Sunday morning, 9a, and you're wrapping up on that sex party in the meat-packing district. Things are still pretty intense. It's still pretty dark, with heavy orange-laden yellow lights highlighting only the corners.
You find the only room serving coffee, and are downing a Cuban, while a Cuban's downing you. You find yourself aurally pleased with the plate master's (don't dare call Dr Mercury a 'disc jockey' unless it's just 'jock') selection of Neal Barr's HOSTEL soundtrack.
Makes the point of the knife in your asscheek all the more daring.