Heart of Darkness Personal Response

Dog Fight

John Ryan
May 18, 2008

The alleyway was dark and stank of urine. Henry led the way, carefully predetermining his steps, saving his expensive crocodile boots from the slime of garbage and the moans of the homeless wrapped in their filth. Jim walked cautiously just behind his friend following the treads of his boots like following footprints in fresh-fallen snow. The two men hop-scotched between the two cold brick buildings as steam escaped, hissing from the nearby sewer grate. The darkness was only illuminated by streams of light from passing traffic and the occasional flicker of a street lamp at the opposite end of the alleyway.

Henry turned his head, “C’mon, it’s right over here. Don’t worry.”

The two turned the corner into an even narrower alleyway leading to an old steel door like that of a meat locker and, dismissing any last hesitations, knocked. The next few moments passed in a florescent haze as the door was answered and they were shuffled through clouds of smoke and into a seemingly absurd brightness. The two men followed through a labyrinth of hallways and small rooms echoing with casual profanities and squeals of vice. A large black man led the way, his pants slung low on account of the wrought-iron chain wrapped about his hip and attached to his, presumably, very valuable wallet. Groups of aggressive men leaned against the torn papered walls casting uninterested looks. The hallways then converged into a single corridor whose walls were hidden completely by the bodies of men of all races and in all states of appearance standing in queue before a high door. Jim and Henry followed their guide past the lines of men and into a fog of howls, barking, and the smell of blood and dung.

The three men entered a large cement room whose rafters and perimeter were infested with men breathing smoke, screaming and laughing with arms raised and fists clenched with money. The men’s yells were only submissive to the cries of dogs and the sounds of death. At the center of the room, seen through the silhouettes of men, resembling the view through rotated Venetian blinds, was a large cement pit. Square shaped, the pit resembled a large soapstone sink complete with drains and spouts (an attempt towards sanitation). Presently, a stout pit-bull was being swept out of the ring under the lights which filtered slowly through the fog of smoke and noise.

Jim locked his eyes ahead and grinded his jaw, in an attempt to subvert his other senses. They exited the death ring and entered a narrow cramped passageway and then a small office. Their guide retreated back and left both Jim and Henry at the foot of a large metal desk which sat lengthwise across the room, severing it in two. The desk stood menacingly as defensive measure for any unwanted intruders or unsatisfied customers; it stood four feet off the ground and must have weighed near a ton. Just behind the desk barricade, a high red leather chair rose majestically with its back facing the two young men. Suddenly, like a scene from a clichéd fifty’s PI short, the chair swiveled about revealing Brunklehurst. His dark eyes glimmered with a spark of excitement at the sight of his uncomfortable visitors; his brow began to lower as if attempting to engulf the bottom half of his face. The smoke from his glowing cigar lingered peculiarly in front, and his long gaunt face contorted into a perverse smile.

Jim sat, trying to control the terrified message that his eyes were relaying to the glaring man in the red leather chair, his earlier hesitations confirmed. Henry sat, suddenly realizing that perhaps a bank would have been a more comfortable domain to apply for a loan and desperately retracing in his mind the horrid path they had taken to this very office moments before.