Len felt himself swell with what he imagined was a Golem-like rage. “If you try to tell me how many deciliters it is,” he said, “I will murder you.” He pointed at The Golem. “How fucking high is he?” “I have no idea,” said Waleed. “I don’t know anything about his body composition. Or his drug history. Or his psychological state. Or what the fuck he is.” “I made him out of clay,” said Len. Waleed considered that for a moment, then said, “That’s one big fucking dreidel.”
