The Music At The Iron Horse Didn’t Just Fade; It Died. One Second, The Jukebox Was Screaming Zz Top, And The Next, You Could Hear The Ice Melting In Forty Glasses. In Twelve Years Of Bartending, I’d Seen Blood, I’d Seen Tears, And I’d Seen The Worst Parts Of Humanity—But I Had Never Seen Anything As Terrifying As A Four-Year-Old Girl In Stained Pajamas Standing In A Room Full Of Leather-Clad Bikers At Midnight.