On the return drive to our battlefield soaked in laptop tragedy (Circus Circus), we saw a miniature golf course. With everyone in immediate accord, we decided to stop and play a round. Necessity: playing for stakes. After some debate, it was determined. There was a face painting artist in Circus Circus. Those players who finished in the first three got to pick how the loser's face was to be decorated. The loser had to maintain the face paint for either the whole night, or the whole day, depending on when it was initially decorated.
I had an amazing game of put-put. Until the last couple of holes. My stroke of luck instantly ceased to exist and suddenly what had appeared to be my strong 2nd place finish became disputable. Then it became doubtful. My heart pounding, I stood up, proud, at the last hole. And failed miserably. I lost the game by two strokes. I was at the mercy of the decision-making skills of three boys.
I just assumed they would do the stereotypical penis-on-the-face. At worst with hair on the balls or something. However, they came to a unanimous, creative decision to have me painted as a battered wife. The next day we walked to the face painting stand and got in line behind a slew of small children, all heights ranging below my waist. When it came to be my turn, the boys described what they wanted. I emerged with a split lip, a bruised eye, a cut eyebrow (with stitches), and a bruise in the form of a hand-print wrapped around my upper arm. When I turned around the little girl next in line burst into tears and refused to get her face painted. I walked into the brunch my friend's family was at to an onslaught of questions. Walking through the casino I kept attempting to hold one of my friend's hands. He would push me away because he didn't want to be seen with me. People would stare. And point. The looks of disgust they awarded him amused me to no end. When I walked into my apartment that night my roommate's face fell. I had to rub off some of the paint before I could convince her that it wasn't real!