Back to the dogfights. The dogs fight. It's very unpleasant. But the one who should be really complaining about this is Cheese's dog, who winds up on the losing end of the decision. Cheese picks up the dog's body, walks over to the check-in table to retrieve his sidearm, goes behind a van, and a gunshot rings out. I am sad to report the gun was not fired to create a diversion so that the dog could escape and get nursed back to health on a farm.

We return to Point-Counterpoint, already in progress in the Western District. "Can't it just be like this unbearable-looking woman?" Herc wonders. "You know, like that old tune from the Golden Girls?" That is a terrible, hurtful thing to say about Bea Arthur. "The short one with the Coke-bottle glasses," Herc continues. My apologies to Bea Arthur. Anyhow, just as Carver insists that it must be a guy, Herc decides to hassle some passerby in a way that's not nearly so clever as he doubtlessly thinks it was. They also notice the crew from the Franklin Terrace moving into the neighborhood. Don't think too hard, gentlemen -- it might distract you from your purely theoretical explorations of buggery.

Back at the Madison Square Garden of the dogfighting set, Cheese is still mourning the untimely death of the dog he trained solely for the purpose of bloodsport, when Triage gently chides him for his itchy trigger finger. "I think you got played," says Triage, fixing his eyes on the chemical-soaked ragged Cheese's opponent has carelessly left lying on the floor of the warehouse. It's a full-blown dogfighting scandal, people. Quickly -- someone go hire former Senator George Mitchell to write a report laying bare all the horrible truths about this most beloved of sports. Somehow, A-Rod is to blame for all this.