"Go ahead, doctor," Toffee said with evil satisfaction. "Rip him open. Slit him from ear to ear and top to bottom. I won't lift a finger."
"No!" Marc cried. He turned to Toffee in panic. "It'll mean the end of both of us!"
"Pardon my girlish laughter," Toffee said. "It's worth it, dogmeat, to see you get yours after the way you've treated me. Either you fork over that lanky frame of yours, or you're going to be out of frames entirely. That's the way it stacks up."
"Do you have to be so vulgar about it all?" Marc asked weakly. "With all this talk about bodies and frames, I'm beginning to feel like just so many soup bones displayed on a counter."
"That's exactly the parallel I've been searching for," Toffee said complacently. "In fact if there's anything vulgar in all this, it is your body. Come to think of it, it suddenly strikes me as so vulgar I'm no longer interested in it."
"Please!" Marc cried as the doctors gripped him to the table. "Use that gadget of yours—anything! Please!"
"Sorry, son," Toffee said. "I guess you'll remember after this never to forget a lady's name."
Marc looked up and saw the mask bearing down toward his face. "Toffee!" he yelled. "For Pete's sake!"
The mask miraculously paused in its descent, stopped. The action around the table came to a sharp halt. Eyes swiveled toward the door. Marc turned on his side just in time to observe Olliphant Gunn lumbering into the room under the weight of George's upper quarters.