🎰 They say what happens in Vegas stays in Vegas, but some guests never leave… because they died here—and the house always wins.

Vegas is built on forgotten bones—Mob hits buried in the desert, lonely overdoses in budget motels, and the slow suicides of washed-up performers. You came for showgirls, prime rib buffets, loose slots, and looser morals. But you check into your off-Strip room at 3:33 PM, and something feels… off.

The bathroom mirror fogs up—but you haven’t showered. The minibar is already empty. The TV won’t change from channel 13, which only shows black-and-white footage of a 1970s lounge act where no one claps.

You hear whispering from the next bed. But you checked in alone.

By midnight, your suite smells like cheap cologne and menthols. You find lipstick on the pillow—wrong color, wrong century. The ice bucket is full of poker chips from the Stardust, which was imploded in 2007.

You call the front desk. They sigh and ask, “Is it the gentleman in the powder-blue tux again, or the girl with the boa?” Then they hang up.

You try to leave, but your door won’t open unless you insert a room key that looks like a playing card. Hearts, naturally. And when you finally step out—there’s no hallway. Just a red carpet stretching forever into darkness, lit by blinking arrows saying “Try Your Luck.”

Vacation Tip: If your Las Vegas room smells of roses and gunpowder, don’t sleep. Don’t gamble. Don’t unpack. And for the love of Elvis—don’t look under the bed.