In 1947, in small Las Vegas, the desert was never further away than a kid's bicycle ride from home. You could die out there. An ex-GI with skills that were valued by bookies could make a good living. In 1951, sixty miles up the road, the feds began exploding atom bombs. Over the next ten years, they exploded about 100 atom bombs. Once people who lived in Vegas saw their first fifty or sixty atom bomb blasts, why didn't they run away? Those who stayed were the founders of the Vegas we know today. They had a sort of jitter in them. Even the bookies felt it and they were typically supremely calm people. Meanwhile, the next fifty years were an unending construction boom.

Showgirl Marilyn had memories that endeared her to the staff of The Las Vegas Mental Health Clinic. She knew more than they did about Xanax. They knew it. Tony's big brother Chris and his friends did not respect Las Vegas's mighty cowboy Sheriff. He knew it. The kids would win their battle with him. Tony was a Keno writer, a dead-end casino job in a dying game. Keno led Tony to a small neighborhood located next to the Strip. Within that area, two blocks from The Flamingo resort, was a clothing optional apartment complex. With above ground nuclear explosions finished, residents there made do with the next best thing, the radiation pouring off nearby high voltage power lines. At the same time, nudism also might protect them from the vibes of the Strip, a quick walk up the street. We hoped so. Otherwise we might have had to move away.