“I had fun today,” he says. “You’re kind of weird.”

“If Jesus Christ were to come today, people would not even crucify him. They would ask him to dinner, and hear what he had to say, and make fun of it.”

“Oh, alright. You’re no fun,” he sighed. “My name is Razor.” “What kind of a name is that?” “It’s a nickname.” “What kind of a nickname is that?” “Spike, Blade, Fang—all the good, deadly objects were already taken. It was the best I could do.”

“He didn't say "that's weird". He wouldn't have said "that's weird" if a flock of sheep had cycled past playing violins. It wasn't the sort of thing a responsible engineer said. ”

“I am no fun at all. In fact, I am anti-fun. Not as in anti-violence, but as in anti-matter. I am not so much against fun - although I suppose I kind of am - as I am the opposite of fun. I suck the fun out of a room. Or perhaps I'm just a different kind of fun; the kind that leaves on bereft of hope; the kind of fun that ends in tears.”

“Weird? One day you’re normal and the next, you’re walking around with a butterfly attached to your back. Then Malice in Wonderland tries to squeeze my head off, and you’re calling it weird. This is beyond weird. Crazy, fantastical even, but definitely not weird.”