Our friends leave the aqueduct. Why is she still talking to this loser? Maybe it’s just to rub it in. So Tony scores, and Dexter spends the game on the bench, scowling, popping antacid, bobbing his knees up and down and trying not to leave for the bathroom every ten minutes, because that gives it away. His natty hallucination, which will graduate to telling him to climb a clock tower and start picking off undergrads – really, from here they look like ants – continues his recitation of the He-Man Woman-Hater’s Club bylaws. Note: his hat is translucent. For some reason this seems important. Perhaps he is fully opaque the more Dexter drinks; as the caffeine level ebbs, Mr. C-N starts to vanish. No wonder his sneering remarks have a desperate edge: he’s pleading for his life.

Too bad! He cannot compete with the allure of intercourse. Reluctantly, Dexter R. Nine agrees to try that horrid hot-grain drink whose name, backwards, is pronounced “Mut-sop.” Mr. C’s torso is now translucent with disbelieve, and he flees. Coward! Why not wait a day until the withdrawal headaches start, then show up with a nice hot mug of COFFEE? You'll be so solid bullets will bounce off you! Learn the first rule of the pusher, for heaven's sake: be patient with the newbies.

Next, the Epilogue.