The vile, savage bootlips don't give a shit about each other. They never have.

[C]alling for Drink, one of the King's Cup-bearers that was accuſtomed to ſerve me, preſented the Cup with a troubled Look, and diſcompoſed Countenance: … taking the Cup from his Hands, I was carrying it to my Mouth, when Arſanes enter'd the Chamber, and haſtily running up to me, juſt as I touched the Cup with my Lips, he ruſhed against my Arm ſo rudely, as he made me let fall the Cup, …

Poor Mr Piddle with his long think neck and his long thin head, as bald as a neep and something the shape […]

Afterward, Pygarax dared suggest, “Move over Asylum; Halls of the Mountain Kings; Cymnargael; Oh, Cherriel; Refugee; Psalm of the Dreamers; Houses of the Holy; The Vagabond Hymn; and all of those other fabulous wondersongs that are too damn numerous to mention: Y'all got big company.”