When I first moved to Vegas, I had to secure a tobacconist. The city, of course, has zillions of them, dotting every strip mall, and therefore, every city block. So I set out in search of the perfect establishment.
As it should happen, it was only the second place I tried that became my home away from home. During checkout, the clerk asked, “You’re eighteen, right?” rather than actually requesting an ID. I thought perhaps it was just the clerk, but every employee follows like. That little quirk sold me.
Oh, and in addition to selling tobacco, they sell knives, tasers, swords, pepper spray, hand cuffs…