We’re at the Silver Dollar Club in Elko, Nevada. Neon gleams against the old mahogany walls, and the air is thick with cigarette smoke. Heavy metal plays on the speakers, and gangs of burly, bearded gold miners do shots of whiskey. A rowdy drunk guy had just gotten thrown out; for one long second he flew through the door frame, red-eyed, sleepy, only half-conscious of what would happen next. Then all at once, he tasted the pavement.
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