*NOTE: Some names, locations, techniques and information have been withheld due to their sensitive nature.
You often don’t realize you’re in a fight for your soul until you’re deep in it.
As my loyal readers and viewers have realized, I have been fairly off the grid for roughly the past week.
Why?
It was time for my annual trip to Las Vegas, but unlike previous trips, this one was happening with the looming threat of the Iran War, death threats and the IRGC. Things were different for this working-class man this time around.
While I’m not going to get into specifics, there’s no question that due to a heightened alert status and ever-evolving threat matrices, precautions that never had been taken before were going to be necessary. It turns out some people aren’t fans of my outspoken ways, and unlike people who claim to be “threatened” by blue hair liberals (literally comical to even consider dangerous), being under the threat from a state-backed actor is a totally different ball game.
No box could go unchecked.
A look at me standing in front of a Las Vegas sign while in Las Vegas. ((Credit: David Hookstead))
Wheels up to Las Vegas for a working-class vacation.
The first decision that was made was that I would move to the airport under the cover of darkness.
There are a couple of reasons why this was deemed the best option. First, it allows me to move when the city and airport aren’t buzzing yet.
Second, the streets being mostly empty provide far more tactical advantages than if they’re crowded and something goes wrong.
The plan didn’t survive me making it to the front door.
Immediately upon exiting the Hookstead Compound (location classified) with my bags, I spotted two military-age males that I’d never seen before. Keep in mind the entire point of the movements and schedule is that NOBODY is supposed to be around.
I know enough about the people who live in my vicinity to recognize most of them. I’ve never seen these two men in my life. It’s a shocking sight to behold, but they’re way more shocked to see me than vice versa.
A decision had to be made in a half of a second over whether or not this was finally it. Would the entire operation be aborted before entering the vehicle for the airport?
Ultimately, sometimes the only way to fix a problem is to go clean through it (another lesson that some people would be wise to follow for Iran).
I closed the space quickly, deemed the two men not an immediate threat showing hostile intent and got on the move as quickly as possible.
As planned, the streets are completely empty and we’re able to get into the airport without issues. From that point, the goal was simple:
Blend in as much as possible, go unnoticed and get seated on the plane as quickly as possible. Every minute spent in the open at the airport is a minute where nobody is in complete control of the situation. That’s far from ideal.
Little did I know things would only get stranger from here.
I chose a seat as close to the cockpit as possible. Unusual for someone with my blue-collar roots? For sure, but a necessity given the stakes.
What seemed like a routine and normal flight became very different in a matter of seconds. For the first time in my life, I was on a plane where a metal gate was closed off up front by the cockpit without explanation.
That’s right.
There was a metal gate rolled out making the front portion of the plane an impenetrable fortress. I tried to get a look past the gate, but found it difficult. My only guess was that one of the pilots was out of the cockpit for some reason, but I was never able to confirm that.
Fortunately, the plane touched down without further incident.
The working-class man’s Las Vegas vacation was underway.
Just as quickly as I’d gotten on the plane to Vegas, I disappeared into the crowd blending in again. Nobody knows me, and I don’t know them. The less attention the better. We’re not chasing clout. We’re chasing demons that have haunted us for a long time, and doing it while operating to survive.
Things were about to get weird (noticing a trend) very quickly.
My driver appeared like a normal woman attempting to make small talk.
It was anything but normal.
For some unexplained reason, this woman starts talking to me about sex and a sex museum. At one point, she starts asking if I like sex.
Am I on a hidden camera show? Am I being pranked? I start making very measured and careful statements assuming whatever I say is absolutely being recorded. I can’t wait to get the hell out of this taxi as soon as possible. A working-class man might not have much in life, but we do have one thing:
Common sense, and common sense dictates asking a stranger about sex in a vehicle is about as strange as it gets.
I get out at the Cosmopolitan in Las Vegas with one clear goal in mind:
Get to the blackjack table as quickly as I can.
I dumped my stuff into my room, which for a working-class guy who had to fight for everything in life, I can tell you was pretty shocking. It featured a massive bedroom, a living room area, huge walk-in shower, a hot tub and a balcony overlooking Las Vegas.
I’m not going to lie to you all. It was epic. I guess life occasionally hands the downtrodden a win in life.
To the tables I went.
I pulled out a roll of working-class money and set it down at a blackjack table in the high-limit room. Now, some of you might be asking, “David, what is a guy like you doing in the high-limit room? That doesn’t seem like it’s your speed.”
Fair question, and the answer is simple:
Privacy.
The high-limit room at the Cosmo is one of the nicest in Las Vegas, and it’s also fairly secluded.
Remember, I have significant threats I have to worry about, and unlike the unhinged clowns roaming around, the people who want me dead actually have the means to carry it out.
Head on a swivel.
I sit down at a double-deck table, and immediately go on a nice little run earning more money in a matter of minutes than a regular working-class guy does over the course of a few weeks.
When you don’t come from much, you know when to walk away with the win the universe gifted you (this energy won’t last for long). I push back from the table for the time being and keep the operation rolling.
Next stop? Stage Door for a hot dog and a cheap beer. The hot dog, while not amazing, is certainly worth the money and it’s also a tradition. It hits the spot, and I soon get word a second seasoned Las Vegas operator has arrived. For the sake of the story, he is identified as VO2. VO1, another seasoned Las Vegas operator, won’t arrive until the next day.
Stage Door in Las Vegas is known for its cheap hot dogs and beer. ((Credit: David Hookstead))
From here, things progress rather normally. We hit up the arts district for a couple beers and did a little exploring.
I was about to hit my next unexpected hurdle, and while I’m on a high alert status, I didn’t see this kind of roadblock coming.
I decide to head back for some more high-limit blackjack, and am promptly informed the casino needs extra information from me. I’m not going to share the specific information in a public setting, but it appears the amount of working-class money that I’ve put on the table in one day has possibly triggered some money laundering tripwires.
Me? The working-class guy from rural Wisconsin? You have to be kidding me.
After a brief conversation with the casino bosses, it’s smoothed over and the gambling continues.
Remember the win I had early in the day? That’s wiped out in about an hour, and then go ahead and tack on a few paychecks on top of that.
Now, this is where most people would start panicking. Those kinds of swings at the tables break most people, but most people aren’t from my rural Wisconsin background.
I’m in the fight, and while the IRGC hasn’t taken its shot yet, the casino is drawing financial blood.
Just like knowing when to walk away when you win, you also need to know when to not chase losses. I cut the cord, push back and live to fight another day.
I grab a burger on my way back to the room, crush it and pass out as soon as my head hits the pillow.
Enjoying a late night burger at the Cosmo in Las Vegas. ((Credit: David Hookstead))
Day two brings chilling phone call.
Day two started like any other day in Las Vegas. All was quiet in the streets and casinos and people were still asleep by the time I was on the move with enough caffeine in my system to kill a rhino. I guess I’m just built differently. If chugging Celsius was a skill, I’d be the Tom Brady of getting it done.
The day started with biscuits and gravy at Ellis Island, followed by getting kicked in the shorts at the blackjack tables. Fortunately, the losses this time around aren’t nearly as vicious, but it’s still not great. I’m now deep in a gambling hole. Not great, but it’s only a loss once you actually leave the city.
What happened next nobody could see coming…….most of all me.
Ellis Island serves a mean biscuits and gravy. ((Credit: David Hookstead))
The bat phone buzzes to life, and I see a name that stops me dead in my tracks. I know something serious must be happening for me to be receiving this call, and I now have a major issue:
I can’t take this call outside of a completely secure location.
My hotel room, which would get the job done, is too far away and time is of critical importance.
The decision is made for VO2 and myself to relocate to a closer secure location, and with the doorway secure, I answer the phone.
A serious flow of information starts flooding in.
Seconds feel like hours.
There are times when years pass without anything happening, and then there are times where decisions are made in seconds that can change everything.
This is the latter.
I try to process the information as quickly and as efficiently as I can, and it ultimately boils down to one call:
Go or don’t go.
You could hear a pin drop in the secure room. Based on the information I was hearing, I simply was not confident with going.
It’s a no go with the door left open for a decision to be made at a later time.
With my head spinning with a million thoughts, I get word that VO1 has touched down and is on his way to the rendezvous point. After a brief conversation, we head over to Ole Red (Blake Shelton’s establishment) for nachos and a beer.
The nachos were absolute fire. The best nachos I’ve ever had? No, but definitely very solid and delicious with some added brisket.
Next up was Golden Tiki in the Chinatown area of Las Vegas. Golden Tiki is another tradition every single year for us. It’s an outstanding tiki bar with a unique vibe, and some bathroom wallpaper that is a bit shocking at first sight. Seeing as how this is a family website, I won’t share further details. I have myself a couple tiki drinks, and both are well worth the money.
The Golden Tiki in Las Vegas. ((Credit: David Hookstead))
As a working-class guy, I can really only afford cheap domestic beers, but this is vacation. Let’s live a little. Plus, with the death threats, I simply can’t be living for the future. Much like fighting the demons, any day could be the last, and we’re leaving it all out on the field.
Now, there is one location in Las Vegas I’ve been more than eager to get to, and with the full trio locked in, it’s time to execute the plan.
Hogs & Heifers.
For those of you who don’t know, Hogs is an absolutely insane Las Vegas institution. It’s not for the faint of heart or easily offended. It’s a bar for true American patriots and it has the most entertaining bartenders in Vegas by orders of magnitude. They’ll insult you in the most vulgar way possible, but it’s all in the name of good fun.
It was closed last year, and that was the first time since discovering the gem that we weren’t able to go. That needed to change and it did.
It’s now located at the Plaza while its new permanent home is built.
The bartenders were as rowdy and fun as ever. While it’s an outpost location, it felt just like the old Hogs so many have come to know and love, and the Coors Banquets were as cold as ever.
Oh, did I mention the insults and jabs were flying in all directions? It felt good to be back, and as always, you meet some insane characters in there.
The boys in Las Vegas enjoying some cold Coors Banquet. ((Credit: David Hookstead))
We rotate between playing blackjack and hopping in and out of the bar as the day stabilizes following the phone call in the secure location.
I’m actually feeling fairly good about it as I head back to my hotel room, but I’m also starving. I order room service and get hit with one hell of a surprise:
The full room service experience is a $160 minimum spend.
I honestly think what I’m hearing can’t possibly be true. I’m trying to order a wrap. I don’t need the full room service experience. Bring it to me in a bag and a plastic container and I’ll be fine. That’s exactly what ended up happening.
How is a working-class guy supposed to be able to afford a $160 minimum spend? It’s simply not possible. We’re lucky just to have food on the table. Forget the fancy stuff. Save that for the millionaires and billionaires, not guys like myself.
First, I have to operate under new procedures thanks to the Iranians. Second, I am gutted at the table. Third, I am reminded of just how blue-collar I am when ordering room service. The losses keep piling up.
Having said that, the wrap was delicious and the portion sizes were excellent.
My surprisingly good wrap ordered from room service at the Cosmo in Las Vegas. ((Credit: David Hookstead))
Day three: bring out the machine guns.
Tuesday started just like any other day. I filmed a short war update and crushed a couple Celsius cans, and the vibes were high.
I’m also very excited for one very simple reason:
The schedule has a portion blocked off for letting it rip with some machine guns.
Generally speaking, I hate indoor shooting ranges and shooting ranges in general. I had a private outdoor one at my house growing up, and the idea of strangers with guns around me at a range has never been something I’ve really enjoyed. I know how good I am with a gun (most working-class men from Wisconsin can say the same), but I don’t know how good these random people are or what stupid stuff they might do. Add in the fact foreign tourists don’t know an AK-47 from a Beretta M9, and I think you get the point.
Well, when in Vegas, you do things you don’t do at home. I grabbed a PKM machine gun and PPSh-41 Soviet submachine gun.
Battlefield Vegas offers a variety of great gun options. ((Credit: David Hookstead))
Both were absolutely awesome. The PKM was shockingly light, and the rate of fire was exceptional.
The PPSh-41 was cool mostly because it’s the submachine gun the Soviets used in WWII against the Germans.
I wouldn’t say it’s a particularly impressive submachine gun or special, but it can’t be beat from a historical standpoint if you’re looking for foreign WWII guns. I can’t recommend both enough if you ever get a chance to shoot them. You won’t regret it. We also met some cool Welsh dudes at the range who absolutely loved America. It was a humbling reminder just how good we have it here in the USA. Foreigners would give anything to be part of our club, and none of us would give it up for anything.
Next, the trio filed over to El Cortez where I had a very mediocre bratwurst before, yet again, getting my wallet crushed at the blackjack tables.
I hope my wife is okay being solely responsible for the bills for the foreseeable future because this has turned into a catastrophic gambling nightmare.
What do you do when the world is against you and the demons are starting to sing? You numb the pain with a little Coors Banquet, and that’s exactly what we did by swinging by Hogs, where the bartenders were in rare form. I say that as a compliment. I can’t wait to visit next year once it’s in its final home. I can only imagine how glorious it will be.
The day wound down with a stop in the Arts District for a delicious espresso martini and some insanely good Mexican food, followed by a short stop at Ellis Island before closing beers at Stage Door. I eventually found myself back in the high-limit room with my blue-collar money (no money laundering concerns this time) and actually came out a little ahead. Slowly but surely, I’m crawling out of the hole I created.
However, my winning wasn’t the highlight of day three coming to an end. The dude sitting next to me at the table was hysterical. I legit couldn’t stop chuckling at every word coming out of this guy’s mouth, and a woman (I believe girlfriend but can’t say for sure) shows up and sits down next to him. Turns out she’s a former golf superstar and was at one point one of the top golfers in the world. Admittedly, I have no idea who she is, but I also couldn’t recognize any golfer other than maybe three or four. That’s a sport for rich people, and I’m anything but wealthy, no matter what the rumor mill says.
They were both a ton of fun, and then a Canadian showed up ripping cigs. What a night at the high-limit blackjack table. I wouldn’t have cared if I lost every penny because the dude was so funny that it made the whole thing entertaining, no matter the outcome. Fairly certain I also saw him tip several thousand dollars to the dealers in the time I was with him.
Day four: An unexpected vehicle nightmare.
Day four was the final full day in Las Vegas, and after breakfast and some more blackjack, we decided to catch a ride to Fremont.
We’re not 50 yards down the street when the right front tire of the vehicle blows out, and the driver declares an emergency. It’s in the worst possible location. We’re nowhere near a parking garage or the safety of a building.
Is this how it ends for me? Have plans been set in motion that can’t be stopped?
I don’t know and I’m definitely not going to wait to find out. VO1 and I bail out of the vehicle, and I start scanning in all directions for threats. I don’t see anything, but we’re completely in the open and exposed. Nowhere to run. Nowhere to hide. I took a look at the guy’s vehicle, and as VO1 noted, “His right tire is f****d.”
I peered over, and assessed the situation.
His right tire was completely destroyed. I don’t even understand what happened. I never heard a pop or any kind of blast.
It was fine when we entered the vehicle, and it was anything but fine now. Every second matters. The longer we stay exposed, the more risk we’re assuming.
A backup vehicle – a big black SUV – whisks in and we’re in it without hesitation racing towards where we’re going.
I still have absolutely no idea what happened with the original vehicle, and I doubt I ever will. Some questions are best left unasked.
We grab a couple beers and attempt to win some money. VO1 pulls an absurd four card blackjack split and hits it. The craziest part is it wasn’t the first time. He did the exact same thing earlier in the day at Ellis Island.
Two successful four card splits in one trip? Good luck replicating that at any point in the near future.
I also noticed at one point in the night that my phone all of a sudden had a crack in the screen protector, which VO2 and myself found extremely odd. It was never dropped and never left alone. None of us could explain it. Maybe there was a perfectly ordinary explanation. Maybe there wasn’t. Either way, it became one more strange thing on a trip that seemed determined to keep getting stranger.
Fortunately, the night didn’t feature any more unexpected surprises, and instead focused on some honest conversations about some theories we have about relationships and life. Those aren’t my stories alone to share, so I won’t out of respect for the other parties involved.
A look at my nachos at Ole Red in Las Vegas. ((Credit: David Hookstead))
Day five: time to exfil and get home.
I wake up, bang out another video update for the Hookheads (what my fans call themselves on YouTube) and grab a stack of cash to hit the high-limit room one final time before leaving.
That’s when there was an unexpected change of plans.
I’m well over a thousand miles from home, and I get a call learning that my HVAC system is still not only not fixed, but getting the company to show up and do it has become a nightmare for my wife, who is running point at home.
It’s enraging. We’re now weeks into this situation without a resolution, and my patience has officially run out.
Instead of spending some blue-collar money one last time at the tables, I’m now dealing with this issue and then I run into a major computer problem.
What seemed like a successful trip is unraveling into a nightmare as I sit on the one-yard line waiting to punch the ball in.
You remember the start about a fight for your soul? I successfully avoided detection in Las Vegas (major win), clawed back some losses to an acceptable point (huge win) and was ready to roll one last time.
One final engagement at the tables.
Instead I’m in a hotel room dealing with infuriating nonsense.
It’s not the bright moments when you have to remember to save your soul. It’s the dark ones, and that’s what I’m left doing as the clock ticks down.
I eventually get enough of it smoothed out, but now I have to race to catch my plane. With a Burger King burger and some fries in my stomach, it’s time to go home.
I spent five days dancing with the demons, battling the highest stakes I’ve ever gambled and made it out alive.
Little did I know the biggest fight yet was only hours away.
I enjoyed some Burger King at the airport leaving Las Vegas. ((Credit: David Hookstead))
The plane ride straight from the depths of Hell.
In the final stretch of my plane ride home I start to notice something that I don’t think many other people are:
The plane is flying in a holding pattern.
We’re not getting any closer to our final destination. We’re holding.
A brief holding pattern is one thing. A holding pattern that carries on for an extended period of time is rarely a good thing.
Then the pilot comes over the PA system and gives us all the devastating news. The plane is being diverted to a completely different airport due to the final destination having a ground closure.
You have to be kidding me, right? I just made it out of Las Vegas alive and am supposed to be landing back home in minutes.
Instead, we’re bound for an airport much further away from my home, and while that’s bad enough, what’s looming is an experience so hellish that I can only pray I never have to repeat it again.
Once the plane lands, we’re just stuck on a runway for hours. It feels like Lord of the Flies. Discontent is growing. Now, I will say none of this is the fault of the crew. I’m not blaming them. I’m blaming the universe.
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We finally pull into a parking spot…..that is nowhere near a gate. The next problem? A stairs vehicle is blocking the bus from coming to get us.
It just drags on and on. I’ve seen darkness in life. I’m not even sure what words could accurately sum up this situation. I want to be anywhere else on the planet right now.
Eventually, we get off and are unloaded in a terminal to find a way home. Absolute disaster on all levels.
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I make it home and my wonderful wife has pizza waiting. It’s the small victories that really make you smile. The highest of highs. The lowest of lows. All in a span of a few days. I fought the demons and won only to be dragged back down in the closing moments. Fortunately, I was able to pry victory away from the brutal jaws of defeat.
The look of a man who is completely exhausted after a horrific plane situation. ((Credit: David Hookstead))
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What comes next? I don’t know, but I do know someday I will lose this fight. That day just isn’t today. We ride again at dawn. Let me know your thoughts at David.Hookstead@outkick.com.