viewer to rewind the action in their mind, but still the end was cut off. It was the third time that the video tricked the viewer into a false sense of security.
  Monica assumed that the horror would stop short yet again, but it did not happen. To achieve the maximum psychological effect, the third time was played in skip-frame slow motion. This enhanced every human deformation. As the girl slammed hard on the edge of the pool, the video went back to real-time, and her head so horribly split open.
  "Oh, my God," Monica whispered.
  Slamming down the rest of her medicated coffee, Monica reached for the security of the bottle. As if to punish the guy who had shot the footage, she grabbed the bottle around the neck. She tipped it straight up and her eyes went wide as her drunkenness overtook her rationality. The more she drank, the more her professional objectivity slipped away.
  And though the person who had shot the video was at least discreet enough to show the girl's lacerations for only a moment, her broken hand was clearly clutching that smartphone and that was when Monica saw some familiar black and pastel tattoos.
  "It can't be her. It just can't be her. It's my old college chum, Julie Ann Felker," she whispered, though there was nobody else in the room to hear her. Monica pulled the chain on her banker's lamp and sat there in the dark, smoking, drinking.

3.

One dark hour later, Monica yanked the chain on her banker's lamp, wishing it was a leash around Jerry Seltzer's neck. In the green shade, she squinted and mashed a fully smoked Marlboro into her Dick Nixon ashtray inscribed with his infamous saying:"I have done nothing wrong and I will never do it again." The image of her old friend's mangled hand clutching that smartphone haunted her, making her incredibly angry. She looked up at her 1960's Bulova electric clock hanging on her wall. The late-night news was already over. It was just a few minutes past ten-thirty P.M.
  With that bottle of tequila still in front of her staring up at her, she decided it best to fetch her voicemail while she was still reasonably sober; "reasonably" being a relatively questionable condition for her. The first communique did not surprise her all that much, as Bank of Nevada had once again turned her down for a business loan. The second message surprised her even less. Her property manager said that if she did not receive a leasing payment by Friday, she would begin the eviction process.
  Monica very sensibly told herself it was time to put the bottle away for another insecure day. Thinking the third voicemail could not be any worse than the first two, she noticed it was a few hours old. Hoping it was some homicidal maniac in need of some psychological therapy, she played it and got up to pour herself a responsible cup of Java. But she did not even make it to the Mr. Coffee, as a voice from the past brought back reminiscent though troubling memories.
  "Monica. It's Julie Felker. Do you remember me? I went to school with you at Northwestern. I'm on my way to see you, Monica. I need your help. I hope that you will be there. I'm driving up from L.A. I should be there in a few hours. Oh, Monica, you were right. You were absolutely right. Too bad the world has turned against me..."
  The message terminated right there.
  That cup of joe Monica planned on, did not even make it into her "shrinks do it best" coffee cup. She sat back down and pulled out that bottle of Cuervo again. She thought about finishing it off, kicking herself for not being there for her old college chum Julie. Her cell phone chimed for the second time that evening and she snapped it up, ready to let Las Vegas' premier anchorman have it again.
  "Screw you, Jerry! Just screw you! Tell your station manager to go suck an egg," she said.
  "Doctor Beerman?" a male voice asked.
  "Who is this?" she asked, cooling her jets.
  "I'm trying to reach a Doctor Monica Beerman of Monica Beerman Psychological Services. Is this she?" the deep voice said, sounding like he was reading her title from one of her business cards.   "Yes. This is Monica Beerman. But I am not a fully licensed psychologist--at least not yet," she said.
  "Ms. Beerman? This is Detective Joseph Beaulieu of the Las Vegas Metropolitan police. Please excuse my intrusion but--do you know a Julie Ann Felker?"
  Monica took too long to answer. "Yes. I knew her," she said.
  "Ms. Beerman? The reason I'm calling is--about an hour ago, maybe a little longer--Miss Felker jumped to her death from the top of the Paris Las Vegas Eiffel Tower. Are you aware of that, Ms. Beerman?" The cop asked. She wanted to answer, but instead, she took a quick sip from the bottle. "Ms. Beerman? Are you there?"
  "Yes. I'm aware of that," she said.
  "We found Miss Felker's Toyota just off the corner of East Flamingo and Las Vegas Boulevard. It was broken down there. Did you know that?"
  "That's not too far from here," she muttered under her breath.
  "What was that, Ms. Beerman?"
  "Nothing. Go on, Detective. What did you find?" she said.
  "Well. It appears that Miss Felker had been living out of her car for quite some time. She was apparently homeless down in Los Angeles. We went through her personal effects--some books, some clothes, some unpaid bills and her driver's license, which I guess she won't be needing anymore. We also found what looks like some old movie scripts."
  "A Streetcar Named Desire. Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf."
  "That's right. How did you know that?"
  "Julie loved those movies. Julie loved Liz. She made believe she was Liz. That was how Julie wanted to live her life," Monica said.
  "We found your business card in a pocket of her personal belongings. Monica Beerman of Monica Beerman Psychological Services, Las Vegas, Nevada?"
  "Yes. That would be me. But I am not a fully licensed psychologist, at least not yet," she said.
  "There is a note on the back of this business card. It looks like you two knew each other quite well."
  "What does the note say, Detective?"
  "Julie. Come find me and we'll go out and do Vegas."
  "Yes. I knew Julie. I sent her that business card awhile ago when she was still living in New York, but I had not seen Julie in some years," Monica said.
  "Ms. Beerman? I've been investigating suicides in this town for quite some time now. Typically, when someone is as desperate as Miss Felker seemed to be, they typically take their lives in a much more private manner."
  "I understand, Detective. Desperation can do that to people," Monica said.
  "Would you know of any reason why Miss Felker would commit suicide so dramatically by jumping from the top of the Las Vegas Eiffel Tower? Was she suffering from some crisis that you knew of?"
  "Yes. I knew of her crisis. But I never thought it would come to this," she said...
  Northwestern University was where the two party girls had first encountered each other. And Chicago was a hell of a place to explore the possibilities. As opposite as any two coeds could be, as dissimilar as their dreams and aspirations would take them, the unlikely duo had answered the same advertisement for a double occupancy apartment on the Near North Side, both wondering what they had gotten themselves into when they first met.
  In those faraway days, Monica was a headstrong, small town gal who could hold her own with any pushy college boy. Julie was an insecure artist and latent hippy from the city, too easily manipulated. After they had talked and gotten to know each other, they discovered how they could amuse each other with their opposing social styles and indiscretions. More out of fiscal need than anything in common, they moved in together, their relationship at first not very amicable. But then, that was the reason their friendship became so enduring and everlasting.
  Monica was pursuing an undergraduate degree in Behavioral Psychology with a minor in Criminology. She was always up late at night, hammering away on her reconditioned PC, doing projects, writing papers, researching where pop culture and other wastelands were taking the American public.
  Julie, thinking it was all a waste of time, was a free spirit, forever auditioning for school plays and The Second City group and local commercials. She was constantly switching her major from theater to dance to voice then back to theater, wanting to prove to the world that she was the consummate l'artiste.
  In those days of college, Monica could see how desperate her roommate was to find her identity, but she would never dare tell her friend that she would never make it as a serious artist. Julie could not dance or play the violin and she sure as heck could not carry a tune across the street. But Julie was the drama queen--always the drama queen--and there was nothing anybody could do or say that would change her mind.
  It was when the two mischievous miscreants discovered their requirement for late-night antics that truly sealed their camaraderie. Their incongruent personalities mixed like oil and water, and that was just fine with them. When they went out to meet cute guys in the nightspots along Chicago's Magnificent Mile, they would agree but mostly disagree about everything from the existence of God to the vacuousness of Hollywood to the drunken point of pointless pointlessness. But Monica would always let Julie win the argument, and Julie would always take advantage of her.
  But that was Julie Ann Felker, and that was Monica Sagawee Beerman. When they did have a spat, it took a while for the relationship to heal. It was yet another indication of how their friendship was so enduring. They had come from vastly different worlds: Monica from a small Midwestern town to become the old-fashioned big sister type while Julie was a late-blooming flower child from the Windy City. Their unlikely bond somehow survived those seven years in that tiny apartment, until the day came when they knew they would miss each other, like two siblings locked in a beloved rivalry.
  It was at the end of their time together that the two buds truly understood how much they completed each other. Their career paths began to pull them apart. Julie, coming from some wealth, felt no need to finish her degree, while Monica had to drop out of graduate school for lack of money. Trying to get certified as a professional psychologist, Monica was on her way to an interview at a crisis intervention center in Tarzana, California for retired porn stars. Julie was headed for the bright lights of Broadway, absolutely sure she was on her way to the top.
  And they promised they would call; they said they would write, but incidental times have a tendency to make for incidental commitments. The promises they made would indeed last a lifetime, and they no way of knowing how true that was at the time. They saw each other for the last time on an incredibly frigid day at a Northwestern-Purdue football game where they shared their last laughs together. Monica offered Julie a swig of her gin flask, Julie returning the favor by lighting up a joint. And somehow the promises went unfulfilled, but broken promises were never meant to hurt.
  Five years to the day, Monica was in her office trying to keep her fledgling clinic solvent. Julie was just then breaking down off the corner of East Flamingo Avenue and Las Vegas Boulevard. She had been on her way to find her old college buddy to renew their friendship and get that reassurance to go on that she desperately needed. But somehow that damn Eiffel Tower got in the way.
  "...Ms. Beerman? Are you there, Ms. Beerman?" Detective Beaulieu asked wondering what she was thinking.
  "Yes, Detective. I'm here. How can I help you?" Monica said.
  "We're not sure who the next of kin is and it is imperative that we get this incident wrapped up as soon as possible."
  "Yes, Detective. Get this incident wrapped up as soon as possible," she said.
  "Would you be available to come down to the Clark County Morgue to identify the body so we can move on with the requisite paperwork?"
  "Yes, Detective. I can do that. The requisite paperwork," Monica said.
  "Perhaps as a professional psychologist you can provide some insight into why Miss Felker would commit suicide so publically, so spectacularly. It would certainly help me explain why her self-annihilation was so--shall we say--extraordinary."
  "I'm not yet a fully licensed psychologist, but I'll see what I can do," she said. "What was your name again, Detective?"
  "Joseph Beaulieu of the Las Vegas Metropolitan police, Homicide Division."
  Monica wondered if she was too far over the limit to drive. She thought some coffee might help.
  "I'll be at the Clark County Morgue in about an hour, Detective," she said.

Vulgarus, the novel, Copyright(c) 2024-2026 by t.e.Lazarz
Draeko, the bookcover, Copyright(c) 2024-2026 by t.e.Lazarz
Lightning Over Las Vegas, the eCommercial, Copyright(c) 2024-2026 by t.e.Lazarz
Vulgarus, et. al. concepts, Copyright(c) 2024-2026 by t.e.Lazarz
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