Dispute

This is a fragment of a future novel that will almost certainly remain unpublished, and indeed unwritten, due to the forces of depravity and ignorance that engulf the common man. The scene takes place in the office of one of the two central protagonists, both of whom are Marxist historians, working in a modern academic institution, perhaps near you. Though the characters are fictitious their identities will remain in obscurity, for fear of defaming the non-existent.

"You're a fucking shit lecturer, and an even worse historian."
"No I'm not."
"Yes you fucking are."
"Then what about my analysis of the Cuban missile crisis? Featherby said it was masterful."
"You got lucky."
"Luck had nothing to do with it."
"Luck had everything to do with it. Your Diet of Worms parallel was suggested to you by some stoned student who neither knew nor fucking cared whether he was coming or going."
"That's a goddamn lie."
"You know it's not, and I've got the fucking tape to prove it."
"Erra who gives a shit anyway? We're the only two people who know what the hell we're talking about."
"And we don't even fucking exist."
"True."