Immortality Powered by Quaternary Medicine Code: Reverse Aging, Cure Aids, Defeat Cancer

IMMORTALITY Powered by Quaternary Medicine Code

Reverse Aging, Cure AIDS, Defeat Cancer

Copyright © 2006 by Anthony Scheiber

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

iUniverse

2021 Pine Lake Road, Suite 100

Lincoln, NE 68512

www.iuniverse.com

1-800-Authors (1-800-288-4677)

This is a work of fiction. All characters and names are fictional except Med Star LabsTM and ViresoftTM. IMMORTALITY RESEARCH FOUNDATION, headquartered in Michigan, USA, is dedicated to developing and establishing Immortality for all Mankind.

Cover design by Anthony Scheiber

ISBN-13: 978-0-595-41814-5 (pbk)

ISBN-13: 978-0-595-86158-3 (ebk)

CONTENTS

FOREWORD

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER 11

CHAPTER 12

CHAPTER 13

CHAPTER 14

CHAPTER 15

CHAPTER 16

CHAPTER 17

CHAPTER 18

CHAPTER 19

CHAPTER 20

CHAPTER 21

CHAPTER 22

CHAPTER 23

CHAPTER 24

CHAPTER 25

CHAPTER 26

CHAPTER 27

CHAPTER 28

CHAPTER 29

CHAPTER 30

CHAPTER 31

CHAPTER 32

CHAPTER 33

CHAPTER 34

CHAPTER 35

CHAPTER 36

CHAPTER 37

CHAPTER 38

CHAPTER 39

CHAPTER 40

CHAPTER 41

CHAPTER 42

CHAPTER 43

CHAPTER 44

CHAPTER 45

CHAPTER 46

CHAPTER 47

CHAPTER 48

CHAPTER 49

CHAPTER 50

CHAPTER 51

CHAPTER 52

CHAPTER 53

CHAPTER 54

CHAPTER 55

CHAPTER 56

CHAPTER 57

CHAPTER 58

CHAPTER 59

CHAPTER 60

EPILOGUE

‘For my father, who inspired me to be an engineer, to achieve my doctorate and

helped me envision this imaginative & innovative project.’

—Anthony Scheiber

Thanks for the editorial comments by

L.B. &M. J. S., Pat K., Keith G., Bryan S., C.J. S., Stefan K., Susan V., Karin S.,

Kevin S., Ursula & Josef K., Ron K., Krissy & Kurt K.

"We have uniquely evolved to the point where IMMORTALITY is intellectually

within our grasp; deciphering the Quaternary Medicine Code will lead to

curing most diseases & cancers and reverse the aging process."

—Anthony Scheiber

FOREWORD

The World Awaits to be Awakened—

This ground breaking literary piece, describes the concept of the Quaternary Medicine Code, which represents an epic paradigm shift, creating a new and fundamentally unique approach to the practice of medicine. The concept of the Quaternary Medicine Code has been intertwined into the pages of this lively medical mystery, so as to provide a medium that anyone can read and understand the benefits this innovative approach has to offer. The cells in the body are comprised of multiple microscopic computer processors and an individual’s unique DNA governs a person’s body’s systems and ultimately their health, as directed by the DNA. Decoding the base-four biologic programming language that comprises human DNA will lead to medical marvels and technologic advances never before thought possible. The Quaternary Medicine Code will initiate an inspiring new way to cure cancers, eradicate viral epidemics such as AIDS and Influenza, correct genetic conditions, effect repairs of damaged organs, significantly lengthen the life span of the average man and woman, advance the computer and telecommunications industries, and provide medical diagnostic and monitoring instruments capable of providing the healthcare community with unprecedented detail regarding the inner workings of the human body. The Quaternary Medicine Code and the resultant effect of IMMORTALITY are not only possible, but very much inevitable.

CHAPTER 1

FULL-TILT AT FIFTY-EIGHT

The jetway led to a bright, colorful airport terminal bustling with travelers. Jack Resnick, dark hair, five foot ten, moving with obvious energy in his step, made his way up the incline to the arrival gate. For three and a half decades the man’s stride had suffered with a limp, a souvenir from a college football injury. He now walked with a normal gait.

Stepping off the jetway and entering the airport terminal, he was revisiting the city that never sleeps—Las Vegas. He could hardly control his excitement. He couldn’t wait to get through the airport and become viscerally intoxicated with the blissful sweet taste of absolute, unadulterated freedom.

Jack was on one of those trips he had always dreamed, but never thought he would actually find himself taking. The visitor was dressed in a long sleeve button-down shirt, slate black jeans and his favorite handcrafted leather cowboy boots. He intended to buy anything he might need and a whole lot of things he probably shouldn’t. To start with, it had been the first time, in his fifty-eight years, he had spent the extra money to fly first class. He had rather liked the amenities of free alcoholic beverages, catered food, and being first on and off the plane. Carrying only a small overnight bag hung over his right shoulder, he felt free as a falcon sailing on a mountain updraft.

It had been seven years since Jack set foot in Sin City. The charismatic, youthful appearing man sucked in a deep breath, feeling more alive than he had in the last three decades. He immediately sensed the warmer temperature and the lower humidity of the surrounding air. A few hours earlier Jack had begun his journey in northern Virginia, where the eastern seaboard state had been under a winter storm watch. Upon take-off, as the nose of the aircraft lifted upward, the lights mounted under the plan’s wings lit up the first few snowflakes falling from the sky. Outside on the Las Vegas tarmac, it was an arid seventy-four degrees—a refreshing change from the bitter thirty-one degree temperature that had been posted at Dulles International Airport.

Stepping into the brightly lit airport, the telltale metallic clicking of quarter bets being made by hopeful gamblers, resonated throughout the spacious passenger area. The ear catching ka-ching of one of the slot machines paying out a winner pierced through the ambient commotion. Jack scanned the room with a pair of vibrant platinum gray eyes. A fifth of the available one-arm bandits were in use, as those waiting for flights obsessively waged the last few coins in their pocket in hopes of feeling the thrill of winning a jackpot before departure.

Nestled among the other first class passengers, a six foot two, dark-haired man dressed in a tan sport coat, white polo shirt and gray slacks exited the flight from Virginia. The upper edge of an indelible battle scar marring the right side of the man’s neck, peeked over the neckline of his shirt collar. Upon exiting the jetway, he melted into the crowd bustling about in the terminal. Maintaining an inconspicuous distance, he shadowed the man with the platinum colored eyes.

Jack suddenly stopped in his tracks. Passengers shuffled by him. He placed the back of his right hand to his forehead. Jack thought for a moment as he scratched the right side of his head with his index finger. He strained his brain, but suddenly he couldn’t remember the details of the last two hours of the flight from Washington Dulles to Vegas. The memories were a blur. Finally, Jack shrugged his right shoulder as he chalked up the gap in his memory to the whisky shots he had downed during the first half of the flight, though he had no headache. A rush of youthful hormones kick-started his brain and a boyish grin stretched across Jack’s face as he began walking toward the exit.

The visitor located a bright green and white sign indicating the direction to baggage claim and transportation. He needed a rental car to visit a place he had been dreaming of for years. Jack headed in the direction of the exit.

The man with the scar on his neck walked over to an empty corner. He retrieved a cell phone from of his pants pocket. He flipped open the phone. Using his thumb he pressed a special menu present on the screen. The phone’s video display lit up with a map of the Las Vegas area. Using his thumb he adjusted the zoom control. The display showed a detailed image of the airport terminal. Superimposed on the map was a red dot indicating the exact position of the man he was following.

Out of earshot from any of the other travelers, the man with the scar on his neck used his right thumb to navigate through the address book stored in the phone. Finding the listing he wanted, he pressed the speed dial. The phone made a connection to a number in Washington, DC. He lifted the phone to his ear.

On the other end of the line a voice tersely barked out a name, Bronx.

This is Catlin.

Yes, Commander.

Commander Thorp Catlin reported, I’m shadowing ‘Dr. Resnick’.

Okay.

Listen Bronx, I swear this guy looks thirty years younger today than he looked five days ago.

What do you mean? asked the voice.

It’s as if I am looking at the man’s twenty-year old son—not some fifty-eight year old man.

That doesn’t seem possible. Sure you got the right guy?

My cell phone GPS tracking software indicates I’m following the correct GERP signal beacon.

Could Dr. Resnick have somehow ditched his signal beacon on some decoy? asked Bronx.

I thought of that, Thorp stated. He added, So I lifted a fingerprint off a whiskey glass while he slept on the plane.

Send it.

Right. Thorp retrieved a palm-size zippered leather notebook from the inside pocket of his sports coat. He opened the notebook and pulled out a strip of tape he had set between two plastic inserts. On the cellophane was imprinted the swirling curves of a thumbprint. He placed the strip of tape over the cell phone’s color video display. He closed the phone over the strip of tape and double clicked a button on the side of the phone. The color display acted as a scanner and captured an image of the thumbprint, storing the digitized data in the phone’s memory.

The commander opened the phone. He peeled the strip of tape off the phone’s video display. Stored as a data file, he e-mailed the image to his colleague in Washington. He placed the strip of tape back between the plastic inserts in his notebook.

Thorp lifted the phone to his ear. He asked, Is it a match?

Yes. It is an exact match for Dr. Jack Resnick’s thumbprint.

The commander looked across the airport and watched his target head toward the baggage claim area. He spoke into his phone and said, I don’t understand it—But whatever this guy did to shave thirty years off his appearance—every-one’s gonna want a piece of it.

Joking, the voice on the other end of the phone stated, Maybe he’s concocted some ‘super’ anti-aging formula.

Thorp agreed, Maybe.

Bronx sternly directed, Keep a close eye on him—You know—Anything can happen in Vegas.

Right. I’m on it. Thorp ended the conversation and flipped closed his mobile phone. He stuffed the leather notebook back into his sports coat. He set off across the airport terminal in the direction his assignment was headed.

Reaching the baggage claim area, Jack strolled over toward the nearest car rental desk. He glanced up at the colorful orange, yellow and white sign. The rental company logo read ‘Cars-To-Go-Now!’. With confidence in his step, he approached the sales counter.

A red haired Asian woman in her mid-twenties dressed in a tangerine colored outfit stood behind the counter. With an attractive smile beaming across her face, the attendant greeted her customer, Hello. Do you have a reservation?

Jack read the woman’s name off the badge she wore on her blouse. He blurted out, Nope Della. I’m on one of those spur of the moment trips.

Della inquired, How many in your party?

Just me.

What kind of vehicle would you like?

Like reading off a wish list, Jack stated, Something convertible, sporty—and it’s gotta look hot. He emphasized the last part of his statement by making a thumbs-up gesture with his right hand.

The attendant nodded her head and described the available vehicles.

Jack, fronting a persona that ‘money’ was no object, selected a flashy, candy apple red two-door convertible sports coupe.

Della again nodded her head. Cordially she requested, Can I see your driver’s license and credit card?

Jack retrieved his wallet and pulled out a charge card. In his excitement, the visitor slapped the face of the credit card on the counter top.

Della picked up the card, peered at the silver numbers imprinted on the plastic. With a stiff jerk of her right arm she swiped the magnetic strip through the card reader mounted on her computer terminal.

Jack retrieved his Virginia driver’s license and set the photo ID down on the counter top.

The rental agent picked up the license and peered at the photograph. She read the name off the license, You’re Jack Resnick?

The customer pointedly responded, Dr. Jack Resnick.

Della peered closely at the picture on the plastic card. She expected most drivers’ license pictures to be a hideous representation of the customer. This patron’s picture wasn’t hideous; it appeared completely different than the person standing at the sales counter. The small, three quarter inch square picture was that of a man in his late fifties; while the customer standing at the sales counter didn’t appear to be a day over twenty. The agent glanced at the physical characteristics listed on the license. She peered up at the man who had given her the card, then scanned the text on the card again. Della looked back at her potential customer and remarked, Well, Dr. Resnick, your license indicates you should have brown eyes and what I see is a pair of platinum gray eyes.

Jack mumbled his words as he improvised, Well, I do have brown eyes—it must be the color contacts I’m wearing.

Della added, Given the date of birth listed on your license, you should be fifty-eight years old.

Jack, still coping with the recent changes in his appearance, nervously stated, I’ve been told I look young for my age.

The agent argued, You look younger than I do. I’m twenty-five.

Jack stuttered as he defended his altered appearance, I recently had laser sculpting work done on my face. The man waved his right hand around his face in a random gesture.

Della commented, Wow—Never heard of that before.

The customer assured the saleswoman, It’s supper new—Better than those neurotoxin injections.

The attendant nodded her head as she commented, That’s interesting—I’ll have to look into it on the Internet when I get home. Della peered down at the driver’s license. Still suspicious, she asked the man for his home address.

Jack recited his Virginia address without hesitation.

Della punched the man’s driver’s license number into her computer terminal. No warning regarding credit card fraud or criminal action appeared on her computer screen. The machine reported the credit card was valid for the amount she had requested. The woman shrugged her shoulders. She commonly encountered visitors from all parts of the world transiting through Sin City trying to hide their real identity in one way or another. Vegas catered to the persona of living out one’s fantasies, while leaving all record of one’s indiscretions within the city limits.

The agent asked, Business or travel?

Jack thought for a moment, then blurted out, Business.

What company are you employed by?

MedStar Labs, he snipped.

Della quickly snapped the keys of her computer terminal as she typed in the information. She asked, Your occupation?

Research scientist.

The attendant shook her head as she muttered under her breath, Must be a child genius. She continued to type away on her computer terminal. Della then asked her customer if he wished to purchase the prepaid gasoline option or additional insurance.

Jack shook his head. He was quick to decline both options, No thanks.

Della registered the customer’s decisions into her computer, then requested a printout. The attendant’s computer spat out the rental agreement as a carbonless triplicate.

The attendant placed the contract face-up on the countertop. She indicated the five places that required initials by circling the blank lines with a red pen. The rental car agent placed a black pen on top of the contract for her customer’s convenience.

Jack picked up the black pen. He smiled as he bobbed his head up and down. He muttered, This is awesome.

Della raised her right eyebrow with suspicion. She had never before heard a customer comment that the rental agreement was ‘awesome’. Curious, she inquired, What did you say?

A huge smile lit up the man’s face as he commented, It is just awesome that I don’t have to wear glasses to read anymore. As soon as the words slipped across his lips, he realized the attendant was looking at him oddly. He was quick to follow up with what he thought would satisfy the woman’s suspicions, These NEW contacts are working great.

Della seemed satisfied with his statement and busied herself with typing additional information into her computer.

After briefly scanning the contract, Jack initialed the document in the five places that had been marked. He then signed the bottom of the page using a hastily scribbled cursive signature.

Della retrieved the signed contract off the counter and checked the signatures written on the rental agreement with the signature on the driver’s license. To her inspection, the two matched.

Convinced, her customer was a warm body with a legitimate credit card, Della returned the credit card and driver’s license. She tore apart the three pages of the rental agreement, folded the pink copy and slipped the paper into a paper folder decorated with the rental company’s logo. The attendant handed Jack his copy of the paperwork and the keys to the sports coupe. Politely the agent asked, Do you need a map?

The adventurer responded, No—I know where I’m going.

In a spunky tone Della said, To get to your car, as she gestured with her right hand in the direction of the exit, she continued, Go through the doors, take a right. Parking space number eleven. She ended the transaction cheerfully stating, Enjoy.

Jack remarked, Oh, „.I certainly intend to. His voice slurred, as he gladly accepted the car keys with an open right palm. Dr. Resnick spun around and headed toward the exit. A jittery sense of excitement rippled through his body—the car keys represented the means of his escape. Feeling unshackled from the bonds of his age, the man almost took off in a run. Hurriedly he made his exit. Passing through the airport terminal doors to the outside was like the rush of a waterfall crashing down upon his head and shoulders. Jack felt as if he had just been born again—an entirely new life lay before him.

He followed the signs leading to the rental car parking lot. Outside Jack sucked in a deep breath of fresh air. He looked up. It was a little after seven in the evening. Above him was a clear night sky, the stars twinkling like a sea of diamonds. He felt his luck had changed for the better. The addicting smell of freedom swept through his nostrils as the desert air filled his lungs. The image of an attractive dark haired, blue-eyed woman flashed into his consciousness. Jack smiled, as he thought for a moment and muttered, Thank you Dr. Crosse … for the sweet taste of Immortality. Dr. Brenda Crosse, an oncologist, had pioneered the development of a base-four programming code that could shed forty years of aging off a person’s life.

After struggling to get his doctorate degree, his wife being killed by a drunk driver early in the marriage, raising two children on his own, being dedicated to his job in order to pay for two college tuitions, suffering a heart attack and being the all-around good guy, he was ready to have one hell of a good time. He had always thought about the ‘what if you could go back in time, know what you know, and relive the years from twenty to thirty. He always thought such a notion was an absurd impossibility, but yet, here and now, he was about to do just that. He was set on making the most of it.

He shook the car keys loosely dangling from the thumb and index finger of his right hand. He patted his right pants pocket. Two thousand dollars, in crisp new twenty and hundred dollar bills, sat snuggly bundled in a wad in his left pants pocket. Another thirty-eight thousand in hundred dollar bills, a fifth ofhis retirement savings, was stuffed in a large brown manila envelope stashed in the overnight bag he carried over his right shoulder. He had more than enough money to have an obscenely lavish good time. Since now he had no need to save for retirement—He decided to go on a ludic forty thousand dollar spending spree. Then after that, who knows—may be he’d take up scuba diving or hang gliding or live a couple years on the back of a surfboard catching waves off the coast of Hawaii. After nearly sixty years of living his life conforming to how ‘others’ expected him to live—with his new twenty year old body, he was intent on living his days any damn way ‘he’ wanted to enjoy them.

Jack walked up to the sassy red convertible. He opened the driver’s door. The traveler slipped the overnight bag off his shoulder and tossed it onto the passenger’s seat. His butt settled into the comfort of the plush leather driver’s seat. Jack shut the door, placed the key in the ignition and started the car. The supercharged V-6 engine, responded immediately. As the pistons churned powerfully inside the engine block a smooth purr resonated from under the hood. Like its driver, the pricey muscle car yearned to push the red line and race its well-tuned, hot rod motor under the star-studded desert landscape.

Thirty minutes after the tires of the plane had touched down on the tarmac at the Vegas airport, Jack was driving down the open road at eighty miles an hour. An arid wind blew through his hair. Adrenaline flowed freely through the man’s veins. His piercing platinum gray colored eyes sparkled with youthful energy. The automobile’s high beams lit up the dark desert road.

Forty-five minutes down the open highway, Jack spied a familiar roadside sign, a bright pink neon banner beaming with the words ‘Honeysuckle Bunny Farm’ lit up the night sky. Under the brothel’s logo, in red letters, the sign guaranteed ‘Best Sex in the West’. Jack had seen this place on a previous adventure to Vegas, but he had been too reserved in his manner to stop and pay the brothel a visit.

Jack slowed and turned off the pavement. The car rumbled down a short gravel road to a small parking lot. The testosterone fueled adventurer on safari pulled the sports coupe into an empty parking space. Five dust-covered vehicles were already parked in the shadows. At the end of the gravel lot stood a two-story farmhouse-like structure painted a radiant azure blue, trimmed in white. Landscape lighting brilliantly lit up the exterior of the building and the surrounding desert. A large white door stood in the center of the ground floor with five windows on either side of the main entrance. On the second floor, a dozen windows spanned the front face of the building. A six-foot high chain link fence surrounded the brothel.

The visitor reached over and picked up the overnight bag off the passenger’s seat. Boldly Jack opened the driver’s side door and lifted his torso out of the car. He shoved the door shut. The visitor quickly crossed the gravel lot. Reaching the fence he opened the gate and stepped through. He shuffled up the wooden steps that led to the front door. The whitewashed planks creaked underfoot. He reached out with his right hand and grabbed the polished brass doorknob. He opened the door and entered a spacious, brightly illuminated foyer. Without hesitation, he marched up to a powder blue check-in counter that stood chest high in the center of the front room.

A three hundred pound, dark haired man was seated behind the counter smoking a thick cigar. An extra extra-large red tee shirt stretched tight across the man’s mid drift with the words ‘Sex Bomb’ printed in white letters across the chest. Tattoos, depicting naked women, covered his arms and both sides of the man’s thick neck.

Jack wasted no time announcing his intentions, What’s the going rate?

Without looking up from the sports magazine he was reading, nonchalantly, the brothel attendant replied, Two Franklin’s for an hour, or a single such dead president for half the time. A wood sign hanging on the wall behind the attendant read NIGHT MANAGER: BRAD.

Jack remarked, Seems a bit pricey—Brad.

Still reading his magazine the night attendant barked back, They’re pretty—And they’ll fulfill any fantasy you have in mind.

Defiantly Jack asked, How about all night?

The attendant looked up. All night there Casanova? muttered the beefy appearing man with a tone of voice that resonated with disbelief. He had seen all too many men march into the brothel with self-proclaimed delusions of grandeur, each believing they could satisfy a harem of women for hours on end.

Yes—All night. Jack insisted, I want three of your best hotties—all—with gigantic hooters. Jack energetically gestured with his hands, turning-up both palms up as if he were holding a pair of generous sized melons.

Brad stumbled with his words as he said, Let me get this straight there cow-boy—You want three girls, for all night?

Yes. Three of your best—for the entire night.

Sarcastically the night manager asked, For you and who else? Raising his right eyebrow, suspiciously Brad asked, What kind of party are you cooking up there fella?

Never having visited a brothel in his entire fifty-eight years, Jack was out of his element. Awkwardly he replied, They’re just for me.

Brad glared over the counter at his customer giving him a careful once over from head to toe. Snidely he remarked, "Let me gives you some advice—Most blokes your age barely need fifteen minutes. If they’re lucky, a half hour with one of these girls before they’re six shooter is completely, and I mean completely spent. He asked, You sure you want to pay for ‘three’ for ‘all’ night there cowpoke?"

Ignoring the manager’s brief assessment, Jack pressed the man, How much?

Brad replied, That’ll be a grand.

Happily Jack asked, For all three?

The brothel’s manager sharply chipped out, A piece.

Three thousand? Jack squealed.

Yes. That’s what their asses are worth for a night’s worth of work.

Jack didn’t bat an eye. He unzipped the overnight bag slung over his right shoulder. The leather satchel appeared more worn than the young man looked old.

Brad inquired, Just what are you looking ta do with the girls there Casanova?

I’m taking ‘em to the strip. With a contagious energy in his voice, he smartly added, I want a beautiful entourage of women to escort me when I go gambling. Jack stuck his right hand into the bag and retrieved three stacks of hundred dollar bills. He dropped thirty Franklins on the counter top. Swiftly, Jack placed his hand firmly on the stack of money. He stated, Here’s the dough. Let’s see the girls.

A smirk wriggled across the brothel manager’s chubby cheeks as he declared, Hold on there bucko. His right eyebrow rose again. Brad snapped out, The grand is if the girls stay here. The man tapped his right index finger down on the counter top. He was quick to add, It’s double—if you take ‘em off the premises.

The white globes of Jack’s eyes bugged out of their sockets as he blurted out, What???

The ogre glared at the young man as he asked, How do I know you ain’t no freak?

Innocently, Jack asked, What?

Brad took a drag offhis cigar. Glaring at his patron, he questioned, How do I know you’re not gonna take my girls out into the desert, twist their pretty heads off and chop them into tinny little pieces? . Like one of those murders that shows up on those crime solvers shows on the television.

Jack shook his chin from side to side. Firmly he stated, All I want is a trio of beautiful women to be my escort when I get to the strip—and have some fun.

The night manager stood up. He flipped up his beefy right index finger and middle finger as he glared at his customer and said, The price is two grand a piece if there going anywhere but here. Brad then planted his right index finger down on the countertop.

Feeling like he might be getting ripped off, Jack inquired, Why double?

The brothel’s manager rolled his beefy right thumb across his right index finger he remarked, Think of the extra three grand as collateral—only you don’t get a refund when you brings my girls back.

The testosterone driven twenty-year old appearing man stuck his left hand back into the open zipper of the overnight bag and retrieved three additional stacks of crisp new hundred dollar bills. Energetically he commented, What the hell. You only live once—ah, well, maybe twice.

The white globes of the shopkeeper’s eyes beamed with excitement at the appearance of the additional three thousand dollars. The attendant scooped up the hundred dollar bills. Fanning the stacks with his thumb he scanned the currency. Brad smacked his fat lips together as drool dripped down the right side of his mouth. He ran the face of the stack of bills across his nose and smelled the dye on the currency. He licked the bill closest to his mouth to taste the dye. Convinced they were real, the ogre gave an approving nod of his head.

Becoming impatient, Jack pointed his right index finger at the attendant as he spat out, Now, I want your ‘hottest’ three girls.

Brad assured his customer, We got nothing but the best. He asked, You have any preferences—there Casanova?

Beautiful faces. Jack reiterated, Big boobs. He added, Small butts. And all three must be naturally blonde—or at least look like it.

The brothel’s attendant thought for a moment, then tapped the white button on the blue intercom unit that rested on the counter. He barked into the microphone, Trixie, Alicia, Bonnie—Come on up front—Ladies.

Three voluptuous women, one five foot eleven with short platinum blonde hair, one five foot nine with shoulder length dusty blonde hair, and the third five foot six with styled, curly strawberry blonde hair showed up at the door. The three girls each had attractive, soft facial features and sported thin, dangerously erotic curves on perfectly sculptured bodies.

The strawberry blonde boldly shuffled up to Jack and slowly brushed the palm of her right hand across his face. Happy to be chosen by a young, spry college age man, instead of an old cranky tramp, she cooed, What silky soft skin.

A satisfied grin stretched across the taut muscular features of Jack’s face. He felt a sudden rush of hot-blooded male hormones ignite his soul like he hadn’t felt in thirty years.

As the brothel’s manager re-counted the sixty crisp hundred dollar bills, he addressed the girls, Now you three show this young cowpoke a real good time.

Surrounding their patron, the three girls giggled in unison.

Brad peered up from his fist full of money and warned the youthful appearing customer, And you better bring my three little dolls back in one piece with the same cute faces and pretty little bodies—Ya hear? Gruffly he added, Or I’ll chase your ass to the end of the world and strangle you with my bare hands.

Jack nodded his head.

Five minutes later, the fifty-eight year old was living out his dream, cruising down the road in a convertible accompanied by three gorgeous women. Alicia was seated in the passenger’s seat, Trixie and Bonnie sat in the plush leather seat in the back. Jack’s dark hair and loose fitting shirt flapped in the wind as he raced toward the brilliant lights of the Vegas strip. The car’s stereo speakers blared with rowdy selection of music. The girls bounced up and down in their seats, their chests bobbing rhythmically to the beat of the party music.

Reaching the strip, Jack found the road choked with traffic. The air felt warm. The city was lit by a sea of eye-popping, brilliantly illuminated, diversely colored light displays. Each casino glowed against the night sky with its own unique personality.

Jack asked, Where should we go girls?

Sitting in the back seat bouncing to the beat of the music blaring from the car stereo Trixie cheerfully exclaimed, The Aztec!—It’s new!—It’s very hot!

Bonnie and Alicia both chimed in, The Aztec—It’s the hottest!

Where is it?

Trixie directed, Turn ‘right’—here.

Jack pulled off the main strip and drove the convertible up to the front of the Grand Aztec Gold Casino and Resort, a fifty-one-story hotel located three blocks off Vegas’s main drag. The brakes on the rental car squeaked like a mouse as the vehicle came to a stop. A valet, dressed in a gold satin shirt and black shorts, hustled up to the car. Jack opened the driver’s side door. He grabbed his night bag, and slipped it over his right shoulder.

The traveler stepped out of the convertible. He slipped the valet a crisp new twenty, and beckoned his passengers, Come on girls.

The three starlets giggled as they scurried out of the convertible and shimmied up to Jack’s side.

The valet handed Jack a ticket for the car.

Jack grabbed the piece of paper and stuck it in his pants pocket. He gazed up at the casino’s colorfully attractive facade shaped in the form of a ten-story tall pyramid glowing with the high-intensity wattage of thousands of gold, yellow, orange and white lights.

Escorted by his flashy trio, a huge smile stretched across his face, Jack glided through the front doors of the vibrant Vegas casino.

What greeted the man and his entourage was a large spacious, two level gambling establishment. Covering the majority of the main level were rows of colorfully lit slot machines. Want-a-be millionaires claimed most of the seats in front of the army of one-armed bandits. The bustling, drinking crowd of customers was diligently engaged in pouring quarters into the interactive machines or expending credit on plastic casino debit cards. The second floor held a balcony that bordered all four walls of the casino’s main floor. Clear glass panels allowed the patrons on the main floor to see the gamblers shuffling about the slot machines lining the balcony above. Slot machines were being worked just as vigorously on the balcony as on the main level.

Just inside the casino, Jack passed a Gold Pyramid slot machine. The machine’s gold-purple-pink-green colors and the striking pyramid icons caught the man’s attention. At his last visit to Vegas, Jack had won a hundred and thirty dollars on a similar machine. Gambling fever instantly struck the wild side of Jack’s heart. The middle-aged man, acting as if he were caught up in the whirlwinds of a serious mid-life crisis, blurted out, Wow! My favorite slot!

Jack zeroed his sights in on the Gold Pyramid slot machine. He bellowed out, Wait up girls. He stopped, and retrieved a thick roll of twenties from his pants pocket. He carried the fist full of crisp new Jacksons in his pocket just for such spur of the moment gambling.

Intoxicated by the rush of energy Jack pealed one of the dead presidents off the roll and fed the twenty-dollar bill into the machine. Andrew Jackson’s face disappeared into the jaws of the cash slot. Jack pressed the bet button indicating he wanted to wager the entire amount. He yanked down on the lever attached to the left side of the one armed bandit. The slot machine’s tumblers rolled. Jack’s heart raced as he was looking for the tumblers to stop on the picture of three gold pyramids circled in diamonds. The first tumbler stopped at a single gold pyramid. The second tumbler stopped at a figure of the three gold pyramids circled in diamonds. Jack’s heartbeat quickened. The third tumbler stopped at the figure depicting two gold pyramids. There was no cash payout.

A moment later the third tumbler rolled again. This time it stopped at the picture of a sun. Still there was no match. There was no payout.

The dash of poor luck didn’t faze Jack. The gambler smiled as he announced, I love this machine. This is one of those slots that gives you a second chance.

Trixie, the tallest of the three blondes, squealed, Hey Jack, let me try!

Jack peered over at the tallest of the three blondes in his entourage and replied, Sure darling. Tearing a second twenty from his roll of cash, he slipped the crisp, new bill in the cash slot and hit the full bet button.

Trixie asked, You betting the whole thing?

Jack’s white globes sparkled, as a grin stretched from ear to ear. Last time he visited Vegas, the most he had ever wagered was a dollar in the slots. He had promised himself that this trip would be different. Enthusiastically he responded, I always say—Bet big—Win big!

Trixie, the five-foot-eleven platinum blonde with stunning artic blue eyes, and luscious red lips, pulled down on the lever of the one armed bandit. Trixie wore a cobalt blue dress that fit snuggly to the curves of her body and was held up by a pair of spaghetti straps. The lower end of the skirt hung just below her buttocks, but the hemline flared out with a two-inch long strip of frilly material.

The first tumbler stopped on the triple black pyramid figure, the second tumbler stopped on a single gold pyramid figure, and the third tumbler stopped on the silhouette of a camel. Pouting, both Alicia and Bonnie stuck their candy red lips out and moaned, Awe Trixie—Too bad.

Alicia, the five-foot-nine dusty blonde with hazel colored eyes, bounced up and down as she interjected, Jack. Jack. Let me try!

The gambler smiled. In response to the open display of vibrant unharnessed energy, he responded, Okay darling. Tearing a third Jackson from his stack of cash, he slipped the crisp, new bill in the cash slot and hit the ‘full’ bet button with his right index finger.

Alicia wore a lacy white top, no bra, hot pink shorts that snuggly hugged the tight cheeks of her finely sculptured buttocks. Her four inch red heels caused her to lean forward, stretching the fabric of her white blouse to the point the buttons were at risk of popping off. She pulled down the lever of the one armed bandit and released it.

The first tumbler stopped on the figure of the sun. The second tumbler stopped on the figure depicting two pyramids. The third tumbler stopped at the figure of a palm tree. Nothing matched. Trixie and Bonnie both said, Awe Alicia—Too bad.

Bonnie, the five-foot-six, very attractive twenty year old strawberry blonde with alluring green eyes, rosy cheeks and the woman with the largest chest, piped up in a high-pitched voice, "Hey Jack—come on, let me have a go at it! I’m feeling lucky tonight!"

Trying to be fair to his three guests, Jack acknowledged, Well darling, I guess you should get a shot at the jackpot too. He added, Mom always said things come in threes. Tearing off a fourth twenty from his money roll, he fed the crisp, new greenback in the cash slot and tapped the ‘full’ bet button.

Bonnie was dressed in a striking red blouse with matching shorts. The woman wore a red colored bra with four hooks in the back to keep her pair of enormous double D’s standing at attention. The buxom blonde pulled the lever of the slot machine, then quickly let the desert bandit’s arm snap back. The bobbing up and down motion caused the woman’s breasts to jiggle lewdly.

The first of the three tumblers stopped on the triple gold pyramid figure surrounded by a circle of white diamonds. The second tumbler stopped on a similar triple gold pyramid figure circled by a halo of white diamonds. Everyone held their breath in anticipation.

Trixie squealed, Ho no!

The third tumbler stopped on the figure of a sand dune. Recognizing it was not a match, Trixie and Alicia both blurted out in a disappointed tone, Awe Bonnie—Too bad.

There was a pause. Then the third tumbler rolled again. When the last tumbler stopped a second time, it stopped at a triple gold pyramid figure circled with white diamonds.

For a second, all four stopped breathing.

Trixie then blurted out, Oh my God!

A rotating light mounted to the top of the machine began flashing with blinding violet colored light as the slot machine’s internal siren wailed with an ear piercing sound.

Bonnie recognizing the good fortune, cried out, Jack! We won!

Acting like a cheerleading squad, the three women jumped up and down as they cried out in unison, Jack you won! Jack you’re a winner!

In bright red, flashing lights, the slot machine read ‘TWO THOUSAND, FIVE HUNDRED DOLLARS’.

A casino staff member, dressed in a gold suit jacket and black trousers walked up to the party of four. The Casino’s representative announced himself, Congratulations … Mr. ah?

The name’s Resnick—Jack Resnick.

Well Mr. Resnick, I am Jon Muska, floor representative for the Grand Aztec Gold Casino and Resort. The speaker extended his right hand and stated, I am pleased to inform you—you have just won …

Energetically Jack shook the man’s hand, but cut the casino rep off as he interjected, I know—twenty-five hundred dollars! It was the biggest casino winnings he had ever scored in his life. He turned to the ladies in his company and shouted, Nice way to start the evening—hey girls!

The casino’s representative shook his head as he said, That’s the value of a one dollar bet. He was quick to add, You bet the maximum wager—twenty dollars.

Ya, acknowledged Jack as he nodded his head. His serum adrenaline level peaking, the gambler had yet to make the proper connection between the amount he had bet and the winnings.

You are entitled to a pay-off of not twenty, but eighty times the amount shown on the slot machine.

Eighty times? asked Bonnie.

Trixie was quickest to multiply the numbers in her head and shouted, That’s two hundred thousand dollars!

Two hundred thousand! blurted out the middle-aged man. A sudden intense rush of adrenaline poured through Jack’s veins.

Yes. Two hundred thousand dollars, confirmed the casino representative as he nodded his head.

Wow! blurted Jack.

The three girls jumped up and down screaming out with joy. Jack’s private cheerleading squad acted as energetically as if a high school football team had narrowly squeaked out a win at a homecoming game.

The casino rep stated, Your winning entitles you to an all expense paid room in the hotel for three nights—if you would like.

I had planned to stay on the strip, confirmed Jack. He stood tall and confident.

Well, we will see to it that your accommodations are most pleasant—Mr. Resnick, assured Mr. Muska.

The casino floor rep escorted Jack and his entourage over to the front desk to assist him in checking into the hotel.

The hotel staffer, dressed smartly in a gold suit coat, pressed white shirt and dark blue pants, standing behind the check-in desk smiled as the man in the company of the three women approached. Politely the attendant welcomed the guests, It is a pleasure to serve you here at the Grand Aztec Gold Casino and Resort. He asked, May I help you?

The casino rep walking along side the procession, piped up, This gentleman is the beneficiary of two hundred thousand dollars in winnings. He wishes to stay in the hotel as our guest, and we wish to provide him with the finest accommodations we have on the premises.

The attendant nodded his head and said, Well, congratulations Mr.—err

Resnick—Jack Resnick.

The man stated, Mr. Resnick, I am Posh Rileclif. Again, welcome to the Grand Aztec Gold Casino and Resort.

Caught up in the rush of the moment, Jack replied, Thanks. It’s nice to be alive and lucky.

Posh asked, Can I see a picture ID?—preferably a valid driver’s license.

What do you need ID for? inquired Jack. His bushy left eyebrow rose with suspicion.

The casino floor rep stepped forward and politely replied, We need your ID to verify who you are. For tax purposes. He added, You’ll have IRS papers to sign in order for us to release your winnings to you.

Jack reluctantly retrieved his Virginia state driver’s license from his wallet. He handed the license to the hotel staffer standing behind the counter.

Posh glanced down at the photo on the driver’s license. He looked up, scanned the guest. The attendant then glanced down at the driver’s license a second time. Always vigilant of potential identity fraud, as he had been instructed by casino management, Posh politely remarked, Excuse me, but you look much too young to be the owner of this license. He glared down at the date of birth listed on the card and commented, I must say—You don’t look fifty-eight at all.

Bonnie squealed, Fifty-eight? Jack, your skin’s so soft, you don’t look a day over twenty.

Jack blushed. He quickly regained his composure and hissed at the attendant, Posh.

Yes, was the hotel staffer’s response.

Believe it—Jack Resnick is me, Jack smiled and gestured, pointing his right thumb at his chest.

Posh ignored the statement made by the guest and inquired, I’m sorry sir—are you sure this isn’t your father’s ID? He commented, The IRS is very particular.

With his brilliant platinum gray eyes brewing storm clouds, Jack sternly barked back, It sure as ‘shit’ is me.

The hotel attendant standing behind the counter read the eye color off the license. Posh identified, Your license says you have brown eyes. From what I can see, you appear to have platinum-gray colored eyes.

Jack rebuked the remark stating, It must be my contacts that look that way.

Posh requested, Can you take the contacts out?

Jack improvised, My doctor says I can’t take these contacts out except … once a week and, I just put them in … yesterday.

The hotel attendant glanced over at the casino floor rep. Communicating with his eyes, he conveyed to the floor rep that he was suspicious of the man’s identity. He asked, Do you have another form of picture ID—Ah … Mr. Resnick?

Ah … No. Jack mumbled, I don’t believe so. The twenty-year old appearing fifty-eight year old man retrieved the billfold from his pants pocket. He opened the wallet and scanned the cards. After a pause, he announced, I’ve got six credit cards, two frequent flyer cards, a country club card, video store card and a health insurance card—but none have a picture on them.

Posh shook his head and said, "You can’t really believe we are going to accept you are the rightful owner of this driver’s license. Casino policy and Nevada law state