I'm taken to a large police precinct.

The guardrail running along the edge of the cliff looks more worn down and looks like it was built ten years ago. The orange rust forming on the top and bottom of the metal rail and the sand built up upon it is a sure sign. If the police car's brakes failed, I have no doubt that both me and the police officer will come to a gruesome end in a burning heap of metal at the bottom of the cliff.

The guardrail follows the road all the way to the city below. The road runs down a hill, along another, but a higher and a rougher cliff that resembles a purplish crown in the moonlight. The police car jumps in speed due to gravity and the angle of the slope, almost 45 degrees. The police officer is **** to brake to prevent losing control of the car. That and the guardrail would be another way to end this story. Both fortunately and unfortunately it doesn't end here.

Nearing the city, the hilly road gradually is reduced in steepness. It is when the road becomes level that we enter a highway, via on-ramp, dedicated for those who navigate within the city, district to district. From dirty desert road to clean and elegant pavement, marked by fresh, white lines and white reflectors, filled with the cars of the high and mighty and those who are lower than them. Porsches, Lamborghinis, and BMWs speed through the fast lanes while limos, slow cars, trucks, and big rigs take to the slow lanes. The highway splits into two lanes back and forth then to three then to the legitimate four lanes as it progresses deeper into the city limits.

After several miles on the highway, and after seeing billboards of casinos, resorts, and hotels, the city skyline can clearly be see right after you pass a towering sign on the median with neon cacti and martini glasses, with the slogan with the same lights, "Welcome to San Denali!"

The police officer maneuvers his vehicle through the traffic and the other drivers give him the right of way. We exit quickly onto an off-ramp onto a street called Ventura Blvd. Taking a left at the light onto the street, we enter the district called Ventura Heights, where most of the commercial and business sub-districts are located. Ventura Heights is bordered next to Fierro Flats, the entertainment and casino district, and Denali Meadows, the residential district.

On Ventura Blvd, we pass by nightclubs and bars and movie theaters, all with neon lights bathing the wet streets below them, and high-rise buildings stretching into the night sky. I'm mesmerized by the amount of lights used in this city, as if it's a giant kaleidoscope. The sidewalks are neither empty or full of pedestrians. Gaps are seen in between individuals and groups of men and women enjoying the nightlife. The night seems to be young, probably in the late hours of the day before the stroke of midnight. The streets are similar, as a menagerie of different types of vehicles maneuver through the dry streets and turn onto boulevards and avenues as well as alleys and side streets.

Several miles into the city, the officer drives onto another street, this time being an avenue with a median in between the opposing lanes, but the car turns onto the street too fast for me to read the street signs. I turn my head around but it is too late for me to even read the green with white border street sign from a distance. I turn my head back so that I'm facing the front, and within the view of the windshield, I see a tall tan building, with several windows lit by the lights inside, and with a large staircase with two identical marble fountains on either side, leading to the entrance. This looks like a college or some large institution of sort. What I can't see is the sign that says, "San Denali Police Department: South Precinct," that is hidden among some bushes along the far side of the building.

The police car enters a employee parking lot and near the far wall, past the gate, the officer drives onto sunken driveway that leads downs a slope to a large, aluminum, garage door. On this door, red painted stripes and text are reflected in the headlights of police car. Within the center of this door the words "POLICE ENTRANCE" written in red paint on the top line and "NO UNAUTHORIZED ENTRY" below it. Diagonal red stripes line the top and bottom sections of the the door. A small light housed in a small metal box sits above the garage door, illuminating the wall around it and the driveway below in a red glow.

I see the driver push a section of the ceiling in, making a hidden set of button appear as the compartment folded out. With his finger, the officer pushes the leftmost button. A red flashing light is seen flashing as the officer presses and holds the button. This in turn makes the red light over the garage door turn into a green light. The garage opens silently, not a creek or sound of buckling metal is heard, revealing the brightly lit concrete cave inside.

The officer drives the car into the bright garage, which houses three types of vehicles. One of the three is a standard police cruiser. Not like the one I am sitting in, which is of a tan color and a different, maybe older version of the cars here. I know much about cars and about which models are with which make. I can tell that the car I'm sitting in is an old, but well-maintained, Chevrolet Impala. The new version is a Ford Fusion with a black paintjob below the windows and a white paintjob on the roof. Steel alloy wheels housed in wide-body fenders. Two tall attennas extend up from the trunk. This police cruiser looks a little to early to be in this time period.

I sit in the backseat, waiting until the police officer parks his car. The garage seems to be extensive. So large that the police officer actually drives down into the second basement garage to park his car. Like in a valet parking area, the officer parks next to a elevator-like door. The police officer gets out of his car but leaves the keys in the ignition. He walks around the front of the vehicle, walks to my door, and opens it.

Just like the sheriff handled me before, the officer handles me like he would a male person. He reaches out his left hand and grasps my neck from the spine and pulls me out vigorously, making me stumble onto my feet and almost spraining something. He stands me up, his hand still on my neck. He takes his other hand and checks to make sure the cuffs are on tight. He manages to tighten the cuffs to the point that I feel almost light-headed but manageable. He pushes me towards the elevator which has now opened. Inside the officer roughly pushes me making the side of my face collide with the cold steel of the elevator's frame.

Without a moment's hesitation, he grabs me by the neck again and faces me to the now closing elevator door. It doesn't take long for the elevator to rise up its shaft to two floors above. A ding sounds and the elevator comes to a halts, giving the common jolt after it has stopped. The doors open and loud, open conversation unfurl. Police officers and police chief attempt to contain the loud atmosphere within the room while inputing basic information about the inmates.

The officer pushes me gently, giving me the command to walk forward. I can see eyes darting to and fro, up against my face, my body, my face again, as if they were lasers connected to the guns of sharpshooters, trying to find their target. The officer leads me down a hallway, that consists of a concrete wall on one side and empty cells on the other. I'm led all the way to the last cell which in my opinion is occupied. Nonetheless, my cuffs are taken off and I'm shoved into the occupied cell.

I guess I would call it occupied now, since all the beds are taken. Sitting in a fetal position, as if she is cold, a girl with dark brown hair draped all around her head, who looks the same age as me, sits on the bed next to the cold bars that separates each cell. As I'm pushed to the floor of the cell, I feel for the first time, pressure upon my breasts. Immediately I try to push myself up off the floor. Doing so makes me make eye contact with the girl. Behind the curtain-like bangs of dark brown hair is an eye. An eye that stares and then blinks. That eye is then move by the girls turning of her head away.

The reason why this girl is in this position, is not because she is cold. I take off my brown track jacket in assumption that she is indeed cold, placing the jacket over her shoulders.. As I take off my jacket, my white tee is revealed. A whistle is heard from the next cell, which inside sits two men in leather, biker jackets. One appears sober while the other drunk and muttering mumbo jumbo. I know that my white tee doesn't overlap my track pants. I find that out feeling a slight breeze along my belly button.

"Hey I would like some of that ass!" the biker nearest the girl grunts out. He squeezes his sweaty, hairy face in through the bars and whistles again. I believe that it isn't the cold that has got the young girl in the position she's in, but it's the rude remarks and the constant poking around that the biker is doing to her. She is so embarrassed that she is unable to move. But I make an effort to exchange beds with her. As soon as she gets on the bed alongside the wall, she falls straight to sleep.