“I’m Mr. Ripped,” the computer announced in Leon’s voice. I didn’t even want to look anymore. “I live in the gym. My teeth have biceps and my biceps have teeth. I chew up weights and shit out lead bricks.” Rogan’s face turned speculative. “Don’t,” I told him. “In about three years or so, I could use him. He’s demonstrating a very specific moral flexibility . . .”
