He reached his hand toward me. You don't mind my asking, do you? Of course not, I say calmly as I reverse the lit end of the cigarette so that the flame is cupped in the palm. I reach for his handshake. He screams like a woman in distress with her skirt held high. I puff my meanness as he licks at the burn and whimpers, You sonofagun. You've burned the dickens out of my hand. I know. But why? I didn't do anything. I don't even know you. I guess it's my Samoan blood. Sal rushes to my defense. He points his finger at the fag. Out! But I didn't do anything. Out, out! he shouts, his hands stiffly on the bar. The old fag picks himself up and begins to drag himself out.

p. 68. - Autobiography of a Brown Buffalo (1972)