Is that dog shit on the bottom of your shoe?' I sat up a fraction. 'What?' 'Is that dog shit on the bottom of your shoe?' 'I don't know, the lab report's not back yet,' I replied drily. 'I'm serious, is that dog shit?' 'How should I know?' Katz leaned far enough forward to give it a good look and a cautious sniff. 'It dog shit,' he announced with an odd tone of satisfaction. 'Well, keep quiet about it or everybody'll want some.' 'Go and clean it off, will ya? It's making me nauseous.' And here the bickering started, in intense little whispers. 'You go and clean it off.' 'It's your shoes.' 'Well, I kind of like it. Besides, it kills the smell of this guy next to me.' 'Well, it's making me nauseous.' 'Well, I don't give a shit.' 'Well, I think you're a fuck-head.' 'Oh, you do, do you?' 'Yes, as a matter of fact. You've been a fuck-head since Austria.' 'Well, you've been a fuck-head since birth.' 'Me?' A wounded look. 'That's rich. You were a fuck-head in the womb, Bryson. You've got three kinds of chromosomes: X, Y and fuck-head.