The Monster doesn’t taste like chicken.

“More like veal,” says Roald.

“I’ll tell you what this mmf,” says Lincoln, between mouthfuls. “The best damn barbecue anyone’s ever going to have. Lightning-seared to start with, right? Mmf nmff kept cooking all that time it was stalking around–we’re talking the greatest, longest-slow roast in history!”

“Yes, before it put itself on ice.” Roald spears another steak. “I’d feel a bit of a cannibal, except I believe Shelley established that while it passed for human–”

But Lincoln’s pounding his chest. “Gah!” he manages, “got the gristle,” and spits up a bolt.