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there is it’s reddish and murky.
Oppressively loud trance music is blaring.
    “What’s the D.L. stand for?” I shout to Mr. King.
    But he’s not listening to me. He’s walking briskly into a
chain-link hallway and I skip to catch up, startled to see men and women in
various states of undress making out along the walls. 
    Wait. They’re not making out.
    I hear rhythmic pounding and groaning and grind to a halt,
dumbfounded, as I realize that a man and woman directly to my right are having
full out sex. The man’s naked ass almost slams me in the stomach as he thrusts
in and out of the woman, who is bound up to the chain-link wall by a pair of
handcuffs. As I stare in shock, a new man pushes him away and drops his pants
for a turn.
    I spin around, realizing that all of the couples are fucking
and one of them is tied up in some way. Women are dangling or suspended in rows
on either side. One or two are upside-down. Some of the people tied up are
boys, too. They look like teenagers.
    But all the un-bound people look different. Some are in
suits, some in leather jackets, some naked, some covered in tattoos, some
wearing pinky rings and too much jewelry: all colors, shapes and sizes.
    All men.
    I’ve heard of sex dungeons and sex clubs in New York, but
Jesus god I was certainly not expecting to walk into one tonight.
    A strong hand grips my elbow and I jump. It’s Mr. King, his
eyes searing into mine.
    “I said stay close to me, Clark.” His voice is commanding.
    I can’t form words to respond. Noticing my shock, he
clenches his jaw and drags me along his side like a small, lost child.
    The sex hallway opens to a wide, crowded room with
arena-style seating and floodlights. People are shouting and laughing and
drinking in their seats. Chains rattle and the sounds of ferocious dogs barking
echo throughout the stadium. There is some kind of a sand-floored pit at the
center of the room under a chain-link cage and I strain to see what’s happening
inside.
    On tip-toe, I peer through the heads of the crowd and see a
couple of men restraining a hysterical pit bull with chains and a long pole
with a loop at the end, pushing the animal into a corner where a crate is
waiting. In the center of the sand, another group of men are lifting another,
motionless dog into a bag. There is a pool of blood on the ground.
    I instantly feel sick.
    “Mr. King,” I say, voice weak. “What is this place?”
    He doesn’t answer, staring in consternation at the dead dog
being carried out.
    “Fuck!” He curses. “This isn’t good, Clark. Let’s hope our
luck changes.”
    He presses his fingers to his temple and I see the muscle of
his jaw work. I try to control my impulse to cry and vomit simultaneously.
    “Sir, what’s going on? Why did you bring me here?”
    “Sit down.”
    He pulls me into an empty seat, taking his place next to me.
Fresh sand is poured into the ring and raked until it’s even. I pray to god
that they’re just making a nice Zen garden. But the crowd has other ideas.
    “Hurry up, fuckers!”
    “Fuck this shit! Death match!”
    “Death match!”
    It becomes a chant, wild and feral, and my heart is pounding
in my mouth and I am sweating profusely, the cold sweat of dread.
    “Death match! Death match!”
    My worst fears are confirmed when two men are pushed into
the cage. One looks like he’s maybe 19, in shape, but he’s shaking like a leaf
and clutching a machete. The other man is a giant like the bouncers, straight
out of a prison movie complete with Schwarzenegger’s body and a scar over his
eye. One giant hammy fist of his is closed over the grip of a bat.
    The smaller man darts to the center quick as lightning,
swiping his blade at the giant’s feet. But the giant only laughs and swings his
bat. The kid jumps away, but the bat clips his shoulder and makes him drop the
blade.
    The giant slams the bat into the kid’s side with a crushing
blow, and the cracking sound makes me wince. My eyes squeeze shut.