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| - The story you are about to read is true. This is the real city, away from the strip with its glitz, pits and fake, um, volcanoes is the real Vegas. A city that remembers the names and faces of regulars. That prides itself in simple sins and doesn't torch your wallet for bottle service and private cabanas. My name is Skacey, and I remember.
10:23 pm, Tuesday. With the trivia shift over, the gang heads uptown to Frankie's. From the outside it looks like an office supply building with a neon splash of pink lipstick. As you approach the doorway you are greeted by a tiki statue and a bouncer who will humorlessly ask for your plastic face.
Once inside, the atmosphere is instantly Vegas does Hawaii, with regulars puffin at the bar and lights made from inflated fish that will puff no more. The drink menu has most of the classic tropical fare conveniently coded by skulls showing you how many before you meet the tiki god of porcelain.
This is paradise by my standards, and like the Jungle Cruise, my skippers, Chris and Tanya were more than willing to show me the way. If you are not into fruit juice, might I recommend the Lava Letch, flavored with a slight ginger bite. After three and you'll forget all about why you ventured from the strip and you too might call this home.
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