"I'm not putting my fingers in it. If someone put something in the pot, they would have left soil around. Either on the floor or just jumbled on top. But there's nothin' fuckin' wrong with it, or anywhere."

Maybe he's just being paranoid. But there's, honestly, no other way to be at the moment. This fucking place where he can't trust one side not to throw them under the bus, and one side not to drag them away.

"Nothing under any of the tables or the buffet or in the fucking kitchens. Not so far, anyway. I guess I just got a bad feeling." Then that's followed by one of those looks that has to acknowledge that good feelings are getting harder to come by.