There is a dog fighting ring in the basement of the neighborhood pastry shop. Last Wednesday, three curs were brought to fight. The smallest was a mesh of reverberant scars. The largest was torque and wide set bones. It began. Musk and smoke and crowds of gristled men. The smaller bitch won. A second opponent was thrown in as her reward, skin liquid and mounting atop her brindle flesh. He was tall and brittle and prone to violent thrashing, and she threw him off several times before he snapped her spine. She died with lungs full and aching. On Thursday the customers all agreed that the almond croissants were remarkably fragrant. Verdant with butter and spun blossoms.