Ryan Quinn Flanagan

by Horror Sleaze Trash on September 12, 2017

Ryan Quinn Flanagan is a Canadian-born author residing in Elliot Lake, Ontario, Canada with his wife and many bears that rifle through his garbage.  His work can be found both in print and online in such places as: Evergreen Review, Horror Sleaze Trash, The New York Quarterly, Dead Snakes, Red Fez, and The Oklahoma Review.






Fremont Street Storm Trooper


Fremont Street is always hopping.

Even in the morning.

There are slots in the kitsch shops

and restaurants so that you never have

to stop gambling.  This is America on steroids.

Music blaring out of everywhere so that

you become oblivious to it after a while.

And of course, the constant hustles.

And everyone expects a tip for everything.

Ask directions, they hold out their hand.

A storm trooper in full Star Wars garb

is playing the flamenco guitar.  Then he starts

playing the Star Wars theme song.  I am suddenly cognizant

of the fact that this is the only place in the world

where this is likely going on.  As we are leaving Fremont

and making our way back down the strip,

the storm trooper speeds by on his motorbike

with his guitar slung over his back.  Still dressed as a storm trooper. 

Making a right off the strip before

speeding away.





Gemini’s Suck


One black girl working the towel kiosk

by the pool at the Luxor

tells another black girl working with her

that she is a Gemini.

Some skinny white kid working with them

says: Gemini’s suck!

I’m a Gemini too, says the second black girl.

I know, answers the skinny white kid,

that is why they suck.

Both black girls are playfully angry.

They seem to like the white boy.

And he wants one or both of them.

Like pulling at the pigtails of the girls back in grade school

so they can pretend to be terse with you.


It is Spring.  Even in the desert.

The birds aren’t the only ones having

at it.





5 Cent Beers


Sounds great.  Especially in this dry desert heat. 

Large banners advertising it everywhere and many pretty girls

handing out cards to lure you in. I imagine it like walking into the tiger enclosure

at the zoo without any training.  You don’t work there and are not

another tiger, but you somehow still expect things to go well. 

And we are on a sky bridge over the strip. Very windy. By the demolition site

of the old Riviera.  The Riv.  Such a shame that they’re tearing

all the cool mob joints down.  That’s history there.  In a place without

too much history.  The first high rise on the strip. Liberace cut the ribbon.

Dean Martin once owned a 10% stake.  And now it is rubble.

And there are 5 cent beers.  And we have all lost something even if

it was never ours to begin with.





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