“You know, Funboy, I’ve never asked you what you actually call that Franken-weapon of yours,” I said as we stepped onto the roof and straight into a cold, gusty wind whipping across Brooklyn from the Atlantic. “It is called Elaine.” “Elaine.” “Yes. It is a pretty name, I think—though not as pretty as Gabby, of course. But I would never name an instrument of crude violence after my delicate flower of a beloved.” “I watched your delicate flower crush a Yonnox like a hydraulic press.” “Yes—isn’t she divine
