“Casino Bizarro!” yelled a shill. “Newest, biggest, wildest mega-resort in Las Vegas. Free shuttle. Free drinks. Free buffet. Free entertainment.”

“Where is it?” Wilbur asked.

“Other end of the Strip. Step aboard our free shuttle.”

Wilbur, who’d never seen the inside of a casino, decided to go. He craved excitement after attending the Sixth Annual Sunflower Grower’s Convention.

Boarding the shuttle, Wilbur noticed a subtle, floral aroma. It reminded him of The Haven of Devine Rest where his mom’s corpse had lain a month ago.

Instead of seats, the shuttle was filled with coffins. A melancholy, recorded voice instructed passengers to step into one and lie down for the trip’s duration.

“Let’s get the hell outta here, Martha,” an old guy said, squeezing past Wilbur. “I ain’t goin’ for no ride in no damn casket.”

Wilbur chose a cream-colored coffin. A sign taunted, “CLOSE THE LID…IF YOU DARE!”

Wilbur thought he’d try it just for a moment. When he did, he found the atmosphere cozy, womb-like. He felt so content, he kept the coffin closed during the entire trip.

Casino Bizarro reminded Wilbur of a gigantic horror movie set. Thick, cool fog swirled around his ankles. It was so dense, Wilbur couldn’t see his shoes.

Spooky, glowing eyes peered from every surface giving him goose bumps. Tossed dice emitted blood-curdling screams, making him jump. Slot machines moaned as if being tortured. Gaming tables looked like replicas of Dr. Frankenstein’s operating table. Horribly costumed demons dealt cards, spun roulette wheels. Disfigured, scantily-clad women took drink orders.

Noticing penny slots, Wilbur checked the payout. Instead of cherries, sevens, and bars, he saw demons, vulgar words, and pentagrams. The giant jackpot, a million pennies, would be paid whenever GOD IS DEAD lined up on the center pay line.

Wilbur inserted a dollar into the bill acceptor. A hundred credits rang up, each imitating the sound of dispelled stomach gas.

On the first pull, two demon faces and a four-letter word came up. Two pennies fell into the hopper. Extremely pleased with his good fortune, Wilber tried again. Before he knew it, a demon and two f-words came up. That was good for twenty coins.

“Drink, Sir?” asked a hunchbacked woman with eyes imbedded in both cheeks.

“Bloody Mary,” he said, wondering how it would taste.

The slot machine howled like a banshee when three extremely foul words appeared on the pay line. “Hot Damn!” Wilbur yelled when a thousand pennies dropped into the hopper.

“Here’s your drink,” said the waitress. “Would you like me to spray liquid soap in your eyes?”

“Does it hurt?”

“Burns like hell.”

“I’ll pass,” he said, dropping some pennies onto her tray.

“You don’t know what you’re missing.”

Wilbur watched her approach another player. When the guy nodded, she sprayed liquid soap directly into his eyes. He yelled and jumped around like a maniac. After wiping his eyes, he raised a clenched fist and hollered, “Casino Bizarro rules!”

Wilbur saw two men in bloody surgeon’s gowns, pushing a cart full of gigantic syringes.

“Want a shot?”

“What kind of shot?” Wilbur asked.

“Sugar water. You can have it the arm, groin, thigh, backside, or even under your fingernails?”

Shuddering, Wilbur waved them off. He watched them approach a beautiful blonde. Smiling, she slid her jeans and panties down, exposing wonderfully formed buttocks. Shocked, Wilbur almost looked away as she bent over a chair.

She shrieked as they pierced her skin, pressing the needle in slowly. Moments later, she gave them a tip, adjusted her clothes, and resumed playing. She looked Wilbur’s way. “You should try it,” she said. “It’s nice.” Then, raising her clenched fist, she shouted, “Casino Bizarro rules!”

Sickened, Wilbur decided to cash out. When he pressed the cash button, the machine hurled loud, foul invective. It was so filthy, he kicked the machine.

That’s when he noticed a FREE BUFFET sign. Free was his favorite price. It sounded too good to pass up.

When checking the various food stations, Wilbur was amazed at the rich variety. Then he saw a station marked EXOTIC SPECIALTIES. It featured worm sandwiches, freshly killed rodent brains, cow’s blood soup, locust-filled pastries. He couldn’t get away fast enough.

When the server delivered lemonade to his table, Wilbur almost heaved when seeing a small rodent floating on top.

“It’s fake,” the server said. “Made from brown sugar. Enjoy.”

He noticed other diners removing oddities from their drinks. Eyeballs. Grayish blobs. Severed fingers. Pink internal organs.

Some smiled when tasting the adulterations. Someone raised a clenched fist and hollered, “Casino Bizarro rules!”

When he left the buffet, Wilbur bumped into the shill he’d met on the Strip.

“Having fun?” the guy asked.

“Not especially. It’s a bit much for me.”

“Sorry to hear that. Well, maybe you’ll find the show more to your liking. Why don’t you go to the free show? The showroom’s right over there. They’re having a Putrid Zombie concert. It starts in five minutes.”

“I hate rock music.”

“They don’t play rock—only old-time music.”

“No pounding drums and electric guitars?” Wilbur asked.

“Nope.”

Wilbur found the showroom a pleasant respite from the manic casino atmosphere. He was surprised to find he was the only one in the audience.

The moment he sat, a voice announced, “Ladies and Gentlemen. Casino Bizarro proudly presents…the Putrid Zombies!”

The curtain opened revealing 500 zombie accordionists playing the Beer Barrel Polka, off-key. Wilbur noticed fingers falling off as they performed. Gagging, he rose to leave.

An accordionist dropped her instrument and hurried toward Wilbur. One leg fell off just as she reached him.

“Hey, cutie,” she hollered with breath reeking of jungle rot. “Let’s dance.”

Grabbing Wilbur, she pressed her leaking cheek against his. Hobbling on one leg, she danced him down the aisle toward the stage.

Wilbur couldn’t escape her mighty grip.

She bit hard. Loud music drowned his agonizing screams.

After chewing Wilbur’s face off, she raised her clenched fist and gurgled, “Casino Bizarro rules!”

___

© 2005 Michael A. Kechula

Michael A. Kechula is a retired tech writer. His fiction has won first place in seven contests and placed in six others. He’s also won Editor’s Choice awards four times. His stories have been published by 124 magazines and anthologies in Australia, Canada, England, India, Scotland, and US. He’s authored a book of flash and micro-fiction stories: “A Full Deck of Zombies–61 Speculative Fiction Tales.” eBook available at www.BooksForABuck.com and www.fictionwise.com. Paperback available at www.amazon.com.

Tags: Michael A. Kechula, zombie

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