"Vegas is built on sin and vice," says Chris, leading somehow to the idea that it possibly provides an important service for "the rest of the nation." Chris and Maya, on the basis of this sound political argument, completely reverse their positions and head to the sex party. They are introduced to a bunch of swinger-looking swingers in a limousine. Maya says she's a substitute teacher (which is A. not a job, and B. not hers for long, after this) and Chris says, "I do real estate." Which I'm guessing is a not-job on the level of substitute teaching, however he means it. But I like to imagine it means that on weekdays, he's a building. King Swinger David, about whom it is all, grills them on -- yeah, pretty much if they're going to let him fuck them. And by "them," I mean Maya, and by "him," I mean David and his creepy weird friends and wife. He gives a speech about how "when you see what you want, you'll know" and the camera cuts to everyone as if he's giving them a pep talk. It's cultalicious. Cut to limo exterior -- this is the saddest part, sadder than the swinging itself -- it's a stretch white Hummer (heh). Which is, of course, so tacky as hell as to be kind of grand. Like, say, Donatella Versace. Across the top of the windshield it says "JET SET V.I.P." Isn't that sad?
The Trash Heap are now trying to win back their money at the Baccarat table: a game that affords you no chance to use your brain whatsoever, and only exists for stupid people to donate money to the casino. Even more so than all the other games. They've asked for another $30,000 in credit, and Tom of course gives it to them, saying, "No more after this," just like when he gave them the first $30,000. Tim sets us up for Cardgate by explaining that while "Baccarat is the only game" that you're allowed to bend, spindle, or otherwise mutilate the cards in (it's a tradition that lives on in the excitement it gives to a certain emotionally stunted kind of man that likes to ruin things), there's a limit to how far this can go because "the integrity of the game has to always be maintained." Snerk. Like so much of Vegas and gambling stuff, I don't get why you would let that go on happening, but since it's not a real game, I guess they make the money back. Do casinos get a discount on packs of cards? I hope so.
Geoff tells us that they rip because they must rip, because Baccarat is such a boring game. Why are you playing it, jackass? Tim and Tom notice that it's kind of hard for surveillance to see what the cards say, and Tim explains to Zack something someone just told them, that it's a problem because of their gaming license scenario, that if the Trash Heap were to win money with unreadable or unrecordable cards, that could be seen as collusion on the part of the casino. Good point, whoever told Tim that because he couldn't come up with it on his own. Flash back down to the table for a second to show us that they are seriously betting and playing with the tiniest little ripped-up pieces of card you've ever seen, even arranging some card bits back into card-like configurations where the cards should go, with maps of green cracks all through them where the table beneath shows through. That's funny. Surveillance calls down to the pit boss, who graciously walks over and says, quite fucking clearly and politely, "Sir, I cannot have you ripping the cards like that; they can't see them up in Surveillance." They acknowledge this and he walks away, and then someone asks Geoff what the guy said. He responds that he doesn't know, and they all start laughing, but he's serious: "Something about seeing the cards." Under the mask of Drakkar Noir class, there's a sharper, uglier hint of something: when authority-type employees, i.e. people that are not paid to directly kiss your ass, speak to Geoff, he physically cannot hear them talking. Can you imagine what these people were like in high school? "My dad could buy and sell your ass, old man. Do you even know who my father is?"