GULF COAST WIND scorches my face like heat from an oven as I gaze up at Houston's famous old landmark. The Astrodome is more than five decades into its second century. Grander now than ever, the once imposing three-dome complex is dwarfed by massive structures around it. Modern entrances of honed marble and light are decked with hundreds of colorful flying, flapping, animated flags and kites. I'm reporting for duty at the Cock and Bull Arena, home of Texas' famous Portuguese game fights, fights where no cocks or bulls die.

"Welcome aboard, Ms. Martinez!" The human resources officer is waiting as I step into the cooled interior. He carries a khaki uniform like his own, and leads me into the bowels of the dome. Somewhere between the barns and the employee cafeteria we find a long line of doors with names lining the curved walkway.

"Thank you, sir. I've always dreamed of working with animals, but didn't think much of it, since I trained as a mechanic." I'm biting my tongue, thinking that it's not that I don't like my occupation, it just wouldn't have been my first choice. Years ago, when the dome was new, people chose what they wanted to be. Now occupations are assigned by DNA analysis. In another time, I might have been a farmer or a veterinarian.

"The stats say you're the best mechanic in the county -- exceptional dexterity, social skills, and love of animals. You should be perfect for the job." He hangs my uniform over the knob on a door that already says "Martinez" and slips the key into my hand. "Climb into the 'company skin', take a tour, meet the rest of the staff."

Changing into that familiar safari shirt, with the official-looking little flaps on the shoulders, my hands are shaking. I remember the smells, colors, excitement of my first cockfight. I'm seven years old, sitting on my father's lap, watching the birds strut about in their fine regalia. I remember the khaki-clad attendents, the colorful silk flags flying in the dust.

Stepping back into the present on the walkway, looking down approvingly at the khaki on my body, I run head first into the chest of a very tall red-headed man.

"Whoa! I'm Joshua, your guide for the afternoon." He's a little geeky looking, unremarkable except for dark lashes framing large hazel eyes - and that mop of flaming hair.

"I run the cameras over the pit and all security video. Portuguese cockfights are simple. The last bird in the ring wins, the bird that pulls the most point flags places second (there's a penalty for getting a tail feather). Sometimes the same bird wins first and second; sometimes there are other prizes". As his voice drones on and on, I try to take it all in, the world's largest cockfighting arena.

"It's your job to lower the cross-shaped partitions in the center ring, allowing the birds to get to each other to fight. You operate the little doors that let the losers escape, and you maintain the equipment that makes it all work. Piece a cake. Fun, too."

JOSH WAS RIGHT, of course, it's a dream job. More than a year later, I'm still thrilled to come to work. Breaks and lunch hours are spent in the nursery barn where hundreds of young roosters practice wearing little helmets and vests before the pull-away point flags are added.

Josh and I are close friends. Too close, some coworkers say. Within weeks we're even talking alike.

"Aw, I just heard that story from Josh." It's a frequent comment. "You two might as well be joined at the lip."

"We're just friends, have a lot in common. You know I'm a happily married woman."

Our coworkers are nice, seem to like me as much as I like them, but they're just a little gossipy. There's talk of a dark side to this business: a lust for "the real thing," fights to the death like those banned in the past.

"Come over here," Josh is whispering, motions for me to follow him to the center ring.

There's a smear of blood beside one of the hen's photos on the wall.

"Oh, my God," I'm whispering, too.

Josh and I both jump as Pedro Almodovar, head security officer, speaks then steps out of the shadows. "Looks like someone's been using our equipment for blood sport."

"Could it be?" I hope I don't look as nervous as I feel.

"It's happened before," the guard continues. "There are strict rules. Actually, it's a legal issue, severe penalties."

"It figures. This is Texas," I can't help but comment. Josh says, "I maintain the surveillance cameras, let's go take a look".

Backtracking the camera that runs continuously over the center ring, there's nothing on the visual file. Nothing until 3 a.m. when the bloody smear suddenly appears on the wall.

"Well, whadaya know! Looks like it's been doctored, a phony view recorded over whatever put the blood on the wall." Joshua acts concerned. "I've heard about this, but never seen it before."

"Well, we didn't 'see' it this time," Pedro is obviously pissed.

Josh shrugs.

"At this point, we go into USDA Humane Department Protocol." Almodovar's voice booms through the intercom as he speaks into his communicator. "Full facility lockdown. Secure exits. All staff report to the cafeteria".

THE ROOM is packed, noisy.

"What's going on?"

"I don't know, something about blood in the center ring".

Officer Almodovar is tapping on a glass with a fork. "OK, OK, now, OK, quiet. We'll observe protocol here... ."

Josh is across the room leaning against the wall.

"...My assistant has gone to retrieve a camera from the lights over the skyboxes. We'll all take a look at it together."

Josh looks up, catches my eye from across the room and scowls, shakes his head, mouths, "I didn't know."

A coarse video image flashes on the wall. The large, five-ring fighting pit is miniaturized by the distant camera shot. Two people in company skin are setting up a fight. Only two birds are placed in opposite sections of the center ring. The partitions recede, and the birds rush each other, feathers flared, tails high, claws extended. The birds wear no helmets or vests. Occasional flashes of light reflect off shining steel gaffes attached where spurs should have been. No escape doors are activated.

"Oh, my god!" Protests overwhelm the room as Almodovar steps to the computer and fast forwards past the fight. By 2:30 a.m. on the file monitor, the two figures are cleaning blood off the walls in the ring. The camera stops, draws focus, zooms in and pauses as faces turn briefly upward.

The group goes completely silent as the video file reveals Joshua and me cleaning up the remains of forbidden blood sport.

"We... we only wanted to see a more 'natural' fight, like the old days." I'm holding back tears, trying to explain, "These animals have a right to the real thing!"

Security officers step forward to arrest me. There'll be no need for a trial, with this kind of evidence, just a hearing before a judge.

I'M RESTRAINED on a gurney that's placed diagonally in a small white room. A medical officer in company skin connects a line to the large vein in the back of my hand.

"Execute me!?! You're going to execute me for killing a couple of chickens?" I'm pleading, "How can that be?"

"Well, this is Texas." The young man is serious, unsmiling. Within moments, the room spins, recedes, I'm drawn into a dark, sinking spiral. I pass into darkness.

GRADUALLY, I'm aware of the light, bright light that hurts my eyes. I'm groggy, loopy, alone, growing angrier by the minute. Insanely angry, now. Grinding my teeth in frustration.

I raise my head, look around, and see a scalpel laying just half an inch from my finger tips. Wiggling and stretching my bound hand, I can barely clench the blade between my index and middle fingers. Drawing it closer, a little at a time, I'm able to turn it around and cut away the gauze that binds my hand -- not without cutting myself, of course. In just a few minutes, both hands and torso are free. I can sit up.

I'm enraged, cursing, bleeding from a half dozen cuts.

"This damned state, what kind of sentence is this?"

I'm sweating, wiping spittle from cracked lips, never been so mad as I am right now!

The gurney shudders slightly; there's a familiar mechanized rumble. The walls that form the corner beyond my feet are receding into the floor.

I turn, searching the curved wall behind me for escape doors. There are none.

As the partition descends, I can just make out the top of a familiar mop of red hair.

I feel the primal anger drugs surging through my veins.

"I'm gonna have to kill that son-of-a-bitch."

Grasping the scalpel, I cut away the last restraint.

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