Yes - actively encourages. Drugs in Las Vegas are like MSG in Chinese restaurants - expected, and considered just an enhancement of what's already there. In Vegas's case, complete surreality.
Consider: You live in Las Vegas. You've just finished shaking your ass on Fremont Street for the pleasure of men both young and old. (And a few women, which you like best.) It's two AM. You call your boyfriend. Where ought you to meet?
The pirate ship.
Yes. The pirate ship. Because this is Vegas, baby. Because you are twenty years old and it is two AM and you live in a twenty-four-hour theme park. If not the pirate ship, it would be the medieval castle, or perhaps the pyramid. They're right next to each other.
So the bouncer walks you to the bus, and you ride from old downtown to the Strip.
The Strip. Blaring lights, ostentatious set pieces - the Strip at two AM looks like a fifty-year-old dancer trying to look twenty. Trying to look like you. You get off the bus and spot your boyfriend, long and lanky in his leather jacket, deep-blue dreadlocks falling over one side of his face, abstracted eyes behind dark lenses, even though it's two AM - because he hasn't slept for a week, he doesn't know what time it is - leaning back on a wooden post, watching the pirates board the enemy ship, like they do twice an hour. Forty-eight times a day, the pirates board the enemy ship. Any time you're bored, you can come down here, stand on the rope bridge, watch the pirates board the enemy ship.
You approach him from the side, because it's not smart to sneak up behind people like your boyfriend.
He passes you the packet in his welcoming hug, and you slip it into your pocket, try to conceal the burst of impatience, try to stroll s-l-o-w-l-y over the swinging rope bridge. Try to look like a tourist. Your boyfriend doesn't, can't. But you still can, for the time being. At least you think you can.
And you enter the pirate ship.
It's the newest place on the Strip - that or the Luxor, you can't remember - and easily the most garish. You always blink when you enter it, whether out of sunlight or darkness. Fake gold chains strung everywhere, pirate booty, the lights and sounds of the casino floor...
...You excuse yourself to go to the bathroom.
You know how to be quick and quiet. One of the guys at the club slipped you a business card, hoping for a private show; that's what you use to cut the speed into three efficient lines on top of your book on the back of the toilet tank. No time right now to get artistic, to fuck around with length and width. Slash out the lines. Get the Bic from the backpack, disassemble it. Inhale. Try not to gag, filling your field of vision with the gold-doubloon wallpaper.
Exeunt the bathroom, having tidied, having gulped down some water at the sink. It hits the system immediately, and the world is SHARPER.
And it's two AM, and you're in a fucking pirate ship. With the castle yet to go. You made a few hundred bucks tonight - you can see the joust if you want to.
A sane and rational person can not live in this town. If you live in this town, it behooves you to become insane and irrational.