The bachelor party started at 9 PM on Friday. By 3 AM Saturday, we had lost the groom. Not "lost track of" - actually lost him. Like a child at a county fair, except the child was 34 years old and the county fair was the Bellagio.

Here's what we knew: His name was Marcus. He was getting married in six days. The last confirmed sighting had him doing shots of something green with a woman who claimed to be a "spiritual advisor" from Reno. Then he vanished. Gone. Evaporated into the neon void.

We searched everywhere. The slots. The bars. The parking garage for reasons none of us could articulate. Nothing. We filed a missing persons report with hotel security. The guy behind the desk didn't even look up. "Bachelor party?" he asked. We nodded. He sighed and handed us a map of the hotel with certain areas circled. "Check these spots. They always end up in these spots."

Hour four of the search, we found him. But we didn't just find him. We found him behind a blackjack table, dealing cards to actual paying customers.

Apparently, Marcus had wandered into an employee area, convinced a pit boss that he was "the new guy," and had been dealing cards for two and a half hours. He'd made three separate players very happy and one player absolutely furious. He'd also, somehow, been tipped $180 in cash.

The casino was... remarkably calm about the whole situation. Marcus apologized. The pit boss apologized. We apologized. There was paperwork. Marcus signed something that he definitely should have read first. Then they let us go with a "please don't come back this weekend" that felt more like a suggestion than a ban.

The wedding went fine. Marcus's new wife still doesn't know about the blackjack incident. She thinks he spent that night "at a show." In a way, he did. He was the show. The greatest show none of us asked for.

In my defense, the bar was open and the DJ was playing Shaggy.

My cousin Stephanie got married last month. Beautiful ceremony. Touching vows. The whole thing. Then the reception started, and somewhere between hour one and hour three, I transformed from "supportive family member" to "the reason we need to have a family meeting."

It began with the champagne toast. Then the wine with dinner. Then the post-dinner whiskey that someone's uncle kept pouring. Then the bar opened, and I decided that my body was a temple that deserved to be desecrated.

The Timeline of Destruction:

8:00 PM - Caught on camera doing the worm across the dance floor. Acceptable.
8:45 PM - Gave an impromptu speech about "the importance of love" that was not on the program. Questionable.
9:30 PM - Challenged the best man to an arm wrestling match. Lost badly. Broke a centerpiece.
10:15 PM - Attempted to DJ. Was removed from the DJ booth. Allegedly said things to the DJ that cannot be repeated.
11:00 PM - Found in the coat check room "reorganizing" the coats by "vibe."

The final straw came when I decided to give Stephanie's new husband some "marriage advice." I don't remember what I said. Nobody will tell me what I said. But based on the reactions, it was either deeply profound or categorically inappropriate. Given the context, I'm guessing the latter.

Security escorted me out. The venue's actual security, not a family member doing them a favor. I tried to take a bottle of wine with me. They said no. I negotiated for a dinner roll. They said fine.

Stephanie has not returned my calls. The family group chat has been suspiciously quiet. I've been informed that I'm "on probation" for all future family events, whatever that means.

The dinner roll was stale. Karma works fast.

We went to Amsterdam for "culture." We saw exactly one museum. We were asked to leave that museum.

Four guys. Five days. One city known globally for two very specific things that I cannot name directly but that you absolutely understand. We had an itinerary. The itinerary lasted approximately nine hours before we abandoned it in favor of "going with the flow."

Day One: Arrived. Checked into the hotel. Lost Mike within forty-five minutes. Found Mike at a cheese shop having what he described as "a spiritual experience with aged gouda." Ate dinner. Went to sleep early. This was the last responsible thing we did.

Day Two through Day Four: [REDACTED]

Day Five: Woke up in a hostel. We did not book a hostel. None of us remember how we got to the hostel. The hostel was in a different city. Not a different part of Amsterdam - a different city entirely. We were in Rotterdam. Rotterdam is thirty minutes from Amsterdam by train. None of us remember taking a train.

We pieced together fragments. There was a boat involved at some point. Someone bought a painting from a street artist that now hangs in Kevin's bathroom and makes guests deeply uncomfortable. Brian has a tattoo he didn't have before, on a part of his body he didn't know you could tattoo. I have six hundred photos on my phone, and every single one is of a different canal. Just canals. Hours of canals. I apparently became obsessed with canals.

We don't talk about Amsterdam. When someone mentions the Netherlands, we change the subject. When someone asks about European travel recommendations, we suggest literally anywhere else. The group chat from that trip has been archived. The photos have been deleted. The memories remain, fragmented and haunting, like a dream you can't quite shake.

Kevin's wife found the painting. She has questions. Kevin has no answers. Nobody has answers. Amsterdam took our answers and kept them.