#skyfall bar

To say that Frankie loathed the ordinary would be a gross understatement. Being a longtime resident of Chicago, and a loyal (but well buried) member of the Faust family, she knew exactly which places should have been off limits. But the thrill came from the possibility of being caught. Of slipping in and out of places that she might be killed for spending time in. But Frankie just liked to have a good time. Usually, she wasn’t looking for trouble. Not on American soil, anyway. Skyfall Bar was her favorite place to not belong. The view from the top of the city was nothing less than she deserved for a life well lived. In the evenings when the lights were dim, and the music was bland as could be, Frankie could strike up a conversation with any old bastard who decided to shoot his shot by offering her free booze. A little Clogau and she’s cozied up to some portly accountant, who’d somehow managed to grow accustomed to the smell of antacid on his own foul breath.   “See, the secret is, you’ve got to…” Frankie quickly kicked back what little scotch was left in her glass, before she smashed it’s bottom against the table, like she was squashing a giant bug. “Hit ‘em hard enough that the brain slaps right up against the inside of their skull.” Coarse as her words were, she spoke sweetly. Smooth, like milk and honey.