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We sat without talking, like we were waiting for something. Most of the dancers were smoking languorously in the back corner, waiting for the club to fill up.The strippers: the piercings, the overgrown indecipherable tattoos, the wigs in their full spectrum of colors and lengths, the lounging of flesh against vinyl. would make an appearance later; he's known to bring his own backpack full of dollar bills to throw.The kid had seemed comatose to me a minute ago, but he'd been awakened. He was wearing sunglasses, but from the side you could see his eyes, and an actual single tear came down his cheek. Commuters released onto freeways at the pace of an IV drip by timed green lights at on-ramps.

"Make Sum Shake," the lyrics of which are mostly is by a group called Cool Amerika, a few kids about 20 years old from the suburban hood of Stone Mountain, Georgia—and it was one of a handful of songs that seemed ready to break out of the strip club."You have to be in here every week if you want to do something in the rap game," City Dollars was telling me about Magic City Mondays. Everything Esco touch out here is off the charts."Then City Dollars took some bills from a stack and threw them at a naked woman who was standing in front of us.

Atlanta is balkanized—you might not be welcome in Bankhead if you're not from there.

But as the proprietor of Magic City, as a man who has, in his parlance, been running around in the streets for thirty years, it's different for Magic.

Magic City is a place where fortunes rain from the rafters, where women with impossible bodies call the shots, and where a DJ who spins your track can make you a star.

Devin Friedman explores the mixed-up, magical world within America's most important club The first dude I really talked to at Magic City was a man who goes by the name City Dollars.