Daniels comes back to say he has to go upstairs: "Deputy's throwing some kind of piss fit." Kima asks if "the Major" knows, and Daniels -- looking pre-annoyed -- says that the Major's already up there. "With a mouth full of piss, probably," Carver adds once Daniels has gone. "Like our major don't know what that tastes like?" says Herc. "It's the chain of command, baby. The shit always rolls downhill." "Motherfucker, we're talking about piss," squints Carver. "Piss does too!" insists Herc. "Think about it!" Carver: "Shit rolls. Piss trickles." "Downhill, though," Herc protests. "You don't know that for sure," says Carver. Kima turns around, presumably to take a mental picture of Roland Barthes and Michel Foucault, come back to life and debating linguistics right there in her cube. And also to ask them a procedural question about some paperwork they didn't complete. Herc whines, "You want a job done right, you gotta do it your own self." I bet Herc also did a purposely crappy job the one time his mom ever made him do the dishes so that she wouldn't ask him again. Kima chucks the tennis ball at him. Carver and Herc go into a routine about how they're effective on the street, splitting heads, and fuck the paperwork. "The Western District way," Herc concludes. "A-ight," Carver agrees. "You heroic motherfuckers kill me," Kima snorts. "Fighting the war on drugs, one brutality case at a time." "Girl, you can't even call this shit a war," argues Carver. "Why not?" asks Herc. Carver: "Wars end." Herc nods, like, "Heavy," and turns around. "You're gonna write that down?" Carver goads. Hee. I'm just glad to know Herc can write, though he might be holding an unsharpened pencil.