In the Barksdale war room (...that one office at Orlando's), Avon is telling the troops, "There's a dime on this cocksucker's head." He declares that one of his guys needs to step up and take care of Omar, and then asks Wee-Bey -- who's sitting next to him in an elaborate-looking leg brace -- where he went to get treated. Wee-Bey says that he went to Maryland General, with a cover story that he'd been on the corner and caught a stray bullet. Stringer asks whether a cop followed up. "Just a roller, no Homicide," says Wee-Bey, unconcerned. "Put it out there," yells Avon. "Not just our people either. I'm talking about any nigga who want to step up. You put out the word. It's ten on Omar, or any motherfucker that's standing with Omar. Y'all niggas ain't got shit to do but be on this motherfucking hunt. Now be on it." The soldiers all get up; Savino is polite enough to give Wee-Bey a hand up out of his chair as the dudes shuffle out. Stringer is last to the door and closes it. Once everyone's gone, Avon asks what Stringer thinks, and a future story theme is kicked off much earlier than I recalled when Stringer replies, "I'm thinking this is the worst part of the game, man. Best we do is break out even, right?" "What?" squints Avon. "I'm saying, this shit got personal," says Stringer. "Ain't nothing else to it." Avon chews his lips for a second, and then asks if Stringer's saying that they should let it slide. "For a time, maybe," Stringer allows. "I'm saying we put the word out that you ready to talk a truce. When this nigger come out from underneath his rock, you hit that nigger, but right now? This shit got out of hand, yo." Avon considers this counsel from the sober yin to his raging yang. Stringer rubs his chin, knowing his advice is probably falling on deaf ears and wishing he'd taken that BCCC course that would have shown him how to communicate with such a conversational partner.