Black Hole Sun

In my city, there's a bar. It's a bar that any and all of the local regulars know well - so well, in fact, that it has at least half a dozen nicknames, so recognizable that a passing stranger on the sidewalk would know where you were headed if you happened to mention any of them. Everyone you meet, either native or transplanted to this city, knows this particular watering hole, and everyone has a story to go along with it. These stories usually involve some degree of nudity, projectile vomit, sexual indiscretion, extreme overindulgence, minor or major physical damage, complete blackout, or a volatile combination of the above. A local musician actually made headlines not long ago after being hit by a car crossing the street in front of this magical mystery land, thankfully "only" breaking a leg (you'd think at this point, motorists would avoid driving anywhere nearby Thursday through Sunday). Because of this startling similarity among patrons, I've come to think of it not as a bar, but as The Black Hole of afterhour activities. I now almost exclusively refer to it as The Black Hole.

I'm guessing every city, town, and oasis has just such a place. What makes this particular bar, unlike dozens and dozens of others, the one with the reputation? What is it about this place that makes it such a powder keg of sin? Is it the location? The lighting? The pool table and dartboard? The back alley, perfect for sneaking a drag on a cigarette, hidden from the eyes of a disapproving lover, brother, or friend? Do the surly bartenders, crappy jukebox, or never ending supply of popcorn make a difference? Is it just dark enough, just loud enough, just warm enough that the urge to misbehave or cross the line flows without hesitance? Or is it just that it's a tantalizing short cab ride and no-cover charge away from oblivion?