Alone now in the desert, I had two choices, so I reverted to an ancient sherpa decision-making tool for help.  Heads, I carry on through the desert living by my sherpa wits, sleeping under abandoned armadillo shells, eating sand beetles and drinking my own pee; or tails, I grit my teeth and make camp in Vegas.

Four out of seven flips later, I found myself checking into the Four Queens Hotel, and who should I run into at the elevators, but Empty Shell with a stunningly well-dressed young man.  The inscrutable Richard, I presumed.

 My presumption was correct. They’d just gotten married!

 ”Isn’t it super?” gushed Shell, “I’m sooooo happy and so is Daddy and Vegas is totally so pimp and shiny and loud and fun!!!”

 I congratulated them and warned them affectionately (though admittedly not without a soupçon of gut-souring envy) not to gamble away all their fabulously excessive combined wealth.

 ”Oh no,” said Shell, “We’re not gambling!  We only came to Vegas because Richard liked the idea of getting married in a super kitchy place. Vegas is going to be so much fun. I did buckets of research before. We’re only staying four days so we’re really going to take advantage of ourselves while we’re here.”

“Do you have a plan, or are you just going to play it by ear?” I asked.

 ”As soon as we get our barrings we’re going to do heaps of site seeing on one side of the road, and then heaps of site seeing on the other side of the road,” replied Shell enthusiastically, “but absolutely no gambling unless we happen to stumble upon a casino.”

And off they stumbled, happily ever after.

Ta-ta S&R!