“Gods no.” Dick is quick to hood his brow, not quite derisive in scoff for tail-bearers and the challenges they face in day to day in tasks like wearing pants. It’s the idea more than it is Sawbones’ suggestion -- he includes her in the joke, rather than leave her at the butt of it, bottle in hand. “Can you imagine?”

A tail. Ridiculous.

“My ancestors performed profane rituals that mingled their essence with the blood of snakes,” he explains, matter-of-fact, as he offers the bottle back to her. It’s really very straightforward.

“I haven’t actually told anyone I know.” For obvious reasons.