Down among the subway tunnels, past the sign of the pansy crapper is the lair where the Donkey-boys rave. Anyone’s welcome, but they have a trial—test magic, they say—a special stone passed across your forehead. If it turns blue, you’re free to party but if it’s red, you have to leave something behind.
I’ve gone twice: two reds and two terrible losses. The first time I hopped out; the second time hobos carried my legless body out.
Come back anytime, they said. If it’s blue, all is forgiven and all is returned. I just need a way back.