Dog reclined on the bed, hands clasped behind his head, as he enjoyed a fight on the hotel's PPV. A pile of discarded room service plates and remnants of what had been a well-stocked minibar lay in the corner. The feral mutant had no idea who the fighters were, and didn't care; he simply enjoyed the state-sanctioned violence as he allowed himself to relax. It wasn't every weekend that one had a good weekend in Vegas, after all.
He'd struck it big, in the casinos. Had watched some lucky schmuck bring in a good haul from roulette table, and had traced his scent back to his room. A deft swipe of his claws made short work of the deadbolt. He pulled the door shut behind him as he left, making sure to hang the "do not disturb" sign on the knob. More likely than not, no one would even figure out the guy was dead until the smell started to seep into the hallway. He'd then sauntered across town and gotten himself a room. What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas, after all.