SCENE 1, GRAVEYARD SHIFT, HIGH LIMIT, 3:03AM

gabro (NARRATION):
3:03AM is when Vegas stops being a vibrant party city and turns into a haunted vending machine for bad decisions. The carpet is trying to brainwash you, the lighting is trying to emotionally manipulate you, and the air smells like cologne, desperation, and the faint memory of somebody’s divorce.

I’m standing at a blackjack table in high limit, which is basically adult daycare for rich people who think money is a personality type. Mr. Reyes is pacing behind me like he’s guarding the crown jewels, and the crown jewels are, unfortunately, a man in loafers who keeps saying “buddy” at women.

MR. REYES (low, into gabro’s ear):
Heads up. We got a VIP coming through.

gabro:
Is it the kind that tips, or the kind that says “Do you know who I am?” like it’s foreplay for being a dickhead?

MR. REYES:
Just, be… normal.

gabro (NARRATION):
I love when a man asks me to be “normal” in a casino where the chandeliers look like alien jellyfish and the slot machines are literally designed to seduce your brain.

SAINT CHARDONNAY (entering like a curse in heels):
Not “be normal,” baby. That’s homophobic.

gabro:
Saint, why are you here at demon o’clock?

SAINT CHARDONNAY:
Because I love you, and because the universe keeps putting you in situations where you need a witness and possibly an exorcism.

gabro (NARRATION):
Saint Chardonnay is a drag queen with the energy of a fire alarm. She’s wearing a silver wig, a coat that looks stolen from a rich widow, and lashes so thick they could sweep the damn floor. She slides into the seat like she owns it, like the chair should be grateful.

SAINT CHARDONNAY:
Also I’m bored, and my therapist said I need hobbies, so I chose harassment.

gabro:
Same.

MR. REYES (already annoyed):
Saint. Behave.

SAINT CHARDONNAY:
Reyes, sweetheart, the only thing I’m hurting tonight is fragile heterosexuality and the casino’s moral compass.

gabro (NARRATION):
Reyes pretends he’s not laughing. His face does that tiny twitch men do when joy tries to escape and they tackle it back into a basement.

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SCENE 2, THE COMET ARRIVES

A person walks in. No entourage. No loud entrance. Just… presence. The kind of presence that makes the pit go slightly quieter without anyone agreeing to it.

gabro (NARRATION):
The Comet looks like a man, but not like any man you meet at 3AM in Vegas. Too still. Too calm. Too clean, like he’s never had to pretend he’s okay while his brain is screaming.

He sits at my table without asking.

Not rude, just… confident.

He places a stack of chips down, and they make a sound that is not normal. Not a clack. A hum. Like the chips are holding a note.

Saint leans in.

SAINT CHARDONNAY (whisper):
Oh my God. That is either a billionaire or a cult leader.

gabro (whisper):
In Vegas, that’s the same outfit.

MR. REYES (tight smile, professional):
Good evening, sir. Welcome.

THE COMET (soft, polite):
Thank you. I would like to play.

gabro:
Of course. Minimum is…

THE COMET:
I know.

gabro (NARRATION):
He says “I know” like a TSA agent saying “SHOES OFF,” calm, certain, and allergic to your feelings.

I start dealing.

The Comet doesn’t flirt. Doesn’t posture. Doesn’t try to impress anybody. He watches the cards like he’s listening to them.

And that’s when I notice it.

He’s watching me too. Not like a creep. Like a doctor. Like he can see my nervous system speed-running toward a meltdown.

THE COMET:
You are tired.

gabro:
Yes, babe, it’s 3AM, I’m at work, and the building is possessed by dirty money.

THE COMET:
Not that kind of tired.

gabro (NARRATION):
I hate when someone clocks me accurately. It feels like my inner thoughts just got put on the jumbotron.

Saint watches him like she’s about to baptize him in a martini.

SAINT CHARDONNAY:
Hi, handsome. What’s your deal? Like, spiritually. Are you single, are you haunted, do you pay taxes?

THE COMET:
All three.

SAINT CHARDONNAY:
Love that for you.

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SCENE 3, THE FIRST IMPOSSIBLE HAND

I deal the Comet a hand. He doesn’t look at it right away.

He looks at the table felt.

Then at the ceiling.

Then at me.

THE COMET:
Before we continue, a question.

gabro:
If you ask me to smile, I’ll bite your whole face off. Respectfully.

THE COMET:
No.

He pauses, like he’s choosing words carefully.

THE COMET:
Do humans here… choose each other? Even when it costs them. Even when no one’s watching?

gabro:
We do, sometimes. We also don’t, sometimes. It’s kind of our brand.

gabro (NARRATION):
Oh. Okay. We’re doing metaphysics at a blackjack table. Cute.

SAINT CHARDONNAY:
Speak for yourself. I care deeply. I’m an empath. I just express it through bullying.

MR. REYES:
We’re a gaming establishment for fuck’s sake.

gabro (NARRATION):
Reyes says “gaming establishment” like it’s a protective spell.

The Comet nods like he’s taking notes for the apocalypse.

Then he finally looks at his hand.

It’s a twelve.

I show my upcard.

It’s a five.

Perfect spot for a player to act like they discovered fire, then blame you if they lose.

The Comet doesn’t do that. He just sits there.

gabro:
Hit or stand?

THE COMET:
Hit.

I deal him a card.

He gets a nine.

Twenty one.

Clean.

Perfect.

The pit light above our table flickers once. Just once. Like a wink. Like the building is reacting.

Saint’s eyes go wide. 👀

SAINT CHARDONNAY:
Okay, bitch. That felt… sexy.

gabro:
Saint.

SAINT CHARDONNAY:
I’m saying the vibe was erotic, I’m not saying I’m going to fuck the table, calm down.

MR. REYES (watching the lights):
Everything okay over here?

gabro:
Totally normal, Reyes. Just an unreasonably hot hand and your ceiling blinking at me.

The Comet smiles, tiny.

THE COMET:
It is responding.

gabro:
The ceiling.

THE COMET:
To authenticity.

gabro (NARRATION):
I pause. Saint pauses. Reyes stays professionally dead inside, because men like him treat a “surprised” expression like it’s a fireable offense.

gabro:
What authenticity?

THE COMET:
The way you didn’t worship me. The way you were simply… real.

gabro:
Oh. I mean. I just don’t feel like doing a whole “sir” circus tonight.

THE COMET:
Yes. That. The absence of performative bullshit. It is… rare here.

Saint makes a face.

SAINT CHARDONNAY:
Damn. That’s bleak.

gabro (NARRATION):
Here’s the part that’s messing with me, he’s not wrong.

In a casino, most “VIPs” don’t want a game, they want a stage. They want you to clap for their wallet. They want “sir” and “boss” and that fake little laugh people do when they’re trying to stay employed. Half the time they don’t even care if they win or lose, they’re buying the feeling that everyone around them is beneath them.

So when this guy sits down and doesn’t demand the worship package, doesn’t bait me into groveling, doesn’t need me to perform gratitude like I’m auditioning for his approval… my brain short-circuits.

Because I’m used to rich people treating respect like a coupon. Like if they toss me a green chip, I’m supposed to kiss their ass in return, and if they act like monsters, I’m supposed to take it with a smile and a pulse.

But he didn’t do either.

He just… met me at eye level. Like I’m a person. Like he isn’t here to make me dance for his ego.

And it’s so stupidly rare in this room that it hits like a drink I didn’t order, straight to the chest, no chaser.

So I do what I always do when my soul gets touched against my will.

I make it filthy.

gabro:
Well, congrats. I just earned my “not a dickhead” badge for the night.

THE COMET (calm):
It is more valuable than you think.

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SCENE 4, THE COMET’S REAL GAME

We keep playing.

The Comet wins, but not in a greedy way. He wins like it’s an experiment. Like he’s testing the room.

He tips. Quietly. Consistently. Like tipping isn’t a performance or tit-for-tat. It’s just generosity. No speeches. No “this is for you, sweetheart.” Just chips, placed with respect.

Saint watches that like she’s witnessing a miracle.

SAINT CHARDONNAY (to gabro, whisper):
If a man tips without announcing it, that’s basically marriage material.

gabro (whisper):
I am not going to marry the alien.

SAINT CHARDONNAY:
You don’t know he’s an alien.

gabro:
The chips are humming, Saint.

SAINT CHARDONNAY:
Some men hum when they’re into you.

gabro:
Not his type.

gabro (NARRATION):
Reyes keeps hovering, suspicious. The Comet isn’t breaking rules, but he’s bending reality with manners, and casinos hate anything they can’t predict.

Then the Comet stops mid-hand and looks past me.

His eyes fix on something I can’t see.

His expression changes, just slightly. Like he heard a dog whistle made of sadness.

THE COMET:
Someone is ashamed.

gabro:
In this building? No way.

MR. REYES:
Sir, do you need anything?

THE COMET:
Yes. I need you to allow me… one minute.

Reyes is about to say no, because pit bosses hate wasting time, even if it is just “one minute.” Then he looks at the Comet’s stack and remembers money is the casino’s real God.

MR. REYES:
One minute.

The Comet stands.

He walks toward the edge of high limit, where the light gets harsher and the air gets louder.

We watch him go.

Saint leans across the table.

SAINT CHARDONNAY:
If he’s about to start a sermon, I’m leaving.

gabro:
If he starts a sermon, I’m charging him for emotional labor.

gabro (NARRATION):
The Comet stops near a corner where a lone guest is sitting, head down, shoulders tight. They don’t speak. I don’t even see their face, just the posture, the body language of someone trying not to take up space.

The Comet doesn’t touch them. Doesn’t invade. He just stands nearby and says something so softly I can’t hear it.

The guest looks up.

They flinch at first, like they expect cruelty.

Then they don’t.

They nod.

The Comet takes off his jacket, places it over the chair back, not on them, just near them. Like an offering. Like a reminder they deserve warmth.

Then he returns to our table like nothing happened.

Reyes watches this with a face like he swallowed a feeling and hates the taste.

MR. REYES:
What was that about?

THE COMET:
They were going to leave this world.

gabro:
Like, the casino, or like, spiritually?

THE COMET:
Both.

gabro (NARRATION):
The casino noise suddenly feels too loud. Like I can hear everything, the laughter, the machines, the hungry energy, the way people try to drown their pain in bright lights.

Saint’s expression softens. That’s rare. That’s like seeing a shark knit a sweater.

SAINT CHARDONNAY (quiet):
Jesus.

Reyes exhales through his nose.

MR. REYES:
We have security for that.

THE COMET:
Security cannot fix shame.

gabro (NARRATION):
Oof.

Direct hit.

Reyes shifts, uncomfortable, like his own memories just sat down beside him.

I hate this. I hate that it’s real. I hate that I’m suddenly aware the casino is full of people carrying invisible wounds like handbags.

So I do what I do when the truth gets too close.

I make a joke.

gabro:
Okay, well, shame is also my brand, so.

The Comet looks at me, steady.

THE COMET:
No. Your brand is survival.

That lands in my chest like a fist made of velvet.

Saint points at me like she’s calling bingo.

SAINT CHARDONNAY:
See. This is why I keep you. You’re a little bitch, but you’re a brave little bitch.

gabro:
Thank you, Mother Teresa of the club.

SAINT CHARDONNAY:
Don’t disrespect me like that, I’m much worse.

-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~

SCENE 5, THE SCI-FI PART THAT MAKES IT A PROBLEM

The Comet places a chip on the felt.

Not like a bet, like a key.

The chip hums louder.

I feel it in my teeth.

The overhead lights ripple, subtle, like a mirage.

Reyes straightens, instantly alert.

MR. REYES:
What the hell is that?

THE COMET:
A receiver.

gabro:
For what?

THE COMET:
For when humans leak.

SAINT CHARDONNAY:
Humans leak a lot, babe, be specific.

THE COMET (still calm):
Humans emit… charge. When you choose cruelty, it builds like static, it shocks. When you choose empathy, it conducts, it becomes light.

Saint stares.

SAINT CHARDONNAY:
So you’re saying kindness is literally… radiant. That’s disgusting. I love it.

THE COMET:
Yes.

gabro (NARRATION):
This is the most bisexual physics lesson I’ve ever received.

The Comet turns the chip slightly.

The hum turns into a note.

The air around the table shimmers.

Then, for half a second, I see something behind him.

Not the casino.

Something else.

A sky with two moons. A horizon that looks cracked. A city made of glass and shadow.

It’s gone as fast as it came, but my heart does that dumb little rabbit thing.

gabro:
Okay, I’m going to say something insane.

MR. REYES:
Please don’t.

gabro:
Are you… not from here?

THE COMET:
I am from far.

Saint’s eyes light up with pure chaos.

SAINT CHARDONNAY:
Oh my God, I knew it. I fucking knew it. He’s an alien, and he’s polite. That’s so sexy.

MR. REYES:
This is a casino. Not a science fair.

THE COMET:
It is both.

gabro (NARRATION):
The Comet looks at me like he’s deciding whether to trust me.

Then he says it, simple.

THE COMET:
My world is dying. We cannot fuel our travel with fire anymore. We use… what you call compassion.

Reyes goes still.

Saint stops joking.

I swallow.

Because even with all my sarcasm, I know what it means to need something you can’t manufacture. I know what it means to run on fumes.

gabro:
So why come here?

The Comet looks around at the high limit room, the lights, the luxury, the loneliness under all of it.

THE COMET:
Because your city glows like hunger. I thought I would find power.

He pauses.

THE COMET:
I did. But not the kind I expected.

Saint’s voice softens, barely.

SAINT CHARDONNAY:
You’re collecting… kindness.

THE COMET:
Not collecting. Witnessing. The act creates the charge. I can only receive what is freely given.

Reyes shifts, uncomfortable again, like the universe is asking him to have a soul on company time.

MR. REYES:
We’re not… saints. This is Vegas.

The Comet nods.

THE COMET:
Yes. That is why it matters when you choose empathy here. It is expensive.

gabro (NARRATION):
That hits me because it’s true. Being kind in a kind world is easy. Being kind in a world that keeps daring you to be a piece of shit, that’s a flex.

Saint looks at me.

Not joking now.

SAINT CHARDONNAY:
You okay.

gabro:
No. But I’m funny about it.

SAINT CHARDONNAY:
Good. Keep that. Don’t let the world turn you into a dickhead.

Reyes clears his throat, trying to regain control.

MR. REYES:
So what do you want from us.

The Comet looks right at Reyes.

THE COMET:
One thing.

Reyes braces like a man about to be asked for vulnerability.

THE COMET:
Be gentle. On purpose. For one day.

Saint laughs once, sharp.

SAINT CHARDONNAY:
Oh, that’s evil.

gabro:
That’s harder than counting cards, babe.

Reyes squints.

MR. REYES:
You want us to… be nice.

THE COMET:
I want you to notice the ones you would normally ignore.

He places the humming chip down again.

THE COMET:
If you do, my ship can leave. If you do not, I will remain, and you will continue to be tired in ways you cannot name.

gabro (NARRATION):
That is a threat, but like, poetic.

Saint leans back, lashes fluttering.

SAINT CHARDONNAY:
Fine. I’ll play your little empathy game, E.T. But if I cry, I’m suing you.

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SCENE 6, THE EMPATHY GAME, DISGUISED AS A SHITSHOW

I keep dealing.

But the energy changes.

Reyes, who normally acts like feelings are contraband, starts doing tiny human things.

He stops barking at dealers and cocktail servers like they’re his personal servants, starts asking “you good?” in that gruff way men do when they’re trying to express concern about another person’s feelings.

Saint, who usually weaponizes shade for sport, starts using it like a shield.

Every time she sees someone get snapped at, she redirects, softly but firmly, like a diva with a halo made of knives.

Me, I do something I didn’t expect.

I slow down.

Not the dealing, the inside of me.

I start noticing faces.

Not in a creepy way, in a human way.

I see the exhausted guest who can’t stop rubbing their temples.

I see the young guy at the slots staring at his phone like it’s about to text him back, “you’re not a burden.”

I see the cocktail server moving too fast, smiling too hard, trying not to disappear.

And here’s the fucked up part.

The moment I notice them, I feel less alone.

Because loneliness is a liar. It tells you you’re the only one drowning, while the whole room is quietly holding its breath.

Saint catches me staring, smirks.

SAINT CHARDONNAY:
Oh my God, look at you, developing a heart. Disgusting.

gabro:
Shut up before I feel something and explode.

Reyes mutters, like he can’t believe his own mouth.

MR. REYES:
I told security to back off a bit. Let people breathe.

I look at him.

gabro:
Who are you and what did you do with Reyes?

He glares, but it’s softer.

MR. REYES:
Don’t make it weird.

Saint points at Reyes. He points back at her.

SAINT CHARDONNAY:
He’s making it weird, he’s evolving.

The Comet watches all of this like a scientist watching a miracle he didn’t think was real.

The humming chip’s note changes, gets warmer. The air feels less sharp.

gabro (NARRATION):
And nobody is giving speeches. Nobody is saying “be kind.” Nobody is posting about it.

We’re just… acting like humans.

Like we’re not made of stone.

And the crazy part is, it’s funny. It’s still filthy. It’s still Vegas.

Saint is still calling men “sir” with disrespect in her throat. Reyes is still pretending he’s not soft. I’m still swearing, but kindly.

But under it, there’s this weird little current.

Empathy, slipping in like a thief.

-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~

SCENE 7, THE PAYOFF

After an hour, the Comet places his last bet.

He loses on purpose. I can tell. He smiles like that was the point.

He stands, and the hum from the chip rises, then stops.

For one heartbeat, the high limit room flickers.

Not scary. Just… cosmic.

Like the building took a breath.

The Comet looks at the three of us, calm.

THE COMET:
Thank you.

Saint crosses her arms.

SAINT CHARDONNAY:
You’re welcome, space daddy, now go save your planet.

Reyes shakes his head.

MR. REYES:
Are we going to remember any of this?

The Comet considers.

THE COMET:
You will remember it the next time you are about to be cruel.

The Comet nods once, like a blessing, then turns and walks away.

As he leaves the pit, the air feels lighter, like someone opened a window inside my chest.

Saint watches him go, then looks at me.

SAINT CHARDONNAY:
So what did we learn?

gabro:
Don’t.

SAINT CHARDONNAY:
Say it.

gabro:
No.

SAINT CHARDONNAY:
Say it, bitch.

I roll my eyes, because I refuse to be sincere without a fight.

gabro:
Fine. Maybe… kindness is a radical fight.

Saint grins.

SAINT CHARDONNAY:
What else?

gabro:
And noticing people is sexy.

SAINT CHARDONNAY:
That’s my boy.

Reyes exhales, almost smiling.

MR. REYES:
Get back to work.

gabro (NARRATION):
I deal the next hand.

And for the first time in a while, it doesn’t feel like I’m just surviving.

It feels like I’m part of something, even if it’s messy, even if it’s Vegas, even if the universe is rude.

Because empathy doesn’t fix the world.

But it makes the world less lonely.

And in a city built on loneliness, that’s a revolution.

🍒🎰🧃🌈🫦🎲🫦🌈🧃🎰🍒

Tip if you want more filthy sci-fi Vegas sermons that accidentally make you feel human.

👇

🍒🎰🧃🌈🫦🎲🫦🌈🧃🎰🍒