Emma Stern

Bonnie The Bunny needed to relax. She had time to kill, and she knew this intuitively. There were no clocks inside The Rabbit Hole.

According to ‘You’re a Loser! Acceptance, Understanding, and Recovery for Gambling Addicts’ by Dr. Bill Bucksworth, casinos intend to “Create a suspension of time, facilitating an ideal space for pleasure and reckless abandon.”

Gambling, as Walter Benjamin noted, “converts time into a narcotic”.

Inside a black hole, Time slows down dramatically.

Inside the Rabbit Hole, Time sneaks off to some faraway corner and nods out.

No clocks inside the Rabbit Hole, no windows, and dimmed lights for the same reason. The carpets were busy and disorienting, and the floorplan was laid out to have no right angles, because, “Sharp turns subconsciously call upon the decision-making parts of the brain,” according to Dr. Bucksworth. Bonnie thought his smiling mouth looked crammed with too many teeth in his headshot on the back cover. “People tend to take on the characteristics of a room, which is why they feel rich in an expensive space.”

Well, Bonnie felt like shit inside the West Tower elevator. She had never read any Walter Benjamin. Her head was killing her, and the jerky spasms of the old elevator weren’t helping. She caught a glimpse of her reflection in the stainless steel doors and saw what she already knew: Her dress was too tight. Her whiskers hung heavy, drooping lethargically off her cheeks. She was relieved when the elevator lurched and the doors pulled themselves apart with great effort and a reluctant groan. Bonnie was used to the erratic temperament of the West Tower elevator by now, but knew it wouldn’t have been tolerated at any one of the more well-maintained hotels down the Strip.

It hadn’t always been that way. The Rabbit Hole Resort & Casino had been the crown jewel of the Las Vegas Strip when first erected. The iconic facade dominated the skyline. The quintessential fold-out spread of every tourism brochure, it proudly flaunted its elaborate carvings of woodland creatures and enchanted forest motifs that cascaded down the building's front entrance like Egyptian hieroglyphs.

Black holes have event horizons.

The Rabbit Hole had massive ornate doors, embellished with real emerald and sapphire inlays.

The grand entrance was flanked at any given time by two monolithic security guards with arms folded, mouths unflinching, pecs rippling beneath too-tight black t-shirts that read across the front in neon Day-Glo: Hole Patrol. Above the doors, colossal blinking letters announced

Once through the threshold of that grand entrance, the enchanted forest theme persisted. The soaring ceilings of the grand lobby dripped with chandeliers, hung to look like floating gardens complete with shimmering crystal flowers and twinkling fairy lights. The floors of polished dark green marble were inlaid with precious stones. The room’s centerpiece was a towering gilded fountain with three dancing golden rabbits, mouths gushing imported spring water. High above hung a banner, a permanent fixture, that stretched the entire expanse of the room’s width.

The Rabbit Hole Presents: Pandora And Her Magical Pink Box!

Featuring Her Lovely Assistant Viola And Their Pal Bonnie The Bunny!

The glossy, airbrushed visage of Bonnie and her two co-stars beamed down at guests as they entered the lobby. They’d come from all over the world, just to see them.

Twice a day, 6 days a week, Pandora would shout to a packed house, “Who’s ready to see my magical pink box get destroyed by this massive tool?!” She’d wave her enormous pink chainsaw high over her head as they cheered. She’d look down and give a subtle wink to Viola, who laid flat on her back inside the box. She would always wink back.

“Go and organize a fake holdup,” Jean Baudrillard said. “Be sure to check that your weapons are harmless, and take the most trustworthy hostage.”

Bonnie was perfectly aware that her hat tricks were a supporting act, but it was still a pretty sweet gig. As per their contracts, Pandora, Viola and Bonnie moved into the penthouse and enjoyed unlimited amenities, including room service, buffet, and mini bar. They never had to leave The Rabbit Hole, so they never did. They’d been there ever since, which felt like a long time, but Bonnie never knew exactly how long, because there were no clocks inside The Rabbit Hole.

All she knew was that these days, those chandeliers dangled precariously from the ceiling, their crystals dim and tarnished. The marble floors were now worn down by decades of foot traffic and carved by the relentless maneuvering of rolling luggage. That big banner in the lobby was

yellowed and dusty and sagging in the middle so that the three once youthful faces looked sunken and wrinkled. The fountain at the center of the lobby was dried up, its waterless basin too obvious and too literal a metaphor.

Their act was no longer drawing the crowds it once did. Most people just bought tickets because at least the AC usually worked in the theater. Even the penthouse was in a state of disrepair. The ice machine never worked. The Wi-Fi was slow, the AC units were a lost cause. And that elevator was enough to make you want to throw yourself out the penthouse window.

Bonnie rubbed her temples. Her head was killing her. Pandora had gotten completely plastered on pina coladas before the matinee again that afternoon and had tugged way too hard on Bonnie’s ears during the final hat trick. On top of that, Pandora was getting increasingly careless with the chainsaw, and had accidentally nicked Viola’s leg onstage, again. Viola, predictably, had totally overreacted.

“This bitch should not be operating machinery! She’s Wasted!” Viola bellowed to the stagehand in the wing, the stench of filthy dirty martini on her own breath. The stagehand rolled his eyes and muttered something into his walkie-talkie about lunch.

“Oh will you relaxxxx,” Pandora hiccupped. “This is what we have insurance for–” “Not since ‘98,” muttered the stagehand in the wing.

Pandora and Viola’s screaming match ensued as curtains collapsed to the floor. The few audience members headed to the front desk to demand refunds. The AC hadn’t even been working that day.

This kind of disaster had become routine. When Pandora and Viola began beating each other with the rubber dummy legs, Bonnie had taken her cue and slipped out of the theater, straight towards the West Tower elevator. She needed to relax.

The Rabbit Hole’s casino boasted over 500 slot machines, but Bonnie always went straight for her lucky one. Dr. Bucksworth explains, “Superstitions give gambling addicts a sense of hope and perceived control over their luck. Believing in lucky charms, rituals, or spaces can provide temporary relief from the fear of loss and the stress of uncertainty.”

Bonnie had never read a word of Dr. Bucksworth’s stupid book. In fact, she’d thrown it out the window of the penthouse floor just that morning.

She sank into the familiar velour embrace of her lucky chair and grasped the smooth shaft of the lever as she smiled to herself. Her whiskers stood at attention.

Cherry Cherry Pineapple

Jean Baudrillard said “What is real is that which can be simulated.”

Ask any tourist, Vegas is better than Europe. The Eiffel Tower is only a short walk from the Colesseum, and you don’t even have to deal with those rude French waiters once you get there.

Grape Cherry Grape

Bonnie had never seen a Clockwork Orange, because it wasn’t offered as part of The Rabbit Hole’s Pay-Per-View package, so she wasn’t thinking about that scene where Alex says, “It’s funny how the colors of the real world only seem really real when you viddy them on the screen.” He was talking about the color of blood, how perfectly cherry red it looks on a screen, how disappointing it is to see blood in real life.

Cherry Pineapple Banana

Jean Baudrillard said, “If anything is real, war is real.”

Real cherries are about the same color as real blood, but on a screen they’re both cherry red. The little cherries in a slot machine taste like shirley temple. The pineapples tastes like pina colada. The banana flavor we associate with banana flavored candy is based on a species of banana called the Gros Michel that’s been extinct since 1952 due to an invasive soil fungus. It’s since been replaced with the grocery store Cavendish species, which is less sweet, less floral.

Banana Banana Banana

Even the sound of coins dropping is piped in over speakers. Think about it: Most casinos, even The Rabbit Hole, are totally cashless these days.

Bonnie the Bunny had never read any Baudrillard.

Inside a black hole, no light enters and no light escapes. Inside The Rabbit Hole, it’s a little bit too dark to read.