As it is (kinda) said in "The Big Lebowski", "Sometimes there's a movie, and sometimes there's a movie." This is that movie. 1989's "Las Vegas Bloodbath" is an astonishing mess, with bipolar pacing that would humble Gary Busey. The story (a term to be used loosely) starts with a real estate agent landing an important deal. Arriving home to share the story with his lady, he finds her in an awful wig in sexual congress with another man. Almost instantly, he turns from humble businessman to giggly maniac. After dispatching them both and removing his wife's head, he (plus the head) drives to Las Vegas to continue his rampage, concentrating mostly on hapless hookers.
Ordinarily, this movie would be a joy, but it is so amateurishly executed (sorry), that it is rendered impossible to like. At one point, the killer stalks a woman at her home, where she is inexplicably hosting an entire women's oil wrestling team. They chat F O R E V E R until the killer manages to do away with his target in a most vile way. We didn't make it through the rest of the film -- we recommend you don't even start.
Here is a particularly cogent vignette from this titanic dud:
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