One of these fragments is not like the others

People had different reactions to the whole thing. Some were surprised that anything had happened at all. Some were disgusted, angry at Essjay (inexplicably) for provoking Baruch; put off by the actual violence; made nauseous by the sight of blood and a distinctly out-of-line nose; frightened of Baruch; sympathetic of Essjay but only in a generic way, sympathetic more for his situation than for his actual person; and so on.

“Hello, is this Dr. Wilson?”
“Yeah, who’s this?”
“Yes, this is Stanley Mortenson…”
“Yes, well—how are you?”
“I haven’t heard from you in years. I’m fine, I guess. Doing pretty well yourself? How are you holding up?”
“Oh, pretty good, I’d say. Listen, I was wondering if I could call on you for a favor.”
“It has to do with— I’m running for Congress, is what it has to do with.”
“No shit?”

“I don’t know,” I shouted back. You had to shout to be heard over the TV, blaring, set to vol level 37 to cover our conversation, as it were. None of us was tech-savvy enough to sweep the room for bugs (surveillance devices), so we opted for background noise. Sure, there was the possibility that some sunlight-deprived maven at the NSA could break through our shoddily-constructed sonic barrier; we hoped no one cared enough to be thusly motivated.