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#649 – Engulfed by Biloxi #19 – Escape From Biloxi, Part III
I called my hotel’s transportation department for a recommendation on a ride to the New Orleans Airport. I should have taken the giggling on the other end of the line as a bad sign. They first thing they recommended is that I play more in the pit if I expect one of their limos to ferry me to the airport.
Someone from the casino then put me in touch with a local limousine company. Instead of just giving me the phone number, I was made part of a three-way conference call. (I guess that’s to make sure the proper “referral fee” was paid.) The cost of a stretch limo to the airport was $300 PLUS a mandatory 20% gratuity.
What’s the “gratuitous” aspect of something that’s mandatory? And why don’t they just say it costs $360 instead of trying to confuse me with math? And more important, did fifteen-dollar-Hotard foresake me because I made fun of its name? (Incidentally, you can go on their web site and buy a hat that says “Hotard”.)
The operator from the limo company offered me a “deal” on a sedan: just $250 plus the aforementioned gratuity. It was late on Friday and I was desperate to get home so I thought I had no choice. I said yes.
The limo driver called me at 7 AM on Saturday and offered me an even better deal. They were going to let me have the limo for the price of a mere sedan. Fifteen dollars to get into Biloxi; three hundred to get out.
I was met at the front door of the casino by the longest limousine I have ever seen. The passenger compartment was covered in sleek black leather, the roof interest was fitted with tiny lights that changed colors, and there was a (rattling) crystal glass service for at least a dozen.
In light of the exhorbitant fee, I vowed to get some sleep on the bench seat that ran the length of the passenger compartment on the ride to the airport. Unfortunately, I think this limo was meant to be photographed, not ridden-in. And certainly not slept-on. The seat was long but narrow and the leather was slippery. Whenever the car would go around a turn, I would slide out of the seat and onto the floor, rattling the crystal in its fitted case. The only way to avoid this was burrow myself into the seat, face down.
I cannot think of strong enough language with which to discourage you from doing this. You do NOT want to smell the underside of limousine seat.
I’m not sure if I fell asleep or simply lost consciousness, but the ninety minutes to the New Orleans Airport went by quickly.
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