The Deal Makers

I have always wondered what his very last thoughts were. Was his very last thought on this earth; damn... I wish I would have? Or was it; damn... I wish I wouldn't have? Either way, I'll never know. Because I wasn't there. I was at the Union Plaza Casino when he breathed in his very last breath of air.

I suppose it was actually a much better death than he deserved. After all, according to him, he had other guys tortured for hours prior to them begging him for the serenity and peacefulness of death. He died the way he had lived, violently:

It was all glitz and glamour in Las Vegas, Nevada, Sin City U.S.A. The so-called "Mob" ran the town, and owned all the cops, politicians, attorneys, courts, and judges. The cops murdered more guys than the Mob did, and scattered their dead bodies all over the vast parched desert.

Bugsy Siegel's previous flunky and press agent, Hank Greenspun, became the powerful owner and Editor of the local rag newspaper, the Sun. The cops and Mob knocked the guys off. The overwhelmingly corrupt Courts, Judges, D.A.'s office, and alleged prosecutors let them get away with it, and the despicable news media covered it all up.

They were known as the "Good Ole Days". And the local politicians, Sheriffs, Police Chiefs, Judges, Prosecutors, and alleged defense attorneys, were all known as the "Good Ole Boys".

The women were gorgeous and very well dressed. The men were tough and rather wild. And everyone slept with everyone. It was one hell of a twenty-four hour party town. And I was right in the middle of all of it. In my late twenties, good looking, five foot ten, about a hundred and fifty pounds, dark brown wavy hair, pretty bright blue eyes, a great dresser, and considered a ladies' man. Arrogant, proud, aggressive, hard worker, and a go-getter. Divorced, owned my own home in the best part of town, and had all the trimmings. New car, truck, camper, boat, pool, the whole works.

Incidentally, my name is Franklin Delano Vipperman. And this is a true story.