#Non-payment of rent

[lawofficeofryansshipp]

Martin County Eviction Attorneys | 561.699.0399

Martin County Eviction Lawyers If you’re a property owner in Martin County, Florida, grappling with tenant problems, consider Law Office of Ryan S. Shipp, PLLC for reliable legal support. Our seasoned team specializes in both residential and commercial evictions, adept at handling the nuances of landlord-tenant law and delivering prompt, effective solutions. Why Opt For Shipp Law For Eviction…

[twistedappletree]

guess whose car just broke down lmao

[philologique]

"the most common reason for evictions in the US is compulsive hoarding" is so obviously untrue i'm-- what.

[lolothesilly]

:D

they should invent a job that doesn't affect your schedule or energy level that you don't have to go to if you don't want but you still get paid

[himblebo]

Should I sign up for seeking arrangement again

[heartavenue]

જ⁀➴ Things To Script: Politics Edition

Yes, this is an American aesthetic. Yes it is because I am American.

Elections are completely fair, not rigged, no scandals, fair.

There are no two of the "lesser evils" all candidates are genuinely good people and they want nothing but the best for the country.

All candidates represent the American people, if the American people find that the elected official is unfit they will be REMOVED (yes this is Trump shade.)

There is separation of church and state.

Americans are more open-minded about candidates from parties other than the Democratic and Republican party

(should I just say script out conservatism in general? I mean this is your reality you can if you want!)

We have no official language and ALL languages, cultures, backgrounds are represented and have the ability to be taught.

DEATH to the electoral college.

Fake news, propaganda, lies, non fact checked information cannot make it's way towards journalism.

News outlets have to report TRUE, unbiased information (I'm looking at you FOX)

No trade wars...

America does not involve itself in colonialism, imperialism, militarism, etc (mainly because those things do NOT exist.)

Supreme Court Justices do not rule for life.

There is an age limit to the presidency (this is subjective but personally I don't want an 80 year old president)

The minimum wage is increased from $7.25 (can you believe it's still that) to $20 (or whatever you prefer)

Free healthcare across ALL fifty states.

Planned Parenthood is in every state, providing safe abortions, sex ed, contraceptives, etc to everyone who is in need.

Abortions can NEVER be banned.

Free childcare across ALL fifty states.

Our politicians are civil, cordial, respectful, kind, intelligent (another dig on...let's just say a few people)

World peace

All oppressed/colonized people are FREE and live without any colonial influence.

Affordable prescription drugs.

Baby formula is affordable (this isn't really political but no formula should cost FIFTY BUCKS?)

Gay marriage is legal across all states and can NOT be revoked.

No fascism, Nazism, white supremacy, zionism, any bigoted idealogy in general does NOT exist.

Books are not banned/ can't be banned.

No fracking.

Free college.

No discrimination against ANYONE no matter their race, ethnicity, nationality, origin, sexuality, gender identity, etc.

Rape, sexual assault, pedophilia does not exist.

Crime in general doesn't exist.

Free therapy across the country.

The government actually WORKS to make this country better.

ICE does NOT exist.

Federal assistance programs can NOT be cut.

No wealth gap (no top 1% and the struggling 99%)

No homelessness.

No poverty.

Maternity leave is LONGER (isn't it like 2-6 weeks? come on now...)

Court rulings that have been passed can NOT be overturned (think roe v. wade)

No pink tax!

First time homeowners receive a grant from the government to help them with payments.

Credit scores isn't an issue, anyone regardless of their wealth can purchase a new car/home/rent an apartment.

Native Americans are seen as the true indigenous people of the Americas an they are incredibly respected, the land is returned back to them.

Follow up: Columbus Day does not exist.

The KKK doesn't exist...or MAGA or TRUMP!

No anti-vaxxers (get vaccinated, no they don't cause autism and no they aren't chipping you or whatever right wingers think)

They are laws put in place to protect our planet, nature reserves, recycling is MANDATORY, wildlife parks, etc.

History is NOT erased and is actively taught/encouraged in schools.

Guns...do I even need to explain at this point...

Immigrants are WELCOME and there is no stigma, discrimination or stereotypes about them either!

This country is extremely diplomatic we are on good terms with all countries, every meeting with them goes well and can only strengthen our allyship.

DEI EVERYWHERE!

everyone is WOKE, I mean unprecedented woke, profoundly woke EVERYONE GET MORE WOKE NOW!!!

No wars.

There is RESEARCH done on women's health (why don't we know anything about endometriosis fr...)

Mount Rushmore doesn't exist

Okay that's all I could come up with for now! Buh bye my loves!

[crippled-peeper]

I’m short $400 rent this month and I don’t have my disability payments yet. They are supposed to do the final interview for me next week (I won the court case, now they just want to make sure I meet the other non disability qualifications)

If anyone can help me not lose my housing that would be really awesome and nice and I can even pay you back when I get my back payments. I know things are tough for most people so thanks for reading.

Here is my Venmo

Here is my PayPal

Thank you 🥰

[erwinsvow]

jack abbot sugar baby!reader, im clawing at the cage of my enclosure, this is so good!!! please i need more

thank you!!!! for some reason that’s what I was thinking about at my sisters graduation all day lmfao. welllll i think this deserves a real fic and after my exams I will write it but i think he realizes that he just really needs a purpose outside of work and when he starts doing all the things he does to help your life move a little smoother and take care of you because there’s no one else to do it and you neglect yourself almost as much as he neglects himself—so it’s kind of like. idk a soothing sort of routine for him. to take care of you and it comes very naturally to him. you have loans and don’t eat as much as you should because you don’t grocery shop as often as you should and you spend all your time studying. so he likes making you meals and sending you money for coffee (he sends $50 and says it’s for your breakfast and you go ? for the whole week?) and then it kind of goes a little further. your shitty laptop stops working after using it non stop for the last eight years or so and one day he just shows up with a new one. there’s squeaky door hinges and your shower pressure is terrible and your window won’t open all the way and then those things are just.. fixed! none of your clothes seem right for this interview you really want to do good at and he just… gives you a card and says to pick out something nice. then maybe a little bit further—rent is paid each month and there’s payments to your loans (the balance, not just the interest) that take you a while to catch onto. when you confront him about it and get kind of weepy because of how nice it is he just brings you in for a hug and kisses your forehead and tilts your chin (MANGO) and says don’t worry about it kid.

the kind of student is up to the reader to decide obvi ill bite & project and say she’s a second year medical student but she can be anything at all. and what he likes about you is that you’re funny just like him, once you stop being nervous. but you never stop being nervous around him (and he likes that a lot too. thinks about bringing you out of your shell and what he can do to make you comfortable around him. and none of those thoughts are in the bible.) likes when you text him throughout his shift of the leftovers from last night that you ate for dinner and what time you go to bed. you’re always up working when he gets home and those two hours before he falls asleep are some of his favorite of the day (maybe because he doesn’t feel like going to the roof when he’s got you waiting for him at home.) he says he’ll help you study after his shift but at 8am you two end up tangled in sheets or fucking on the couch or against the door and then fall asleep right after for a bit. when he wakes up you’re always working or studying but you put your laptop away when he wakes up and he really, really likes that. it’s supposed to be no strings tied, let me take care of you and make you cum so I forget all my own problems type of a thing, and it works for a while. until it doesn’t. surprise surprise you’ve been in love this whole time trying to awkwardly figure out how to tell him and he’s trying to explain himself going i pay for two rents even though you’re always over at my place because i didn’t want to make you uncomfortable and-

[personalmoshiakh]

help me cover an unexpected gap in fixed income

so tl;dr, my last student loan payment was at the start of June. i’m too sick to continue with tertiary education, so there won’t be any more. my next regular, non-deducted UC payment (welfare benefits) is at the end of July.

this is a serious problem.

i’m disabled, long-term unemployable due to that, and estranged from birth family. my only regular income is from state benefits.

rent is covered, B”H, so i’m looking to raise £1200 to cover me for July, plus extra margin just in case.

£0/£1200

if you can’t afford to donate, please boost! thank you 💙

[lawofficeofryansshipp]

Eviction for Rent Arrears in Florida | 561.699.0399

Eviction for Rent Arrears in Florida The eviction journey, while a path no landlord wishes to take, becomes necessary when rent remains unpaid. Chapter 83 of the Florida Statutes lays down a procedural roadmap for this, designed to balance the rights of both landlords and tenants. This cursory guide dives into the nuances of initiating an eviction, emphasizing adherence to legal…

[blackmagictrait]

anyway

"When you contribute UGC [user generated content], you grant to EA, its licensors and licensees a non-exclusive, perpetual, transferable, worldwide, sublicensable license to use, host, store, reproduce, modify, create derivative works, publicly perform, publicly display or otherwise transmit and communicate the UGC, or any portion of it, in any manner or form and in any medium or forum, whether now known or later devised, without notice, payment or attribution of any kind to you or any third party. You also grant to all other users who can access and use your UGC on an EA Service the right to use, copy, modify, display, perform, create derivative works from, and otherwise communicate and distribute your UGC on or through the relevant EA Service without further notice, attribution or compensation to you." - ea terms of service "Mods must be non-commercial and distributed free-of-charge. Mods cannot be sold, licensed, or rented for a fee, nor can Mods contain features that would support monetary transactions of any type." - official sims 4 policy on mods

free cc resources:

my free cc tag

** all sfs folders

dollhouse mafia * telegram group (instant messaging app), requires phone number to sign up but you can set your # to private. 100% safe and my most used resource (read the rules!!!)

ts4rebels > direct link to vault * new site, new link

paysitesmustbedestroyed * it's back bby!!

simsgalaxy * vk page, requires account but is free (**good for sl conversions)

kemono.party (for patreon/boosty releases) * use an adblock on this one!!

losts4cc * not a pirating site, just an archive of cc that's been deleted/lost

verycursedstuff * for curseforge stuff!!

🏴‍☠️🏴‍☠️🏴‍☠️

[enflixx]

Off script - jake sim

summary: Burned out and buried in student debt, you’re ready to quit acting after years of side jobs and constant rejection. But just as you’re about to give up, your agent calls and turns out you’ve been considered for the lead in a new Netflix series, Dandelion Season, alongside rising star Jake Sim. As you read the script on your walk home, something you thought you’d lost flickers back to life: hope

genre: fluff

warning(s): none!

word count: 920

The low hum of a blender buzzes through the thin drywall before your alarm even goes off.

You groan into your pillow. Another morning, another reminder that your run down studio apartment is basically a glorified closet with a toilet. You blink up at the water stain on the ceiling, a spreading patch like a bruise you’ve learned to ignore.

The phone screen lights up.

7:12 a.m. No new casting calls. No callbacks. Just a fresh rejection email from that micro-budget student film. The one where you auditioned to play “College Girl Who Screams and Dies.”

You drag yourself out of bed, bones aching like you’re twice your age. The floor is cold under your feet. You flick the light on in the kitchen where one flickers and one’s been out for weeks. And of course there is no money to replace the bulb, especially when rent’s due and your last paycheck already vanished into your student loan payment.

You crack an egg into a pan and watch it sizzle off-center. Your reflection in the microwave door looks hollow. Your brain runs on a loop:

What the hell was I thinking?Why did I major in acting of all things?Why UCSD, of all places?

But you were proud back then. A part of their theatre program. Full of hope and ambition. The campus was filled with palm trees and promises. Where everyone said you were “the one who’d make it.”

You sip your instant coffee, bitter and clumpy, and mutter to yourself, “Guess everyone was wrong.”

Your inbox is full of unsubscribed newsletters and payment reminders. One from Earnest reads: New Statement Ready Balance: $82,397.

You shut your laptop before it can suck the air out of your lungs again.

By 8:15 a.m., you’re walking to the café. You pass a billboard for a new rom-com, the lead actress looks like someone who went to your program. Or maybe she just looks like someone who made it.

You don’t feel like someone who made it.

The café smells like desperation and burnt espresso. Your apron is stiff with old stains. You fake your smile for a line of people who’ll never learn your name. One customer points at you like you’re a kiosk.

“I said iced, not hot. Can you fix it?”

You fix it. And you apologize. Twice.

No one tips.

When a kid elbows the table and ketchup flies onto your apron, the mom gasps, horrified. You just smile, dead-eyed.

“It’s okay,” you say. “Really. Happens all the time.”

You think about how you once paid $17,000 in tuition for a class called "Advanced Shakespeare in Movement" where you had to pretend to be a willow tree for thirty minutes. Now you’re taking orders from teenagers named Brooke who order “matcha with almond but like, not too matcha.”

By the time your shift ends, your feet are numb, your hands are dry from soap, and your will to live is somewhere in the floor drain beneath the espresso machine.

You walk home past an alley that smells like piss and old flowers. Your back aches. Your tote bag feels heavier with every step.

Your phone buzzes. Call from: Amanda (Agent).

You almost don’t answer. She’s probably going to offer you another non-union gig for “exposure.” Or a role as “Young Mom Who Cries in Bathroom” in some grimy short film.

But you pick up anyway.

“Hey,” you say, flat.

Amanda sounds like she just sprinted across town. “You’re not gonna believe this.”

You don’t respond. You’re too tired to play games.

“It’s a lead. I’m serious. Netflix. A YA romance series. Think The Summer I Turned Pretty but more grounded. Grittier. Twelve episodes. Working title: Dandelion Season.”

Your feet stop moving.

“What?”

“They want someone fresh. Someone who feels real. I sent them your Hulu self-tape, remember the one where you broke down in the last thirty seconds? They loved it. You’re on a shortlist for the lead. Bella.”

“Me?” you croak.

Amanda’s typing furiously in the background. “Script’s in your inbox. Read it tonight. Like tonight tonight.”

You pull out your phone, still standing on the sidewalk, under a flickering streetlight. Gmail. Subject: Dandelion Season Script: CONFIDENTIAL.

You tap it open, hands trembling.

“Oh,” Amanda adds, almost too casually. “And the male lead’s already cast.”

You brace yourself.

“Guess who.”

“Just tell me.”

“Jake Sim.”

You nearly laugh out loud. “Jake Sim Jake Sim?”

“Yup. Mr. Film Festival himself. They locked him. Word is, he asked for a co-star who could actually act.”

You sink onto a bench, heartbeat thudding. “I’m not… I mean, I’m not like him.”

“You don’t have to be. You just have to be you. Read the damn script.”

You hang up, stunned.

You Google him. Of course.

First image: him in a velvet suit, jaw sharp enough to slice through glass. He’s the kind of handsome that makes people click. The kind of person you thought you’d be standing next to in your twenties, not drooling over while wearing a sour milk-scented apron.

You scroll. Photos of him reading in a bookstore. Walking his dog. He’s beautiful. Effortless. Famous.

You’re... still trying.

You open the script.

The first line:

BELLA (V.O.): I think some people are meant to feel like they’re running late to their own life.

You sit with it.

And for the first time in months you don’t feel like you’re drowning.You feel like maybe, maybe, you still have a shot.

[femmefatalevibe]

Any tips on saving money?

Track your income/expenses. Knowing your monthly cash flow + essential and discretionary spending is the only sound starting point toward setting your financial goals.

Evaluate your non-essential spending habits. Consider where this money is going, and whether these expenses add value/are necessary to your life (pleasure or peace of mind is an acceptable "necessity" if you're living within your means to be clear!).

Determine the money you have left over after you cover your essential expenses and most fulfill discretionary expenses. This amount is your "saving/investment" money.

Divide your leftover amount into 3 categories: Emergency fund, goal-oriented savings (like buying a desired luxury item/furniture, a down payment on a house, a vacation, etc.), and investments.

Put your savings in a high-yield savings account. If possible, have different accounts for each purpose, especially your emergency fund and savings for future purposes. You can also get a CD for a long-term savings goal.

Put your investments (in the USA at least) in the following buckets: Roth IRA (max it out), ALWAYS take your employer's full 401k match, HSA (if you have a high-deductible health insurance plan), and S&P 500 index funds/other evergreen mutual funds + blue-chip stocks.

Purchase fewer, higher-quality items. Know the sales seasons for each product category and shop around this calendar (down to the produce items in season). If possible, rent items when it makes sense.

Only say "yes" to plans/financial obligations that add value/pleasure to your life. Don't let yourself feel shortchanged financially or emotionally. It's never worth it, honestly.

Invest in your physical, mental, and financial health first. This can mean something different for everyone but it's important!

**I'm not a professional, just another young woman on the internet, so please take this advice accordingly. Please meet with a financial advisor/CPA for formal advice and personal financial planning.

Hope this helps xx

[innerchildabortionclinic]

power is fixed, it was an issue of the account not being in my name or something (i've used multiple names. long story short, running from my dad throughout life) but now I have been introduced to a brand new issue: I can't pay my rent because the website they make us use WON'T LET ME EDIT MY PAYMENT INFO SO I CAN ADD MY NON-EXPIRED CREDIT CARD...or at least I don't see an option on mobile. so i'm gonna try checking the full website on desktop at work now because there's no way they didn't think to make renters be able to edit payment information. my phone screen is fairly small and on some websites it cuts things off so i'm hoping this is the case

[yandere-daydreams]

Title: Extra-dimensional.

Written for a very lovely anonymous commissioner.

Pairing: Yandere!Spot x Reader (Spider-verse).

Word Count: 6.0k.

TW: Non/Con, AFAB!Reader, Semi-Public Sex, Tentacle-Adjacent Sex, Prolonged Stalking, Psychological Abuse, Themes of Grief, and Kidnapping.

You were starting to think that your apartment might’ve been haunted.

The science-focused part of your brain was forced to look at the evidence, to acknowledge how many well-accounted-for articles of clothing and minor keepsakes had gone missing over the past few weeks, to count how many times you’d caught shadowy figures flickering in the corner of your eye, to take stock of all possible causes and admit that, tragically, a temperamental spirit was the only remotely plausible explanation, even if you had to use the term ‘plausible’ more loosely than you’d like to. It made sense – or, it made as much sense as invoking supernatural entities could, anyway.

On the other hand, the part of your mind that paid rent every month and vacuumed twice a week really, really didn’t want your apartment to be haunted and vehemently denied that ghosts – unseen, untouchable, unsolvable ghosts – were something you’d have to deal with a down payment like yours.

Both parts of your brain could agree that leaving a fully in-tact, as-of-yet unopened bank vault would be a weird thing for a ghost to do, though.

Teeth grit, still dressed in the clothes you’d worn to the memorial, you stood with one foot planted on its overturned side and another lodged in your carpeting, the end of a crowbar you’d borrowed from your loudest downstairs neighbor lodged between the door and the wall where a badly beaten mechanism bound them together. You’d already called the cops, as little as you wanted to do with them or the quote-on-quote ‘heroes’ who’d failed to save him, but the operator had laughed you off of the line and despite the hours you’d spent buried in the deepest trenches of any search engine that would have you, the only report you could find of a bank robbery had taken place in London, on the other side of the world. You’d considered, briefly, that grief had driven you to hallucinations and this was just the first sign of an upcoming downward spiral, but that idea had been swiftly vetoed when you’d tripped over the damn thing and decided it was very much, very unfortunately real. The idea to pry it open had come a few minutes later, after deciding that you probably had a legal right to anything to investigate anything that spontaneously appeared in your living room – ghosts or no ghosts.

You heard something snap, felt the reverberation of a fracture underneath your palms, but the vault didn’t budge. The only thing that changed was your crowbar – the bent claw replaced with a jagged, broken-off tip when you managed to dislodge it from the vault. You winced, swallowing back in an agitated grown. Trial One: Crowbar vs. Spontaneously Generated Vault complete. So far, the vault reigned victorious.

You tried to take a deep breath, to count to ten and tell yourself that this was no different than a failed experiment, a half-baked test that just hadn’t gone your way, but you could still hear church bells ringing in the back of your mind, still picture two empty seats at the front of the chapel – one for Dr. Octavius and the other meant for the CEO of the Alchamax, neither brave enough to show their face. You weren’t even sure why you were so angry. It could’ve been the clipped speech delivered by a company representative who’d barely known him, the closed casket, the way your coworkers could barely bring themselves to meet your eyes despite your stunted attempts at making conversation through the knot lodged in your throat. It could’ve been everything. It could’ve been something else entirely. You didn’t know. You didn’t care. There were already tears streaming down your cheeks, dripping down your chin as you pulled the crowbar back and swung it into the vault’s door. The force of the collision rattled through your body, but you steeled yourself and did it again, then again, then again, until the smooth, black metal was dented beyond any hope of repair and your crowbar was warped and misshapen. Finally, when you were panting and breathless, when your hands threatened to cramp and your shoulders ached in their sockets, you drove the blunted crowbar into the vault’s door with what was left of your quickly draining strength. In the end, your aggression was rewarded with a metallic clang, the sound of something cracking open, and then, what was left of the vault door fell open – nearly taking out one of your feet before you stumbled out of the way.

You clenched your eyes shut, forcing out a ragged exhale and re-tallying your score. Trail II: Crowbar vs. Spontaneously Generated Vault complete. Although the vault put up a good fight, the crowbar’s endurance ultimately persevered. Interference from external factors and researcher’s bias will be considered later on with the assistance of a glass of wine and a mediocre romcom you’ll cry your eyes out to.

Once you’d managed to dampen the lingering heat of your grief-fueled anger, you turned your attention to the bank vault’s contents – the fruits of your labor, the results of your little experiment. You weren’t sure what you expected. Jewelry, maybe, artifacts or century-old paintings some underground dealer had to ditch in a stranger’s apartment for reasons you couldn’t begin to comprehend. Part of you, the part of you that remembered the number written across your last paycheck, couldn’t help but hope for something simple; a disorderly pile of unmarked bills that you’d count and stow away and pretend you weren’t dying to waste. That part of you wasn’t entirely wrong, either.

Neatly stacked in the overturned bank vault, only slightly disrupted by your attempts to pry it open, were stacks upon stacks of neatly organized dollar bills. Or, that wasn’t quite right, actually. They were bills, but they weren’t dollars.

You took one of the bundles in your hand. English pounds – sorted by color and bound together by paper bands toting a logo you didn’t recognize. Huh.

Maybe your next call should be an international one.

~

By the next month, you’d escalated from a vaguely haunted apartment to a full-blown spectral presence that you just couldn’t seem to shake.

Spectral presence. You still weren’t convinced it was a real term, but you’d picked it up after a conversation with one of your coworkers (former coworker, now, you had to remind yourself, one of your former coworkers) when you both stepped out of a quickly lulling group session and you’d off-handedly mentioned your little ghost problem. In the moment, you’d laughed and shrugged and promised to let them know if you ever called an exorcist, but the phrase had stuck, resurfaced the next time you couldn’t find the threadbare t-shirt you’d been wearing for the better part of a decade and cemented itself in the forefront of your consciousness when the aforementioned shirt reappeared on your balcony, a jagged tear running from the collar to the midriff and the hems eaten away to nothing. If that didn’t count as a presence, you weren’t sure what would.  

That was the first time your little ghost problem had followed you out of the house, but it wouldn’t be the last. You could practically feel it, now; constantly looming over your shoulder, constantly watching, constantly leaving little trinkets in places it knew you would be. If you could even call them that. They were more like… oddities – rings made of a kind of metal you couldn’t recognize, puzzle boxes you couldn’t seem to figure out, things that should make sense but just didn’t when you looked into them. The only one you’d been able to make sense of so far was a pair of glasses, one of the lenses sporting a hair-line fracture. You’d spent the rest of that day huddled in your closet, the door shut and the lights off. You considered that you could have a stalker, someone or something who loved you enough or hated you enough to follow you around, leaving things you didn’t want to see in places it knows you’d find them, but you didn’t know how a stalker would even start to get their hands on something like that. You didn’t know how anything of his could’ve survived that explosion, but you weren’t in a place to ask those kinds of questions, anymore.

Currently, you weren’t in a place to do much of anything. You’d spent most of the night before sleepless and huddled into yourself, and now, you were glassy-eyes and exhausted, staring down an aisle’s worth of produce blankly as you tried to ignore the chill fanning over the nape of your neck. You kept your tongue caught in your teeth, counting out the micro-seconds between one breath and another with a precision refined by years of measuring the time between stimulus and reaction, holding yourself stiff enough to drown out the unsteadiness. It’d pass, soon enough. It had to pass, eventually. You just had to—

Something brushed against the small of your back and you straightened, snapping over your shoulder and finding, predictably, nothing. You tried to write it off as just another figment of your stress-induced paranoia, a symptom of so many late nights and so little external stimulation, but any hope of calming your racing heart was torn away with you by the feeling of something settling against the curve of your shoulder-blade, then dipping lower, following the curve of your spine before sliding to your hip. It was a phantom sensation – cold and weightless, hollow and so close to intangible – but you could feel it clearly enough to recognize that it was pressing against you directly, frozen tendrils sapping the warmth from your skin without clothes to buffer its awful touch. There was something else to it, too, a sort of buzzing that you couldn’t seem to compare to anything but static. It burnt. It didn’t feel like anything at all.

If you’d been braver, you might’ve glanced down, tried to see if the fabric of reality had opened to reveal some terrible, eldritch thing, but you weren’t and it was all you could do to clench your eyes shut, to cross your arms over your chest and pray that would be enough to protect you from the thin trail of frigid, searing static slowly creeping up your side, drifting to your navel, following the curve of your chest until it was resting just underneath the base of your throat. You weren’t sure what you were afraid of. That it would hurt you, maybe, that the thing that was haunting you for months would realize it could touch you and take the next logical step. You didn’t want to die in a grocery store. You didn’t want to die at all. You didn’t want to—

“Do you mind, dude?”

The static disappeared, dissolving into the open air, and your eyes shot open, immediately finding a strung-out teenager standing next to you, awkwardly attempting to reach for something you must’ve been standing in front of. More out of reflex than anything else, you stepped back, muttering an apology under your breath before retreating out of the store entirely. You decided, when you were a block away and just starting to catch your breath, that you’d never be going back. You decided you were never going to think about what’d just happened to you again.

And, later on, when you realized that you wouldn’t be any safer at home, you decided not to think about your little haunting at all.

~ It was creeping up your spine, again.

“You’ve got more than enough experience for the position we’re offering.”

Lingering at the nape of your neck, pausing, then circling to your chest to trace over your collarbones.

“And I saw your resume, too – very impressive stuff. We’d love to have someone with your qualifications on our staff.”

It usually waited until you were alone, locked in your apartment or curled up under your sheets. It hadn’t touched you again in public since your first physical encounter – something you were thankful for and horrified by in equal measures. You didn’t want to consider the possibility that it was a conscious entity. You didn’t want to think about what it would mean if it knew what it was doing to you.

“There’s just one question. You mentioned that you were formerly employed at,” A pause, a polite smile that meant ‘depending on your answer, you might not be in my office for much longer’, “Alchemax?”

You forced yourself to smile, too, shifting slightly in your uncomfortable leather seat and hoping that would be enough to dispel the trail of frost now gliding down your chest. “Unfortunately,” you started, and your specter dipped lower, past your stomach and into the space between your thighs. You clenched your legs shut, then thought better of it and crossed them, but that did little to stop the chill now washing over your lap, fanning over the inside of your thigh. If you didn’t know better, you would’ve called it groping. “I wasn’t in that department, if that’s what you’re wondering. Our work was supposed to be completely theoretical. None of us knew what was really going on until – well, until everything knew.”

Your total rejection of autonomy appeased the interviewer, who rewarded your sacrifice by nodding his head and shuffling the papers on his desk before launching into some lengthy monologue about benefits and turn-over rates that you couldn’t bring yourself to concentrate on. Your crossed legs offered little protection. The entity’s touch expanded, infecting everything it contacted with that awful static and turning your skin warm, hyper-sensitive. A strange, alien weight fell onto your clit, pressing down harshly enough to earn a sudden gasp, to make you jerk forward and wrap your arms around your stomach. The interview went silent, his expression turning to one of sympathy-tinged confusion. “Oh, are you alright?”

“Yes, I’m sorry, I’m just—” You tried to straighten your back, to brace yourself on the arm of your chair, but the entity dipped lower, two finger-like projections tracing down the length of your slit and you forced yourself to stand in spite of your unsteady legs. “It’s just been so humid, lately. I think I might need to step out and get something to drink—”

“Please, let me.” No, no, no. You needed to be somewhere else, to find a broom closet to hide in until this was over, but you couldn’t say that, couldn’t explain that all you wanted to do was get away from here and run farther than this entity would be able to follow you. You couldn’t say much of anything as you fell back into your seat, as your interview offered a curt apology and fled his own office before you could do the same. You might’ve thanked him, but you couldn’t be sure. It was impossible to hear anything over the sound of your own heart beating in your ears.

As you feared, the entity seemed to know that you were alone. Its formerly ginger touch turned aggressive, dull fingertips (because they were fingers, you couldn’t deny it any longer, couldn’t claim this thing was as far from human as you hoped it would be) burrowing into the inside of your thigh harshly enough to bruise before pulling back and turning their attention back to your cunt, your clit. It was more than just the ghost of sensation, now – the pad of a thumb pressing into the sensitive bundle of nerves and drawing loose, quick circles into your clit. Your body, senses dialed up by paranoia and defenses thinned by exhaustion, reacted instantly, an unfamiliar warmth pooling in your core as you dug your nails into the leather seat and tried to hold yourself still, tried to stop your stupid, stupid body from doing anything that’d suggest you wanted to be molested by a ghost.

You grit your teeth, to clench your thighs together, but your resistance only seemed to make it more aggressive. You felt a hand curl around your ankle and jerk your leg to the side, forcing your legs apart. It was quick to fill the empty space, three fingers pressing into your entrance as the heel of a palm continued to torture your clit. Whatever chill it carried, you were burning hot enough to balance it out, now, to leave you struggling to ignore the slick starting to dampen the inside of your thighs, the wet sounds that echoed off the blank office walls as two fingers slid into your pussy – only vaguely muffled by fabric still between you and it. Suddenly, the material of your dress-pants felt thin, transparent, and against your better judgement, you forced yourself to look toward the door. The interviewer had closed it on his way out, but it wasn’t locked. You doubted it was soundproof, either. If you were lucky, they’d be short-staffed, and no one would have a reason to pass this specific office though this specific hallway. And, if you weren’t…

You choked back a ragged groan as the fingers inside of you started to move, started to do more than just grope and tease and haunt. Rather than numb, rather than paralyze, the static seemed to tote a much, much worse side-effect. There was a sort of… buzzing vibration, a resonating tremor that made you want to lean back, go slack, and let the sensation wash over you. You couldn’t, though. Even if you forfeited the job, gave up on the idea of ever working in this industry, you knew you’d never be able to show your face in public again if someone walked in and you had to explain what was happening to you right now. That was, if you even could explain what was happening to you right now.

You caught the inside of your cheek in your teeth, biting down until you tasted blood. The digits quirked upward, rubbing against your pulsing walls before scissoring apart, stretching you open. There was no pattern to it, no method you could track and prepare yourself for. If you didn’t know better, you’d call it experimental. If you didn’t know better, you would’ve called it clumsy.

You could feel your face heating up, a knot of tension growing tighter in the pit of your stomach, but rather than sped up, push forward, force you further towards that inevitable ledge, the entity’s hand pulled back, rubbing one more careless pattern into your clit before falling away completely. You let out a sigh that was equal parts relief and disappointment, letting one last disgusted shudder run through you before straightening your back and—

And forcing a palm over your mouth just in time for a tongue, wet and thick and cold, to run over your cunt, hauling you back to the edge just as quickly as you’d pulled away from it. It was rough, the texture too savage to be human, and so wet, the slick you’d been trying to ignore was immediately replaced with thick, freezing saliva. Even the length seemed designed to torture you – long enough to lap over your entrance and your clit in the same slow, aching stroke; to thrust into you and fill the space its fingers had left empty. Memories of a course on specialized biology resurfaced in the fog of forced pleasure and helpless confusion, something about the evolution of a giraffe’s tongue and then, in another lecture, of the practice of masturbation among dolphins as a marker of their intelligence. You’d hated that fucking class. You hated that you were thinking about it now, instead of doing anything useful.

Its tongue was wider, more flexible than its fingers had been. It didn’t have to stretch you open, no, not when it was big enough to keep you full as its tapered end curled and probed against the walls of your cunt. Two fingers pressed into your clit, drawing loose patterns while its tongue split you open so gracelessly, so brutally, it almost circled back around to feeling good. You didn’t try to stop yourself from grinding into it, anymore, letting your legs twitch and your hips buck freely as it worked, as it tore you apart with all the care of a predator gnawing at slabs of raw meat. Every scrap of your limited energy was devoted to keeping yourself quiet, to stifling the needy whimpers and little whines that managed to escape despite your best efforts to silence them. That terrible buzzing seemed to grow stronger, now intense enough to send pulsing jolts of pure electricity from your pussy to your core, and you doubled over, blunt nails biting into your own skin as that thing finally shoved you over the side and brought your body to a trembling, blinding orgasm.

It nursed you through your climax, and as the euphoria faded and the aftershocks dulled into sharp, searing pangs, you managed to speak, your voice hushed and shaking for reasons that were entirely beyond your control. “Go away,” you forced out, praying that your interviewer had left the building, that there had never been a research center here at all and you were just sitting in a condemned building crying about nothing because grief had driven you insane weeks ago and you were just too lost in your own delusions to notice. “Please, go away.”

There was a second of hesitation, a lingering chill against the inside of your thigh, and the entity chose to show its first sign of mercy and finally, finally leave – its cold tongue lapping over your cunt one more time before disappearing completely. You had a second to pull yourself into a more dignified position, another to make sure you didn’t look like someone who’s just gotten finger-fucked by a ghost in the empty office of a higher-up who had to already think you were some mad-scientist reject before the door swung open, your interviewer stepping back in and smiling at you as if nothing in the world could’ve possibly been wrong.  

His eyes flickered over your hollowed expression, your wide eyes, your unsteady posture as he handed you a lukewarm bottle of water. You could only wonder why it’d taken him so long to get. “Are you…” A pause, a slight wince. You tried to pretend you didn’t notice. “…feeling alright?”

“Just fine,” you said, your voice hoarse, barely audible. You managed to brace yourself on the arms of your chair, pulling yourself upward and leaving the bottle forgotten in your lap. You didn’t want to drink anything. Not until your hands stopped shaking, at least.

“I think we were talking about my qualifications?”

~

You got the job, despite everything. They asked you to start as soon as you could, but you’d made your excuses, cited a half-remembered clause that’d come with your suspension package and got whoever was in-change of that kind of thing to hold the position for another month. You couldn’t imagine willingly stepping back into that building again, not yet. You couldn’t imagine doing much of anything, not when he still hung over your life like the smoke of a funeral pyre.

It'd been a bad idea, looking back on it. You should’ve worked harder to get yourself out of your stifling apartment. You should’ve done more to keep up with the friends you’d pushed away after the incident, to make sure you didn’t leave yourself socially isolated and alone. You should’ve left town. You should’ve fled the country.

You should’ve done everything in your power to make sure you didn’t end up where you were now, facing down the thing that was currently standing in your bathroom doorway.

Your ghost, you figured – even if it’d been weeks since you genuinely thought you were only dealing with a run-of-the-mill haunting. It looked… blurry, for lack of a more creative descriptor; the white, chalky outline of a humanoid figure standing sharply out against the entirely black background. If it had a body, it was lost in the shadows of the hallway beyond, the shadows it’d created when it appeared out of nowhere and took every light bulb in your apartment out with a single pulse of extra-dimensional energy. Right now, the only source of light was the phone you were clutching in your right hand, your left similarly preoccupied, busy keeping your suddenly very, very thin towel wrapped around your torso. It probably didn’t matter. As far as you could tell, this thing didn’t have eyes, let alone genitalia.

That was what the rational, scientific part of your brain said, at least. The rest was replaying the memory of the way its hand had felt as groped at your thighs and couldn’t seem to comprehend much else.

You half-expected it to lunge at you, or rather, to creep at you, to disappear and reappear just outside of your peripheral, too far to see but close enough to sense. In the end, it only had to take a step forward, its movements slow and jerky, as if it wasn’t used to carrying its own weight just yet. Did it even weigh anything? Could you weigh something that clearly wasn’t supposed to exist? It didn’t really matter. You already knew it could touch you. You already knew it could kill you, if it wanted to.

Another step, then another. It closed the distance between you easily, coming to a stop less than arm’s length in front of you. You could see it more clearly, make out a smear of color in the void, like light catching on an oil spill. The white lines that bordered its form were moving in a way you hadn’t been able to make out from across the room, too; trembling and shaking, constantly shifting as if it was only ever a second away from falling apart entirely. If you weren’t so scared, you’d be tempted to reach out, see what happened when you made contact with it, rather than the other way around. If you weren’t so afraid, you might’ve been able to do anything.

It lifted a hand, reaching towards you with those same unnatural movements. Its fingertips brushed over your skin, painting a strip of frost across your cheek, and you felt your blood turn to ice. You couldn’t hear the buzzing, but then again, it might’ve just been a sign that you’d already gone deaf with fear.

You opened your mouth, but speech was hindered, your internal monologue limited to a never-ending mantra of ‘go away go away go away go away go away’. Eventually, you managed to spit something out, even if your voice was barely above a whisper by the time it reached your lips. “I don’t want you here.”

There was a second of stillness, of silence. You started to wonder if you’d made it angry, if it could be angry. You started to wonder if it could understand you at all.

Your makeshift flashlight wavered, sputtering a few times before giving out completely. You scrambled to turn it back on, to not be left alone in the dark with a monster, but your apartment flickered back to life and you found yourself standing alone, the entity having blinked out of reality in the time it took your eyes to adjust to the light. The only proof that it’d been there at all was your dead phone and how violently your hands were still shaking.

You considered leaving your apartment. You considered leaving the city – renting a car and driving as far as you were able to. You’d sleep in whatever shady, cheap motels would have you, start a new life across the country with only your meager savings and multiple PhDs to keep you afloat. You’d change your name. You’d get away from here, away from it. It wasn’t like you had much of a choice, now that the infestation had spread to your sanctuary, too.

You took a shuddering breath, then set your phone down and let your towel fall away. You didn’t bother getting dressed before climbing into bed and curling up underneath your sheets, hoping in-vain that your comforter would be enough to hide you from any unseen voyeurs.

Some part of you must’ve already known that it wouldn’t.

~

You couldn’t remember waking up.

You must’ve, at some point. But, if you had, you would’ve remembered being brought here, would’ve been able to recognize the feeling of countless hands wrapping around your wrists, your ankles; countless mangled tendrils tangling around your fingers and dripping down your arms, snaking up your legs until you were entirely at its mercy. The numbers didn’t add up. There were too many hands, too many moving parts, too many things for your confusion-addled mind to keep track of. You couldn’t seem to figure out if you were suspended mid-air or if the gravity was different, if you were genuinely as weightless as you felt. That, more than anything, fueled the growing nausea twisting in the pit of your stomach, the growing sense of wrongness that threatened to tear away what little stability you had left. What little sanity you had left.

You tried to look past the awful things wrapped around you, to ground yourself with something beyond shifting colors and distorted limbs, but whatever pocket dimension you’d been dragged into didn’t offer much comfort. An expanse of white stretched on as far as you could see, only interrupted by free-floating pools of pure darkness; drops of ink spilled across an otherwise blank canvas. Occasionally, the landscape would waver, leaving you in a pure void broken up by streaks of colorless flesh that’d burn themselves into your sight and linger as phantom visions for seconds after the false reality corrected itself. Even the feeling of its skin against yours was off-putting, unsettling, lacking the warmth that would’ve accompanied the touch of anything human. Where there should’ve been comfort, there was nothing, a total absence of life and familiarity to a degree you’d never experienced before. Where there should’ve been intimacy, there was strangeness, and you’d never taken well to strangeness.

A pang of pure ache ran from your cunt to your core, a sort of numbing electricity that made your legs twitch and your body seize. Right, you’d managed to forget. It was touching you, beyond just the hands shackled around your wrists and ankles and the amorphous tendrils laving over any part of you they could reach. Two fingers kept your pussy spread open and vulnerable while a thick, tapered tendril thrust into you at the kind of idle, languid pace that was simultaneously infinitely merciful and too agonizing to put words to. That was one of the only things you could feel – the agonizing stretch, the tight knot of tension sitting in the pit of your stomach. If you’d been able to move anything beyond your eyes, you might’ve gagged. If your body had been something tangible, something real, you might’ve felt sick.

The tendril curled inside of you, and every fiber of your being seemed to wither. Struggling was pointless, but you still had to try, thrashing against your restraints, digging your nails into that obsidian flesh and praying to whichever deity would listen that it wouldn’t think to fight back. Fortunately, your blunt nails and weak thrashing didn’t seem to faze it. You weren’t sure if it knew you were there beyond some unconscious tactile sense, like a freshly triggered venus flytrap closing around its victim. You weren’t sure which was more horrific – the idea that there was some sentient, self-aware being knowingly and decisively doing this to you, or the passing thought that you’d just been caught in the mouth of some mindless creature that happened to like the way you tasted.

You decided not to think about it. You decided not to think about anything. You decided that, if you kept your mind totally blank, if you refused to count how many times you’d caught a lingering shadow in the corner of your eye or felt a stray hand brush against the small of your back, if you refused to feel its disembodied tendril filling your cunt, then none of this was happening, then you weren’t trapped in an plane of endless nothingness and you weren’t being fucked by the monster that’d been haunting you for months, now. You clenched your eyes shut and promised yourself that you couldn’t feel its dulled tip rubbing against that sensitive, softened spot inside of you, that your hips didn’t buck as another hand appeared from a puddle of kaleidoscopic ink and pressed three fingers into your abused clit, that it didn’t matter if warmth was starting to pool in your core because it couldn’t matter.

Ignoring it wasn’t an option, though. It wouldn’t let you ignore it – its pace changing, speeding up, getting rougher as you failed to stifle your reactions, failed to swallow down the little gasps and moans that slipped past your parted lips. It was almost brutal in its unyieldingness, fucking into you with enough force to bruise as you writhed and scratched and screamed. There was no remorse, no care, just its forceful affection and your body’s response. Another tendril wrapped around your midriff, another hand falling to your chest, and you let out a long, wordless cry. The entity reacted immediately, the blunt head of a tendril forcing its way past your lips and lodging itself in your throat, forcing you to gag around its bulk. It smelled like ozone – fresh and thrilling and terrible all at once. It tasted organic.

This one, mercifully, didn’t seem to want to hurt you. It seemed content to explore you, to twist around your tongue and prod at every corner of your mouth. Still, tears formed in the corners of your eyes, dripping down your cheeks and pooling on your chest as you attempted not to choke, as you tried not to let the deformed mass fucking into your cunt tear you apart. Your vision was distorted, blurred and darkened around the edges, but you forced yourself to open your eyes, to stare blankly at the new well of ink forming some indescribable distance above you. It was bigger than the others, soon interrupted by a border of white appearing in the darkness, the shape wavering, sketchy, like chalk line drawn with an unsteady hand. Eventually, you made out a shape not unlike the one you’d seen in your apartment all those weeks ago, the ghostly entity that’d barely had to lift a finger to terrify you. This one was different, though – harsher, flitting and flashing in and out of existence faster than you could comprehend. If it’d been a breath away from falling apart the last time you saw it, reality was struggling to hold itself together around it, now.

A head emerged from the darkness, then a neck, then the entity’s broad shoulders. A hand materialized, extending from the pull of darkness and reaching towards you, towards the mess of dark matter and appendages that now all-but entirely encompassed your form. Its fingertips brushed against your jaw, then cupped your cheek, it’s touch careful, ginger, cautious. As if it was trying to be gentle with you. As if it was trying to be loving.

You’re not sure what part of your exhausted mind made the connection, which piece slid into place first. You let your head lull to the side, your jaw fall limp around the tendril in your mouth. You grunted, a premature attempt to speak that it could separate from all the other meaningless, ragged sounds that’d been forced out of you by its invasive touch, and the tendril pulled back, wrapping loosely around your neck. It still took you a moment to find your voice, but you managed to spit out something nearly coherent.

“…Jonathan?”

For a moment, the hands wrapped around your limbs loosened, the tendril attempting to split you in two faltering and before going still.

Then, there was a resounding, resonating purr that seemed to emanate from every corner of the micro-dimension. When the tendril started to move again, it thrusted into you with twice the force, twice the mania. This time, you didn’t have to pretend. You were floating on air, your thoughts blank and your mind empty – your body numb and unfeeling. This time, you knew you wouldn’t be able to get away.

This time, you didn’t even bother to try.

[vintagelasvegas]

Tally Ho / Aladdin / Planet Hollywood

Aladdin opened in 1966 with one of the Strip's first neon-enhanced porte-cochéres, a freestanding sign featuring a revolving, three-sided marquee, topped with an "Aladdin's Lamp," designed and fabricated by YESCO.

Timeline.

Tally Ho ('62-'65)

'61: Edwin S. Lowe announces plans for Tally Ho non-gaming hotel. In the 40s the land was owned by locals Salton, Rose, and Goldberg. (Alexander & Rebecca Salton, founding members of the Las Vegas Jewish community.)

'62: Dec. 24, Opening of Tally Ho, hotel and country club with 9-hole golf course. 322 of the 450 rooms open during “preview opening” in Dec. The hotel was alternately spelled Tally Ho, Tally-Ho, and Tallyho.

'63: Oct. 11, Tally Ho closed. “Ed Lowe made no excuses … admits he was dead wrong about a no gambling luxury hotel.” (Hertz, RJ 10/13/63)

'63: Oct., Norman Kaye and Frank Windsor operate the Tally Ho golf course.

'63: Oct.-Dec., The hotel is sold to Kings Crown Inns of America, represented by Floyd and Beryl Cook, Donald Bolinger (Cooks Brothers Trusts, Indiana). Under lease to operators Edward Nealis, Charles Luftig, and partners, Kings Crown Tally Ho's hotel, lounge, and restaurants reopen in Dec. (Duke, RJ 12/20/63)

'64: Construction of a showroom and casino begins in Fall, misses New Year's Eve opening deadline. The showroom and casino are completed in '65, ultimately never opened. (RJ 4/8/64, RJ 5/18/65)

'65: Nealis heads 18 casino applicants of Tallyho Operating Co. who are unable to get approval from Nevada Gaming Control Board (GCB). In later years Jimmy "the Weasel" Fratianno of the Los Angeles crime family claimed he owned a piece of the Tally Ho and was to run the casino. (AP 2/17/65, RJ 11/25/84, Mob Museum 12/8/2017)

'65: Apr. 1, Tally Ho closed for the second time after King's Crown files suit against Tallyho Operating Co. for unpaid rent. Tenants are evicted, property put in control of the owners.

'65: Dec., Tally Ho bought by Milton Prell (Prell Hotel Corp.) from The Cooks Brothers Trusts.

Aladdin ('66-'97)

'66: Aladdin announced. Drawings for redesigned casino and proposed hotel tower unveiled early in the year. Martin Stern, architect. (RJ 1/2/66, RJ 1/17/66)

'66: Mar. 31, Aladdin opened. Freestanding sign and the Strip's first neon-enhanced porte-cochère by YESCO. Primary owners M. Prell, G. Gilbert, and S. Krystal, all former members of Sahara-Nevada Corp. Comedian Jackie Mason opens the 500-seat Baghdad Theatre.

'66: Dec., Prell stops $75k/month payments on the Aladdin and asks that the price be cut. The trustees agree to reduce the sale price to $5.5M. (Dayton, 4/20/72)

'67: Sep. 26, Milton Prell suffers a debilitating stroke which removes him from Aladdin management. (Dayton, 4/20/72)

'68: Stockholders of Prell Hotel Corp. vote to merge with Parvin-Dohrmann Co., leading to Parvin-Dohrmann take-over the Aladdin in Apr; approved by GCB in Jun. Later in Dec., Parvin-Dohrmann's Delbert Coleman becomes the sole gaming license holder of Aladdin and Fremont hotels. (RJ 6/20/68, RJ 11/14/68, RJ 12/12/68)

'68: Sep., 28, from a report, after the Prell & Parvin-Dohrmann merger was completed, "Milton Prell, by this time paralyzed, was told by the new management he had two weeks to get out of the Aladdin." (McKnight, Alexander. Journal Herald, 4/20/72)

'70: Parvin-Dohrmann adopts the new name Recrion, and strips the firm of all its holdings except for its three Las Vegas hotel-casinos: Aladdin, Fremont, and Stardust.

'71: Oct.-Dec., Recrion announces sale to Sam Diamond, P. Webbe, R. Daly, D. Aikin as Aladdin Hotel Corp. Diamond announces plans for hotel tower.

'71: Entertainment director James Tamer is involved in secretly managing the casino and directing the skim, according to later conviction.

'74: Aladdin investigated by GCB for issuing comps to organized crime figures.

'74: Groundbreaking for the “Tower of Majesty” high-rise, and theater. Lee Linton, architect. Years later in '83, Linton and Aladdin attorney Sorkis Webbe are each convicted of tax fraud in relating to a kickback scheme during the '74 expansion.

'76: Jul., Tower and Theatre for the Performing Arts opened; new porte-cochère by Charles Barnard, Ad-Art; original sign replaced; all financed by Teamsters Central States Pension Fund loan.

'76: Mae Ellen George buys 24% of the hotel, relying on advice of Tamer.

'78: Aug. 3, Detroit federal grand jury indicts Tamer, Aladdin GM James Abraham, Aladdin casino manager Edward Monazym, and Charles Goldfarb (denied a license in ’71) of conspiring to allow hidden owners to exert control over the resort. Owners of the Aladdin at this time are Webbe (34%), Diamond (23%), Mae George (19%), Daly (14%), John Jenkins (8%), and George Morse (2%). (RJ 8/3/78)

'79: Mar. 13, Tamer, Abraham, Monazym, and Goldfarb convicted.

'79: Aug., GCB closes the resort; U.S. District Judge Claiborne opens it hours later, “until a mob-free buyer could be found.” (German, RJ 9/20/2021.)

'80: Jan., Ed Nigro gains a court-sanctioned takeover of the Aladdin after he and Johnny Carson sign an agreement to buy the property for $105M. The deal falls through.

'80: Jul. 10, GCB revokes Aladdin's license and the casino is closed; hotel remains open.

'80: Oct. 1, Casino is reopened after Ed Torres and Wayne Newton buy the Aladdin for $85M.

'82: Jul, Torres buys Newton's shares of the Aladdin.

'84: Feb., Aladdin placed under bankruptcy protection after a Teamsters Pension Fund forces foreclosure.

'85: Jan. 22, Ginji Yasuda buys the Aladdin for $54M; casino closed during Yasuda licensing.

'87: Apr. 1, gaming reopens.

'89: Aug., Yasuda, failing to reveal the source of millions in loans, loses his gaming license; Aladdin forced into bankruptcy.

'89: Sep., Court appointed trustee Jack Fidelman, and WDT Associates (Wm. and Tim Dougall, Larry Bertsch) take over operating the hotel. Aladdin remains in bankruptcy through the early 90s.

'91: Jun., Property title transferred to Bell Atlantic Tricon Leasing Corp when no buyers meet the minimum bid.

'92: Jun., Aladdin emerges from 3-year bankruptcy, control is given to Joe Burt and his JMJ management team on a 12-year lease with Bell Atlantic Tricon.

'94: Dec., Jack Sommer, Signman Sommer Family Trust, buys the Aladdin for $80M. "When the family trust sold a major New York property in '94, Sommer needed to find a real estate investment for the proceeds to avoid substantial capital-gains taxes. The Aladdin was on the market at the time." (Simpson. RJ 8/13/2000.) Other potential buyers included Donald Trump.

'97, Nov 25: Aladdin closed. A new hotel-casino to be built on the 35-acre parcel.

'98, Apr 28: Aladdin tower demolished. Former Tally Ho rooms later demolished; Theater remains.

Aladdin (2000-2007) Planet Hollywood (2007-)

2000: New build of the Aladdin. Mall opens 8/17/00, hotel and casino delayed, opening 8/18/00. Cost: $1.1B.

2001: Sep., Aladdin files for bankruptcy.

2003: Aladdin sold for $635M to OpBiz investment group led by Planet Hollywood CEO Robert Earl. Sale finalized 9/1/2004.

2007: Apr. 17, renamed Planet Hollywood.

2009: Harrah’s Ent. purchases part of the $860M mortgage, takes full ownership in Feb. 2010. Harrah’s later rebranded as Caesars Entertainment.

Photos of Tally Ho | Photos of the Aladdin

Headline photo: Undated, circa '68, from The Magic Sign by Charles Barnard.

Circa Feb.-Mar. 1966: The hotel was open before the casino. Installation of the sign is beginning. Photo: Las Vegas News Bureau.

Mar. 1966: Sequence of photographs showing YESCO’s revolving, three-sided Aladdin pylon structure being pieced together by dual cranes ahead of their opening on the 31st. Ad-Art collection, from Charles Barnard’s The Magic Sign.

Undated, Las Vegas News Bureau.

3/31/66 – Opening night. Four men holding scissors are Bill Braire, Las Vegas Mayor Oran Gragson, Milton Prell, Las Vegas Sun Publisher Hank Greenspun. Las Vegas News Bureau, LVCVA Archive.

“Aladdin Casino was the first Las Vegas hotel to integrate major sign elements and neon into its porte-cochère. Sign modules were incised into the leading edge of the projecting canopy and wrap-around grids of incandescent lamps followed these contours back to the entry.” - Charles Barnard, The Magic Sign. Photo: Las Vegas News Bureau.

Postcard c. '66-'68

Showgirls at the Aladdin, 1966. Las Vegas News Bureau.

Button for Grateful Dead at the Aladdin, 8/31/81

Timeline sources.

Previous landowners: C.D. Baker Map of Las Vegas Valley ’40; Alexander Salton. UNLV Special Collections & Archives.

Tally Ho: Tallyho Preview Attracts 3500. Review-Journal, 12/28/62; Tallyho Hotel Closes. Review-Journal, 10/11/63 p1; Murray Hertz. Future of Tallyho Raises Questions. Review-Journal, 10/13/63; Gordon Kent. Tally-Ho Hotel Sold. Review-Journal, 11/1/63; Forrest Duke. New Tallyho Sale Deal. Review-Journal, 12/20/63; Tallyho Plans $1 Million Show. Review-Journal, 4/8/64; Associated Press. Gaming Board Refuses Tallyho Casino License. Review-Journal, 2/17/65 p1; G. Kent, F. Duke. Strip Hotel Closes. Review-Journal, 4/1/65 p1; Tallyho Sues Owners. Review-Journal, 5/18/65 p1.

Tally Ho and Aladdin sales covered in a series by Keith McKnight and Andrew Alexander for The Journal Herald, Dayton OH. Welsh confirmed with crime figures. Journal Herald, 4/20/72; Firm with crime ties linked to casino deal. Journal Herald, 4/21/72.

Aladdin: Associated Press. Gamers Approve. Review-Journal, 6/20/68 p1; Chicagoan Asks License To Run Two Local Casinos. Review-Journal, 11/14/68; Casino Deal Okayed. Review-Journal, 12/12/68; Associated Press. Firm adopts new name: Recrion Corp. Reno Gazette Journal, 12/14/70; Lou Miller. Aladdin Hotel sold. Review-Journal, 11/8/71; Jerry Ralya. New Aladdin Corporation seeks license. Review-Journal, 12/29/71; Aladdin execs indicted. Review-Journal, 8/3/78; AP. Las Vegas architect sentenced to prison. Review-Journal, 3/8/83; AP. Webbe convicted. Review-Journal, 6/19/83; Jane Ann Morrison. LV Casinos Targeted in Money Laundering. Review-Journal, 11/25/84; Aladdin Hotel's history spans 30 years. Review-Journal, 1/5/94 p3; Dave Palermo. Aladdin Hotel finally sells. Review-Journal, 12/9/94 p1; History. Review-Journal, 11/23/97 p14; Jeff Simpson. Aladdin owner faces music. Review-Journal, 8/13/2000; Chronology of the Aladdin hotel-casino. Las Vegas Sun, 8/18/2000. John L. Smith. Sharks in the Desert. Barricade Books, 2005; David Schwartz. Jimmy The Weasel Fratianno. themobmuseum.org, 12/8/2017; Jeff German. The Genie in the Lamp, and Close the Place Down. Review-Journal, 9/20/2021.