All manner of life moved in the dying shrubbery around them.
”Is your name Neil?” inquired a male voice.
”Yes.”
”I saw your note. In the men’s room of the Port Authority terminal, third stall in the…”
Oho, thought Profane. That had cop written all over it.
”With the picture of your sexual organ. Actual size.”
”There is one thing,” said Neil,” that I like better than having homosexual intercourse. And that is knocking the shit out of a wise cop.”
There was then a soft clobbering sound followed by the plainclothesman’s crash into the underbrush.
Thomas Pynchon, V., 1961
