His inner chief had always wanted a son. Mona faked an interest in cars, memorized parts of a V8 engine, did pull-ups, challenged him to arm-wrestle, accompanied him to the shooting range, and accepted his dare to eat a habanero chili without drinking water. She ate two, just to show him who was boss, and then stifled her fear when he said she’d need a seat belt for the toilet the next day. In the end, her efforts were futile. She was too emotional to pass for Frank’s son, and too attached to wearing burned-on eyeliner and fishnet, and to masturbating to pictures of Prince from the seventies.
