You can’t make this shit up…
It started like any other shift: me, under-caffeinated, already regretting my life choices, standing at my table trying to remember if I hate people or just the ones that talk. I’m mid-shuffle when this guy walks up. Late 30s, track pants, eyes like they’ve seen three divorces and a raccoon fight.
He’s holding a baby carrier.
Not a stroller. Not a blanket burrito. A full-ass car seat. Like he just walked out of a Subaru and straight onto the casino floor.
So he comes up, sets this carrier on top of an empty chair at my table like he’s dropping off an overnight bag, and pulls out a crumpled voucher. It’s for $87.34. He says, I kid you not,
“Can I cash this here? I gotta get her some formula.”
Now before I can even say anything, the baby starts crying. Of course. Because she knows this is a red flag wrapped in a onesie. I glance around for security, a floor supervisor, God — anyone. But no one’s close, and this man’s already mid-monologue.
Starts telling me about how he hit a mini jackpot on Buffalo, but the machine “was acting suspicious,” so he doesn’t trust the kiosk. Says the voucher’s real, but if I “need collateral,” and then gestures…
at the baby.
I’m frozen. Stuck between wanting to press the panic button and needing to know how this ends.
So I play it cool.
I say, “Sir, unfortunately I can’t accept vouchers at the table, especially not in exchange for children.”
He looks genuinely disappointed. Not angry. Just like, “Damn. Worth a shot.”
Then… THEN… he reaches into the carrier, and I swear on my entire existence, pulls out a rotisserie chicken.
I blink.
It’s in foil. Still warm. Smells amazing.
THERE IS NO BABY.
THE BABY CRYING? A BLUETOOTH SPEAKER.
At this point, I’m questioning if I’ve hallucinated the past 30 seconds. He winks and says,
“Had to make sure I didn’t lose it on the bus. You can’t trust people around a hot bird.”
And then walks away. Voucher in hand. Chicken under arm. Baby cries still echoing from the speaker like a haunted Pampers commercial.
I stood there for three whole minutes, silent, I honestly forgot I was even dealing. A woman at third base whispered,
“Did we just get punked?”
I said, “Ma’am, I don’t even know what plane of reality we’re on anymore.”
I went on break.
Ate an oatmeal cookie.
Sat on the ground in the dealer lounge and stared into space like I’d just witnessed a glitch in the matrix.
Moral of the story?
Trust no stroller.
Check the baby.
And never underestimate a man in Vegas who loves rotisserie poultry and performance art.
🍒🎰🧃🌈🫦🎲🫦🌈🧃🎰🍒
Tip me so I don’t have to babysit chickens for chips. 🐔
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