The Hole’s well-named, let me tell you. A small tavern fronting onto Maple Valley Road, with a wood-facade metal door and a single small window so grimed up it might as well be frosted transplast. I stand in the doorway for a few moments, holding the door partially open behind me while I let my eyes adapt to the darkness. The air’s thick with smoke-tobacco and other more exotic substances—and the reek of stale beer, old sweat, and the unmistakable tang of fear. Great place, excellent ambiance. Why the frag am I here?